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ON

GREEK PHILOSOPHYPHILOSOPHICAL WORKS

OF THE LATE

JAMES FREDERICK FERRIER

B.A. OXpNrf-LL.l).

PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY"7VlTl> POLITICAL ECONOMY
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ST ANDREWS

JN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LECTURES ON GREEK PHILOSOPHY

EDITED BY SIR ALEXANDER GRANT, BART., LL.D., PRINCIPAL OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH; AND E. L. LUSHINGTON,
LL.D., LATE PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW

NEW EDITION

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDOCCLXXXVIII

All Rights reserveds

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CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE,.......vii

LECTURES ON GREEK PHILOSOPHY:

/. THE PRE-SOCRATIC PERIOD—

Introductory,.........1

IONIC SCHOOL—

^ Thales,......... .34

lo

Anaximander,.........48

N

Anaximenes,.........54

S ITALIC SCHOOL—

g Pythagoras,.........59

ul

S ELEATICS—

rs«. Xenophanes,.........79

0

Parmenides,.........88

Zeno,...........102

HERACLITUS,..........109

5 EMPEDOCLES,............... .146

| ATOMIC SCHOOL,.........153

1

* ANAXAGORAS,..........164

98021vi

CONTENTS.

II. THE SOCRATIO PERIOD—

THE SOPHISTS,.........185

SOCRATES, ...........210

THE CYRENAIC, CYNIC, AND MEGARIC SCHOOLS, .	267

PLATO,...........304

ARISTOTLE,..........366

STOICS AND EPICUREANS,.......420

THE SUCCESSORS OF PLATO AND ARISTOTLE, ZENO

AND EPICURUS,..............456

NEOPLATONISTS,........ .471INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.*

These volumes contain the latest and some of the
earliest philosophical writings of James Frederick
Ferrier. For the last four or five years of his life he
was in the habit of lecturing at St Andrews upon
the early Greek Philosophy; his lectures were care-
fully written down before delivery, in many cases
re-written, and throughout diligently revised. The
repeated shocks of illness which, for some years be-
fore his death, gradually undermined his physical
powers, probably rendered his treatment of the subject
less perfect than it might otherwise have been, both
as to extent in general and elaboration in detail.
Nevertheless it is believed that .these lectures, frag-
mentary as they are, contain enough of what is ori-
ginal and valuable to justify their publication. They
will assuredly not make his memory less dear to all
who knew and loved him living; they may possibly
help to make it dear to all who love philosophy.

* This " Introductory Notice " (written by Professor E. L. Lush-
ington, LL.D.) was prefixed to the First Volume of Professor Fer-
rier's 4 Lectures on the Early Greek Philosophy, and other Philo-
sophical Remains,' in two volumes, 1866, and is here reprinted.viii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

James Frederick Ferrier, son of John Ferrier, W.S.,
grandson of James Ferrier, an intimate friend of Sir
Walter Scott, was born in Edinburgh, June 16, 1808.
His mother, Margaret, was sister of Professor John
Wilson; his aunt, Susan Ferrier, honoured by the
high praise and the friendship of Scott, was the
authoress of ' Marriage/ ' Destiny/ and ' The Inheri-
tance.' He received his early education in the manse
of Kuthwell, Dumfriesshire, where he lived in the
family of the Eev. Dr Duncan. Here first was
awakened in his mind the lively interest and affec-
tion which he never lost for Virgil, Ovid, and the
Latin poets in general: he often spoke in later life
of the new source of delight then opened to him
in these authors. He also retained through after
years a warm attachment both to his earliest place
of instruction and to the two sons of his earli-
est teacher. He studied later at the Edinburgh
High School, and under Dr Burney at Greenwich.
He attended Edinburgh University for sessions
1825-26 and 1826-27. He went as a fellow-com-
moner to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he took
the degree of B.A. in 1831; and became an advo-
cate at Edinburgh in 1832. Of his pursuits for the
next five or six years there is little direct evidence,
but to this period belongs mainly the foundation of
his strong passion for metaphysical research. It was
probably the desire of studying more effectively the
German masters of speculative thought that led him to
spend several months of the year 1834 at Heidelberg.INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

ix

He had early selected this pursuit as the most attrac-
tive and congenial to his powers; and as far as his
devotion to it may have needed for its full growth
sympathy and encouragement from another mind,
such nourishment was amply supplied by his intimacy
with Sir William Hamilton. This intimacy, com-
mencing in 1831, ripened into a warm friendship,
and continued thoroughly cordial and affectionate,
both in agreement and in difference on philosophical
questions. In one of his early essays Ferrier ex-
presses his ardent admiration of this great teacher
(see vol. ii. p. 300), and in a later treatise, principally
directed against some of Sir William Hamilton's posi-
tions, he speaks thus of him: " He has taught those
who study him to think, and he must stand the con-
sequence, whether they think in unison with himself
or not. We conceive, however, that even those who
differ from him most would readily own that to his in-
structive disquisitions they were indebted for at least
half of all they know of philosophy." A tribute of
loving reverence to Hamilton's memory, written soon
after his death, will be found in vol. i. pp. 488-90.

The silent workings of home influences had tended
not the less surely to arouse and widen his intellectual
sympathies. Having relations on both sides so highly
gifted with literary ability, it is not surprising that
Mr Ferrier should have combined with his meta-
physical predilections a powerful and at the same
time discriminating interest in all varieties of mental
culture. Letters still preserved show how frank andX

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

cordial was the intercourse, which lasted till her death
in 1854, between him and his aunt, Susan Terrier.
It would be superfluous to enlarge upon the warm
admiration which he always felt and avowed for his
uncle, John Wilson, whose son-in-law he became in
1837, and whose literary remains he was busily en-
gaged in editing during the years 1856, 1857, and
1858. He used to express himself, speaking of Wil-
son, in some such terms as these—" I find, well as
I knew him, that I can hardly even now bring up to
myself a real picture of what he was in his brightest
moods, far less could I hope to communicate the
truth to others who had not known him."

His uncle's house presented many opportunities to
Mr Ferrier of mixing in society that included names
of high political and literary eminence. From this
conversation the seed that fell upon the youthful
mind of such a listener would bring forth rich fruit
of observation and reflection in after hours. He
used to describe a meeting in the summer of 1825,
when he saw together at Elleray, Wilson's residence
near the Lake of Windermere, Scott, Wordsworth,
and Canning, as among the most radiant memories
of his life. A darker association was to colour his
latest remembrance of the great Novelist, not many
years after this date. " He used to refer with emo-
tion to one sad occasion when he came immediately
in contact with the author of 'Waverley.' It was
on that gloomy voyage when the suffering man was
conveyed to Leith from London, on his return fromINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xi

his ill-fated foreign journey. Mr Ferrier was also a
passenger, and scarcely dared to look on the almost
unconscious form of one whose genius he so warmly
admired." * It may be there are those who will in
coming years speak to their children of similar feel-
ings awakened in themselves, as they watched a feeble
frame, whose worn features revealed, amid the light
of piercing intellect, acute suffering held down by
heroic endurance, in the quiet town of St Andrews.

To philosophy he ever gave his first and unwaver-
ing devotion; he doubtless felt himself, and it will
probably be allowed by discerning judges, that the
genuine interest which he maintained to the last in
literature not technically or nominally philosophical,
made him in no way less able to preserve his primary
allegiance unalloyed. He read works of imagination
with deep imaginative sympathy: a strong poetical
element in his own nature responded vividly to the
subtlest touch of all true poetry. His numerous con-
tributions to ' Blackwood's Magazine' attest to what
extent the various sides of literature possessed attrac-
tions for him. For special mention may be selected,
—The Translation of Tieck's Pietro d'Abano, in
August 1839; of Deinhardstein's Picture of Danae,
September 1841; The Tittle-Tattle of a Philosopher,
December 1841; and the Keview of Miss Barrett's
Poems, November 1844. To some among the many
readers whose admiration for Mrs Browning's genius

* Quoted from Principal Forbes's address to the Students of St
Andrews, November 1864.xii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

is deep and sincere, it may not be without interest
to peruse an extract from this article, written at a
time when her extraordinary powers were far less
generally recognised than now:—

"If the poetess does not always command our
unqualified approbation, we are at all times disposed
to bend in reverence before the deep-hearted and
highly accomplished woman—a woman whose powers
appear to us to extend over a wider and profounder
range of thought and feeling than ever before fell
within the intellectual compass of any of the softer
sex. . If we might venture to divine this lady's moral
and intellectual character from the general tone of
her writings, we should say, that never did woman's
mind dwell more habitually among the thoughts of
a solemn experience — never was woman's genius
impressed more profoundly with the earnestness of
life, or sanctified more purely by the overshadow-
ing awfulness of death. She aspires to write as she
has lived; and certainly her poetry opens up many
glimpses into the history of a pure and profound
heart which has felt and suffered much. At the same
time, a reflective cast of intellect lifts her feelings
into a higher and calmer region than that of ordinary
sorrow. There are certain delicate and felicitous
peculiarities in the constitution of her sensibilities,
which frequently impart a rare and subtle originality
to emotions which are as old, and as widely diffused,
as the primeval curse. The spirit of her poetry ap-
pears to us to be eminently religious; not becauseINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xiii

we think her very successful when she deals directly
with the mysteries of divine truth, but because she
makes us feel, even when handling the least sacred
subjects, that we are in the presence of a heart
which, in its purity, sees God. In the writings of
such a woman, there must be much which is cal-
culated to be a blessing and a benefit to mankind.
If her genius always found a suitable exponent in her
style, she would stand unrivalled, we think, among
the poetesses of England. . . .

" If any of our remarks have been over-harsh, we
most gladly qualify them by saying that, in our
humble opinion, Miss Barrett's poetical merits infi-
nitely outweigh her defects. Her genius is profound,
unsullied, and without a flaw. The imperfections of
her manner are mere superficial blots which a little
labour might remove. Were the blemishes of her
style tenfold more numerous than they are, we should
still revere this poetess as one of the noblest of her
sex; for her works have impressed us with the con-
viction, that powers such as she possesses are not
merely the gifts or accomplishments of a highly in-
tellectual woman, but that they are closely inter-
twined with all that is purest and loveliest in good-
ness and in truth."

In 1851, when Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, now
Lord Lytton, was preparing to republish his transla-
tion of Schiller's Ballads, he frequently corresponded
with Mr Ferrier, whose critical judgment and skill
in detecting the finer shades of meaning in the orig-xiv

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

inal German he highly valued, as his dedication to
the poems amply testifies.

Mr Ferrier's earliest public essay in metaphysical
science consists of the papers, here republished, which,
under the title " An Introduction to the Philosophy
of Consciousness," he contributed to 'Blackwood's
Magazine' in 1838 and 1839, "undertaking," as Sir
William Hamilton said, "the solution of problems
hitherto unattempted in the humbler speculation of
this country." For some years after this he wrote
occasional articles in that Magazine, and must have
become in the meantime well known to many per-
sons in Edinburgh as one who delighted in exploring
questions that task powers of abstraction and subtle
thought. In 1842 he was appointed Professor of
Civil History in the University, an office at that
time neither very laborious nor lucrative, and gen-
erally looked upon as likely to be a stepping-stone
to some more important professorship. In session
1844-5, during Sir William Hamilton's severe illness,
Mr Ferrier acted as his substitute, and taught the
class of logic and metaphysics for some time; his
zeal and success in the discharge of this task are
warmly acknowledged by Sir William in a testimo-
nial given to Mr Ferrier when applying for a chair in
another university. In 1845 he was elected Pro-
fessor of Moral Philosophy and Political Economy
at St Andrews, and held that office till his death.

On two occasions he sought to obtain an appoint-
ment in Edinburgh; in 1852, on the resignationINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

XV

of his uncle, Professor Wilson, he became candi-
date for the professorship of Moral Philosophy, and
in 1856 he sought to succeed to the chair of Logic
and Metaphysics vacated by the death of Sir Wil-
liam Hamilton. On both occasions the voice of the
electors determined otherwise; his name and his
immediate influence as a teacher are destined to be
pre-eminently associated with St Andrews.

While holding this office Mr Terrier published, in
1848, a pamphlet (anonymous), entitled ' Observa-
tions on Church and State, suggested by the Duke
of Argyll's Essay on the Ecclesiastical History of
Scotland;' and in 1858 a ' Letter to the Eight Hon-
ourable the Lord Advocate of Scotland on the Neces-
sity of a Change in the Patronage of the University
of Edinburgh.' He also continued to write occasional
articles in ' Blackwood's Magazine,' which prove that
his professional studies, ardently as they were pur-
sued, did not entirely monopolise his attention.

In the earlier years of his professorship, his lec-
tures seem to have been more devoted to setting
forth and criticising the various schemes of mental
and moral philosophy which have arisen since the
time of Descartes and Locke, than to exhibiting in
systematic order new views of his own, except in so
far as this cannot be avoided in commenting on the
doctrines of others. He wrote of his professional
labours to a friend:—" I cancel and re-write about
a third of my lectures every year; a circumstance
which, if it proves that my lectures were bad to beginxvi

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

with, also proves that they have some chance of
growing better." For two or three years before he
published his ' Institutes of Metaphysic' (in 1854),
he had regularly developed to his hearers, proposition
by proposition, the theory contained in that work.
On this theory he frequently corresponded with his
friends. It may fairly be presumed that in address-
ing a subtle metaphysical thinker, capable among
few other Englishmen of estimating what had been
done for philosophy by Kant, and better acquainted
than most with the later labours of Kant's successors,
Mr Ferrier would especially aim at aiding the im-
pression which his own new speculations might
produce, by distinctness and forcible lucidity in an-
nouncing them. For this reason there is inserted at
a later page in this volume a letter * written to Mr
De Quincey, who had for some time regarded Fer-
rier as the metaphysician of highest promise among
his contemporaries in England or Scotland, and had
expressed his conviction in a warmly eulogistic tes-
timonial, which the letter gratefully acknowledges.
Letters to various other friends remain, written about
the same time on the same subject; but none more
characteristic, or exhibiting in clearer outlines the
nucleus of his theory.

This work reached a second edition in 1856. It
called forth various criticisms, some of which he
noticed in a pamphlet, entitled ' Scottish Philosophy,

* This is now transferred to the end of the third edition of the
4 Institutes of Metaphysic.'INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xvii

the Old and the New/ published in 1856. When he
composed this essay he believed that his views had
been by many misunderstood, by some unfairly rep-
resented; and to this circumstance he partly attri-
buted his failure to obtain the Chair of Logic and
Metaphysics in Edinburgh. In some passages a
warmth of feeling and expression was perceptible,
not perhaps surprising in one who felt convinced
that injurious and unwarranted misconceptions of
his meaning had prevailed against him, but not alto-
gether in harmony with the calmness best fitted to
the treatment of philosophical questions, a quality
which few thinkers could value more highly than
Mr Ferrier himself.* It has been accordingly judged
unnecessary to reproduce the whole of this pamphlet;
anything that could needlessly give pain the Editors
have thought it right to omit, while they hope that
nothing essential or possessing significance for the
vindication of the Author's system has disappeared
from the remodelled form in which it is now pre-
sented to the reader, as ' Appendix to the Institutes
of Metaphysic/

* A characteristic extract from a letter to a friend may illustrate
his deliberate judgment on this head. He wrote in 1851 :—"One
thing I would recommend, not to be too sharp in your criticism of
others. No one has committed this fault oftener, or is more dis-
posed to commit it, than myself; but I am certain that it is not
pleasing to the reader, and after an interval it is displeasing to
oneself. In the heat and hurry of writing a lecture I often hit a
brother philosopher, as I think, cleverly enough, but on coming to
it coolly next year I very seldom repeat the passage. I am not,
however, charging you with this fault, but merely putting you on
your guard against it."

bxviii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

His labours as a professor were prompted by un-
sparing energy; they were rewarded by one of the
truest evidences of merit, the devoted sympathy and
attachment of his pupils. To stimulate their minds
to philosophic thought, to lead them to insight rather
than tenacity of conviction, and empower them to
think for themselves,—this, as the steady principle of
his endeavours, is repeatedly set forth in his lectures,
and undeviatingly ruled his practice. In all matters
of College business his sound judgment and vigorous
good sense were acknowledged and looked up to by
his colleagues. His students felt sure there was not
one among their professors to whose generous consid-
eration of their feelings they might more confidently
trust, or whose resolute assertion of all that was due
to his own office they must more implicitly respect.
They revered him as a guide to truth and wisdom,
they loved him as an elder friend and fellow-labourer.

His devotion to contemplative study was so per-
sistent and absorbing, that he was seldom induced to
leave his home in St Andrews for excursions to any
distant quarters. His friends both in Scotland and
England had often to regret the rareness of the visits
which he paid them, not only on their own account,
but, as they believed, for his sake also. For they
could not repress within them the strong persuasion
that the intensity of his solitary labours in search of
truth was wearing him out, and that whenever he
could be induced to intermit the restless mental ex-
ercise, usually carried on far into the morning hours,INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xix

such relaxation must prove beneficial to his general
health. But for him philosophy had deeper charms
than for most even of laborious and meditative in-
quirers. The "difficult air" which surrounds the
top of the mountain of speculation, exhausting to
common travellers in that high region, was to him as
the daily breath of life. Those among his acquaint-
ance for whom such abstruser pursuits had no attrac-
tion, could not but feel and acknowledge the large-
ness of mind and heart which enlivened his social
intercourse, which sought for no display, but mani-
fested itself in the readiness with which he entered
alike into the common business and recreation of
everyday life, and into all general topics of rational
interest. The most devoted of all students, he was
the last man to whom any one who knew him, or
even casually met him, could have thought of apply-
ing the description of " pedant." In mixed company,
his graceful courtesy, his rich and genial humour,
and the fine unstrained benignity which, being heart-
deep, inspired his whole manner, secured general ad-
miration and goodwill. There was hardly a social
meeting at St Andrews at which his presence, ex-
pected or unexpected, would not have been welcomed
with genuine gladness; nor could any subject be
mooted on which his views, however unobtrusively
expressed, would not have been listened to with re-
spectful attention.

His general appearance, and latterly his disincli-
nation to any but the most moderate exercise, sug-XX

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

gested the impression that his health was far from
robust, but it seemed mostly to preserve an equable
tenor till the first violent seizure which prostrated
his strength, so that it never could be fully restored.
This was an attack of angina pectoris, which came
upon him (with nothing obvious to account for it)
early in November 1861. For several hours he was
considered to be in imminent danger, but the vital
power was not entirely shattered; a temporary re-
covery took place, but the weakness which followed
prevented him from continuing his lectures till some
weeks later. At that time the largest apartment in
his house was fitted up as a lecture-room, where his
students met, it being judged unsafe for him to un-
dergo the fatigue of moving daily as far as the Col-
lege class-room. The date of several of his lectures
on Greek philosophy shows how little he relaxed his
exertions for the instruction of his class, notwithstand-
ing this shock to his physical powers. And indeed
those who conversed with him after this date on his
favourite topics were aware that his subtlety and
penetrating energy of thought were as vivid as ever.
But it could hardly escape their notice that bodily
infirmity was fast gaining ground upon him; his
power of walking became less and less; a very short
distance at times seemed to be too much for him; the
ascent of a staircase would make him pant and appear
overcome almost to exhaustion. Tendencies to asthma
had long been observed; dropsical symptoms and
affection of the heart assumed a threatening form.INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxi

On the whole, after this first formidable attack it
began to be manifest that life was but a continued
unequal struggle against manifold besieging forces.
From this time, though he often spoke hopefully of his
state of health, he must have anticipated as far from
improbable that any day or hour might bring a rapidly
fatal onset of his malady. Towards his friends, dur-
ing this interval, all that was sweetest in his dispo-
sition seemed to gain strength and expansion from
the near shadow of death. He spoke of death with
entire fearlessness, and though this was nothing new
to those who knew him best, it impressed their minds
at this time more vividly than ever. The less they
dared to hope for his life being prolonged, the more
their love and regard were deepened by his tender
thoughtfulness for others, and the kindliness which
annihilated all absorbing concern for himself. In
many little characteristic touches of humour, frank-
ness, beneficence, beautiful gratitude for any slight
help or attention, his truest and best nature seemed
to come out all the more freely; he grew, as it were,
more and more entirely himself indeed. If ever a
man was true to philosophy, or a man's philosophy
true to him, it was so with Ferrier during all the
time when he looked death in the face and possessed
his soul in patience. As the light of all his friend-
ships shone ever with steadier brightness, past ani-
mosities sank out of sight. At a time when he was
too ill to see any visitor, the card was brought to
him of a former opponent on philosophical questions,xxii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

whose criticisms of his views had been regarded by
him as unjust, and had provoked some warmth of
language in his reply to them, but who now called
to inquire after his health. He was perceptibly
touched by this mark of friendly feeling, and ex-
claimed, " That must be a good fellow !"

Twice in the course of the year 1863, in January
and October, an assault of illness more than usually
threatening had come on. He had, in the June of
this year, travelled to London, to examine in phil-
osophy the students of the London University, and
had purposed doing so again in October; but after
this attack it was obviously impossible. On the
31st of October, Dr Christison was consulted about
his state, and pronounced his case to be past hope of
remedy. He opened his class on the 11th of November
in his own house, but during this month was generally
confined to bed. On the 8th of December he was at-
tacked by congestion of the brain, and never lectured
again. His class was conducted by Mr Ehoades,
then Warden of the recently-founded College Hall,
who, as many others among his colleagues would
have been ready to do, willingly undertook the mel-
ancholy task of officiating for so beloved and hon-
oured a friend. After this all severe study and men-
tal exertion were forbidden. He became gradually
weaker, with glimpses now and then of transitory
improvement. So in unfailing courage and resigna-
tion, not unwilling to hope for longer respite, but al-
ways prepared to die, he placidly, reverently, awaitedINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxiii

the close, tended by the watchful care of his devoted
wife and children.

He breathed his last about eleven o'clock on the
morning of Saturday the 11th of June 1864; his
mortal remains were followed to the grave by many
to whom his memory is dear, and rest near those of
his father and grandfather in St Cuthbert's Church-
yard in Edinburgh.

"What Ferrier was, is more surely treasured in the
hearts of those who knew him than it can be livingly
communicated in language to others: nevertheless it
appears due to truth to record the utterances of some
friends, who, from their constant and familiar inter-
course, had the best means of knowing and esti-
mating him aright. Contributions towards this end
have been asked from a few, and granted with ready
kindness.

Principal Tulloch, of St Mary's College, St Andrews,
writes thus:—

" By the time I came to St Andrews (1854) Pro-
fessor Ferrier had reached the maturity of his powers,
if not of his reputation. The f Institutes of Meta-
physic' were just published, and I had read the
volume with great admiration, fascinated particularly
by the boldness and brilliant subtlety of its specula-
tions. We soon formed a fast friendship; and as for
some years we both remained at St Andrews, in sum-
mer as well as winter, we were in the habit of con-
stantly meeting together. His interest ill intellectual
discussions was unceasing; his love of books, and hisxxiv

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

appreciation of literature in all its higher forms, as
fresh as that of a youth in the first flush of his stud-
ies, and a more delightful companion therefore could
not be imagined. There are those who along with
me, I am sure, can never forget the pleasantness of
those early years in St Andrews, when our friend
was still in vigorous health, and eager to encounter
any disputant in his favourite subjects. The playful
humour which he mingled with the most abstract
discussions, the heights of metaphysical argument
which he scaled so easily, and in the rare atmos-
phere of which he was able to sustain himself longer
than any other disputant I ever knew, his genial and
frank bearing, and the welcome and fairness of spirit
with which he always met opposition, gave a great
attraction to his conversation.

" Life in his study was Professor Terrier's charac-
teristic life. There have been, I daresay, even in our
time, harder students than he was; but there could
scarcely be any one who was more habitually a stu-
dent, who lived more amongst books, and took a more
special and constant delight in intercourse with them.
In his very extensive but choice library he knew
every book by head-mark, as he would say, and
could lay his hands upon the desired volume at
once. It was a great pleasure to him to bring to
the light from an obscure corner some comparatively
unknown English speculator of whom the Univer-
sity Library knew nothing.

" During the summer of 1863, the last of which heINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

XXV

was to see the close, I was w7ith him almost every
day. At this time I was myself laid aside from sys-
tematic work of any kind, while his obviously failing
health and incapacity to walk any distance without
suffering invited companionship. His intellectual
interest was as keen as ever, but the hope of doing
much more was fast dying out. He reflected with
satisfaction that he had completed his lectures on the
Early Greek Philosophy, and he would fain have been
spared for a renewed study of Plato, and a fresh and
extended treatment of the Platonic Philosophy. He
felt this to be no longer possible; but his mind nat-
urally lingered round his favourite subject, and we
spent the summer in reading together some of the
Dialogues in which he formerly delighted, and had
carefully pencilled with his notes. He took it into his
head also to read through Yirgil, and I used some-
times to join him in the evenings which he devoted
to this purpose. The companionship was a great
pleasure to me, and seemed in some degree to relieve
the tedium of his bodily languor. The strength and
patience of his character, and buoyant energy and
varied activity of his mind, were never more con-
spicuous. We had many earnest conversations, too,
about more solemn matters; for it is needless to
say that a reason so inquisitive and reflective as Pro-
fessor Perrier's had pondered much on the subject
of religion. He was unable to feel much interest in
any of its popular forms, but he had a most intense
interest in its great mysteries, and a thorough rever-xxvi

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

ence for its truths, when these were not disfigured by
superstition or formalism. His large thoughtfulness
made him indifferent to minor matters, which to
many minds represent so much of religion, and he
had perhaps too vehement a dislike to certain aspects
of pietistic activity; but he had true religious im-
pulses; and Christian truth, expressed in a manly,
straightforward, and unexaggerated manner, always
impressed him. He was open to the light from
whatever quarter it might come; but he also felt
that there was much regarding which we must be
content here to remain in darkness, and to await the
solution of the future.

"There was at all times in Professor Ferrier's
character great sweetness and a certain charm of
loyal and chivalrous feeling, combined with passion-
ate energy and decisiveness, amounting to obstinacy
where his supposed rights or interests were in-
volved. In the last years of his life these stronger
features dropped out of sight, and all the gentle
chivalry and forbearance of his nature came forth
more prominently. He had for some time laid aside
all ambition. He had forgiven his philosophical
enemies, and even forgotten, as if it had never been,
the painful crisis signalised by his pamphlet on the
4 Old and the New Philosophy/ He was surrounded
by those he loved, and by many attached friends
who vied with each other in their respect and affec-
tion for him. He felt at the same time that his
strength was rapidly failing, and that the end ofINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxvii

his work was not far off. All this exerted a soften-
ing influence on his character, and brought out its
finer traits. He had long known, there is reason to
think, of his weakness, and that there was something
mortal in it. He certainly had no faith that any
change of scene or any appliance of medical skill
would be of avail in his case; and so he quietly,
steadily, and cheerfully faced the issue. There was
a singular depth and immovableness in his cheer-
ful patience. I do not think I ever heard him
complain, and I have seen him in great languor
and pain. He might give utterance to a half-play-
ful, half-grim expression regarding his sufferings,
but he never seemed to think there was anything
strange in them, anything that he should not bear
calmly as a man and as a Christian. Neither did he
say much of unfinished work which he might have
done, although such work had been formerly much
in his heart. He expressed few regrets, he spoke of
no fears. He looked heroically yet humbly into the
future, and did such work as he could with interest
and diligence to the end. On the very day before
his final seizure, I believe, he was in his library, as
was his wont, busy amongst his books.

"Many men can do good and able work in the
world, but there are only a few anywhere, in any
institution, who invest their work with that nameless
personal influence which captivates while it instructs
the young, which quickens their intellectual enthu-
siasm and expands and refines their feelings in thexxviii

INTRODUCTOKY NOTICE.

process of education. No one was ever more gifted
with this rare endowment than Professor Ferrier.
There was a buoyant and graceful charm in all he
did, a perfect sympathy, cordiality, and frankness,
which won the hearts of his students, as of all who
sought his intellectual companionship. Maintaining
the dignity of his position with easy indifference, he
could condescend to the most free and affectionate
intercourse; make his students, as it were, parties
with him in his discussions, and while guiding them
with a master-hand, awaken at the same time their
own activities of thought as fellow-workers with him-
self. There was nothing, I am sure, more valuable
in his teaching than this, nothing for which his stu-
dents will longer remember it with gratitude. No
man could be more free from the small vanity of
making disciples. He loved speculation too dearly
for itself, he prized too highly the sacred rights of
reason, to wish any man or any student merely to
adopt his system or repeat his thought. Not to
manufacture thought for others, but to excite thought
in others, to stimulate the powers of inquiry, and
brace all the higher functions of the intellect, was
his great aim. He might be comparatively careless,
therefore, of small processes of drilling and minute
labours of correction. These, indeed, he greatly val-
ued in their own place. But he felt that his strength
lay in a different direction, in the intellectual im-
pulse which his own thinking, in its life, its richness,
and clear open candour, was capable of imparting.INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxix

He conducted his thinking, as it were, in broad day.
The student could see every turn and winding of it;
and the frankness of his manner gave a singular
attraction to the frank boldness of his intellect, and
more than anything, perhaps, explained the mingled
love and admiration with which he was regarded.
And yet, with all his easy cordiality, so manly was
he, and so commanding the natural relations of his
mind to others, that I do not fancy it could have
entered into the head of even the most presumptu-
ous student to take any liberty with him. If it
was his happy power to stimulate enthusiasm and
call forth interest in the young, he was no less
able, in all circumstances, to preserve the most
perfect order. And while he awakened affection,
he never failed to secure respect."

Professor Shairp of St Andrews writes as fol-
lows :—

" In the autumn of 1857 circumstances con-
nected with my appointment at St Andrews led to
a long correspondence, which I have not preserved.
But the one impression left on me was that of Ferrier's
manliness, justness, and high honour, combined with
the finest consideration and most delicate courtesy
towards all concerned. Not to speak of personal
gratitude towards him for having so smoothed the
way through many practical difficulties, the whole
tone of his letters left on me a delightful impression
of his character. I need hardly say that my inter-XXX

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

course with him during the next seven years was
entirely according to this beginning.

"Now and then, when I could, I used to go and
hear him lecture; I never saw anything better than
his manner towards his students. There was in it
ease, yet dignity so respectful both to them and
to himself that no one could think of presuming
with him. Yet it was unusually kindly, and full
of a playful humour which greatly attached them
to him. No one could be farther removed from
either the Don or the Disciplinarian. But his
look of keen intellect and high breeding, combined
with gentleness and feeling for his students, com-
manded attention more than any discipline could
have done.

" In matters of college discipline, while he was
fair and just, he always leant to the lenient and
forbearing side. He was peculiarly considerate of
the students in all his dealings with them; and by
showing this markedly in his manner, I doubt not
he called forth in those who perceived it some feel-
ing akin to his own.

" Till his illness took a more serious form, he was
to be met at dinner-parties, to which his society
always gave a great charm. In general society his
conversation was full of humour and playful jokes.
A quick yet kindly eye to note the extravagances
and absurdities of men. His remarks were especi-
ally racy on those whose enthusiasm outran their
judgment, or who insisted on riding their ownINTRODUCTOEY NOTICE.

xxxi

hobbies, or forcing their own idiosyncrasies on others
who had no mind for them.

"Sometimes, when we found him in his library
on a winter afternoon, he would begin talking of
Horace, who was a special favourite of his. He
used to amuse himself with translating some of the
Odes into English verse, and he would now and
then read what he had done in this way. These
translations were always unconventional and racy,
sometimes very felicitous in their turns. They
brought out a vein of secret humour running
through many of the Odes in which it had not
been hitherto suspected.

"At other times I have heard him discourse of
Wordsworth, and of the early feelings which that great
poet had awakened in him. When he spoke on this
and other kindred subjects he brought out a richness
of literary knowledge, and a delicacy and keenness
of appreciation, of which his philosophic writings,
except by their fine style, give no hint. I used
sometimes to think that the exclusively abstract
line of thinking to which he had in his later years
devoted himself, and the demonstrative form into
which he had tried to cast his thoughts, had shut
out the free play of those imaginative perceptions,
with which, unlike most other living metaphysicians,
he was by nature richly gifted.

"His malady, which no doubt he himself had
known long before, first revealed itself fully to those
beyond his own household by the severe illness withxxxii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

which he was attacked a few days after the instal-
lation of Mr Stirling of Keir as Lord Eector. At
the dinner given on that occasion Mr Ferrier had,
it was thought, caught a cold, which brought on a
dangerous increase of heart-complaint. Though he
rallied from this for a time, he never was as he
had been before. Some more dangerous symptoms
showed themselves in the summer of 1863; and I
remember, on going to see him when we returned
here in the autumn, that he spoke of his own
health, not in a desponding tone, yet in a way that
showed he had no hope of recovery.

" How he bore the long painful winter that followed
you have heard from others, and yourself, I think,
had opportunities of seeing. In the visits which I
made to his bedroom from time to time, when I
found him sometimes on chair or sofa, sometimes
in bed, I never heard one peevish or complaining
word escape him, nothing but what was calm and
cheerful, though to himself as to others it was evi-
dent that the outward man was fast perishing. The
last time but one that I saw him was on a Sunday
in April; it must have been either on the 17th or
24th. He was sitting up in bed. The conversation
fell on serious subjects, on the craving the soul feels
for some strength and support out from and above
itself, on the certainty that all men feel that need, and
on the testimony left by those who have tried it most,
that they had found that need met by Him of whose
earthly life the Gospel histories bear witness. This,INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxxiii

or something like this, was the subject on which our
conversation turned. He paused, and dwelt on the
thought of the soul's hunger. 4 Hunger is the great
weaver in moral things as in physical. The hunger
that is in the new-born child sits weaving the whole
bodily frame, bones and sinews, out of nothing.
And so I suppose in moral and spiritual things it is
hunger builds up the being.' This was the purport
of what he said, though of the words I cannot be
sure that I give them faithfully. This was the last
time I ever conversed with him."

Professor Campbell of St Andrews says :—

" You have asked me for some personal recollec-
tions of my lamented and revered colleague, Professor
Eerrier. Though I had seen him at St Andrews in
1854, and once again at Oxford, I date my acquaint-
ance with him from the autumn of 1863, when I was
a candidate for the Greek Chair at St Andrews, at
a time when he had been already for some months
a sufferer. On becoming settled at St Andrews we
were most kindly received, notwithstanding his ill-
ness, by him and his family; and I have a grateful
recollection of his lively interest, more welcome be-
cause unobtrusive, in my novitiate as a professor.
He also asked me about the work which I had left,
in which I said I had gained friendships which made
life richer. He said—' You may find that here too.'

" During the early part of my first session, which
was his last, while he was still able to meet his class

cxxxiv

INTRODUCTOKY NOTICE.

in his own house, we had several conversations on
philosophy, a privilege which after his illness in
December could not be permitted me, though I had
frequently the pleasure of seeing and of talking with
him.

" At this time he was deeply interested in the study
of the early Greek philosophers, and I remember his
saying: ' I think what they were all driving at was
to find something that ivill outlive us! This was said
with much earnestness, and I have now before me
the still deeper expression of solemnity and ven-
eration which passed over his countenance when,
after speaking of the duality implied in all cogni-
tion, he added,4 And then in God also—to speculate
about Him—in God also there must be duality, in
so far as He knows Himself.' The tone in which
these words were uttered made me feel that true
reverence is without fear. I could understand, after
hearing it, with what humble and fearless confidence
he had said, when some religious question was dis-
cussed in his own family, ' I suppose I shall know
about this by-and-by.'

"I will only add that, besides his fortitude and
cheerfulness, which seemed perfect, there was a cour-
tesy which never flagged or drooped, and a kindly
interest, maintained until the last, in the most trifling
occupations not only of his own family, but of their
friends.

" Perhaps I might have said something of his won-
derful popularity with the students, but of that youINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

XXXV

will have heard from others. His perfect courtesy,
manhood, and native dignity were, with his stimu-
lating intellect, the secret of their love for him.

" I am sorry that I cannot recall more of our brief
intercourse, which I shall always be most thankful
to have enjoyed."

Professor Yeitch, formerly of St Andrews, now of
Glasgow, may be quoted in conclusion.

" I first knew Mr Ferrier personally in the winter
of 1860-61, as his colleague in the University of St
Andrews. At that time his health, though good, was
not robust. He seldom walked for recreation, spend-
ing his time almost exclusively, when not in his
class-room, in his library among his books. Drawn
to him partly by the interest of common studies, but
quite as much by the attractive nature of the man,
I very soon came to cherish for him the warmest
affection. Eefined, courteous, and genial, no speck
of the pedantry which occasionally marks the man
of recluse habits was visible in his manner. His
devotion to abstract thought had in no degree dried
up the freshness or limited the fulness of a mind
that was from the first keenly susceptible of impres-
sions from all that is highest and finest in nature and
art. His early studies and training had been literary
rather than philosophical; the beauty of form and
style in which his thoughts were cast bore marks of
this early culture.

"His one absorbing intellectual interest was ab-xxxvi

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

stract speculation, and that, above all, in the direc-
tion of metaphysics. He had a remarkable power, in
conversation on metaphysical points, of testing and
turning on all sides dogmas received or advanced.
I shall ever look back with mingled feelings of plea-
sure and regret on the long evenings of two-handed
discussion which we spent together during the four
winters of my residence in St Andrews. For depth
of natural interest in the highest speculative ques-
tions ; for openness, candour, and withal subtlety of
fence, I have met no one who has surpassed him.
He had, as seemed to me, no great interest in the
questions of psychology, or in the details of formal
logic; and he had read but slightly in either depart-
ment. But metaphysic was his delight and his
strength. The problem of Being, what it is; how
to be analysed; how made intelligible; to get its
principle and deduce its forms — was the centre
round which his whole thought turned. The solu-
tion of the problem which he worked out for himself
penetrated his entire life and convictions. His met-
aphysics were less of a professional accomplishment,
and more completely himself, than was probably the
case with any man, excepting Hamilton, whom 1
have known. His interest in ethical speculations
seemed to me to be entirely subordinate to his meta-
physical ; and any ethical doctrine which he reached
took its cast from his demonstrative theory of know-
ledge and existence.

" The play of his intellect was fine, subtle, arrowyINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxxvii

in its keenness and directness. His metaphysical
system, whatever may be thought of its compass or
truth, was clear as daylight through all its depths.
It professed, indeed, to afford a level line of demon-
stration, on which, when once one sets out, there is
no pause until the whole apparent mystery of reality
is reached and cleared. His abstractions and refine-
ments were lofty and subtle, but his imagination had
always a concrete embodiment for the airiest and least
palpable of them. The literary and artistic faculty,
to which he had given free scope in his earlier days,
was now the handmaiden of his intellect, and set the
most abstract of his conceptions in luminous illustra-
tions and exquisite shapes of poetry. He retained
the mastery of a style, clear, idiomatic, and brilliant,
which, even when he discoursed on metaphysics,

' Caught at every turn
The colours of the sun.'

More intellectually intense than excursive, more
taken with the harmony and the march of demon-
stration than with the requirements and the facts of
real life or the teachings of experience, he sought
to determine by deduction from principles of rea-
son the essential nature of things, and of existence in
its greatest generality. ' Eeasoned truth' was with
him the highest, the only philosophy; in his entire
intellect and interests he was the type of the phil-
osopher of the abstract and deductive school.

"When I first became acquainted with Mr Ferrierxxxviii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

his speculative ardour seemed to be leading him to-
wards a principle of even higher abstraction than
that of the 'Institutes.' The author at this time
most congenial to his mode of thought was Hegel.
He studied Hegel for certainly more than the last
ten years of his life, without, as he himself used
freely to acknowledge to the end, completely satisfy-
ing himself that he had mastered the Hegelian con-
ception,—a fact worthy of note by the fluent praters
about Hegel in these times. It was obvious, how-
ever, from his conversation, that during these latter
years his thoughts were a good deal directed to the
realisation of glimpses of this conception, and to its
application in various ways. I doubt whether he
had in this line reached a point that was entirely
satisfactory to his own mind. His speculative efforts
were, I suspect, purely tentative.

" As a Professor, he was equalled in power and in-
fluence by few who have occupied university chairs.
He made men thinkers,—not, however, by any routine
of drill or discipline, but by his hold of his subject,
the wonderful clearness and force of his prelections,
and the outflowing of his personality into all that he
said and did. The respect, affection, and obedience
of his class were given to him spontaneously as a
tribute of loyalty to the man.

" Ferrier's was altogether a strong nature, one in
which were blended high and rare qualities, yet
harmoniously vigorous. To force of intellect there
were added depth of feeling and strength of will;INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xxxix

resolution which, once taken, was indomitable. But
never were stern qualities set amid more genial sur-
roundings, or united with greater kindliness, courtesy,
warmth, and steadiness of affection. Socially, he was
one of the most pleasant, interesting, and attractive of
men. No description will ever enable one who was
a stranger to him personally to realise the depth of
humour and the raciness of wit which were in him.
This was quite a part of the man, spontaneous and
irrepressible in its outflowings, breaking forth often
when least expected, so as to relieve the dulness, it
might be, of college deliberations, or infuse pleasantry
into the occasional fierceness of university polemics.

" He is now with us no longer; the soul that strug-
gled so hard with the hardest things for human
thought has passed away after an afflicting illness,
that was borne most touchingly, most heroically.
We miss the finely-cut, decisive face, the erect manly
presence, the measured meditative step, the friendly
greeting; but there are men, and Ferrier was one of
them, for whom, once known, there is no real past.
The characteristic features and qualities of such men
become part of our conscious life ; memory keeps them
before us living and influential, in a higher, truer
present which overshadows the actual and visible."

To his friend and son-in-law, Sir Alexander Grant,
was intrusted the disposal and revisal of Mr Ferrier's
manuscript compositions. Fitted alike by his interest
in the subject, and his affectionate intimacy with thexl

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

deceased, for the fulfilment of this pious duty, he
readily accepted the task; but his early return, after
a few months' furlough, to the labour of an important
office in India, compelled him to relinquish the actual
publication. Another friend, who had the advantage
of consulting unreservedly with Sir Alexander Grant,
and being made fully acquainted with his views, un-
dertook, in accordance with Mrs Ferrier's wishes, to
prepare these volumes for the press. For the appear-
ance of these lectures in their present form, and for
the selection of such among his other writings as are
here put together, the second editor alone is respon-
sible.

The lectures on Greek Philosophy were mainly com-
posed, or at least delivered in the shape into which Mr
Ferrier finally brought them, about the year 1859. Be-
fore this year he had lectured on some periods of Greek
Philosophy, and may in several cases have incorpo-
rated his earlier with his later lectures. Some parts of
the remarks upon Aristotle bear the date 1857 and
1858; others again seem to have been written as late
as February and March 1863. Of the discussion re-
ferring to the Stoics and Epicureans, some papers have
marginal dates of 1857 and 1858, as well as later
notices of 1860, 1861, and 1862. The earlier part,
as far as the end of the Cyrenaic, Cynic, and Megaric
schools, appears to have been more fully elaborated
than what follows. His lectures up to this point
were carefully written out in two bound manuscript
volumes, of which the first bears the title, ' LecturesINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xli

on the History of Greek Philosophy.—I. The Pre-Soc-
ratic Period. 1859-60 ;' and the second, ' Lectures
on the History of Greek Philosophy.—II. The Soc-
ratic Period. 1860-61-62.' The remaining portion
was mostly written on loose sheets; these were fre-
quently revised and corrected: in some cases where
later lectures have been incorporated with earlier ones,
it is not easy to determine precisely how much of the
earlier he intended to retain, or how much he con-
sidered superseded by the later. Here and there
paragraphs are marked " Omit;" these the editor
has judged right to exclude from the work, though not
clearly certain whether the omission thus directed
merely referred to the particular occasion of the lec-
ture being delivered, or was meant to imply a purpose
of rewriting or expunging the paragraphs. Some
omissions have also been made of passages where the
subject handled was not directly Greek Philosophy,
but one which, though closely connected with it, has
received full treatment in various other works; for
instance, the lives of the more eminent philosophers.
To include the biography of Socrates, Plato, and Aris-
totle, perfectly suitable as it was in lectures addressed
to youthful learners, appeared unnecessary in a review
of Greek Philosophy. This rule of exclusion, how-
ever, did not always seem applicable to the less illus-
trious occupants of a place in the history of metaphy-
sical speculation. It appears from the MS. that the
lecturer occasionally read to his class articles con-
tributed by himself to the ' Imperial Dictionary ofxlii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

Universal Biography.' Use has been made of this
work, especially in the latter portion of the lectures.
The lives of Schelling and Hegel are taken from the
same publication, with the kind permission of the
publisher, Mr Mackenzie, of Howard Street, Glas-
gow.*

The second volume contains the papers on phil-
osophical subjects which Mr Ferrier published in
' Blackwood's Magazine,' and a few occasional lectures
which appeared to deserve insertion, with one or two
specimens illustrating his general literary faculty.
It is probable that if he had republished these essays
he would have remodelled and rewritten much; pos-
sibly omitted many portions; and it would be in
nowise surprising if treatises composed at so early
a stage in his speculative progress exhibit either a
seeming or an actual discrepancy from his later and
more matured opinions. It might indeed be matter
for juster surprise if such difficulties did not fre-
quently occur in the writings of any original thinker,
when separated by a long interval in the date of
their production. It should not be forgotten that
what, seen from without, may present the look of
a partial inconsistency, may often more justly from
within be regarded as a reconciliation and union of
two different aspects of truth. " There is nothing

* Several other articles in this work are from the pen of Mr
Ferrier, and may be distinguished by having his initials affixed.
Among those likely to interest the general reader may be noticed
Adam Smith, Swift, and Schiller.INTKODUCTOKY NOTICE.

xliii

to retract, but much to carry forward, and which has
been carried forward, as I trust one day to show,"
was an expression used by him in speaking of these
papers. Whether the conflict between his earlier
and later views be real or apparent, the editors have
not felt themselves authorised to attempt any correc-
tion or amplification; these essays are left as they
were originally written, with omission of one or two
pages quite irrelevant to the purport of the argu-
ment. They believe this plan to be in accordance
with the spirit which animated Mr Ferrier's own re-
searches : for he was far too fearless and faithful a
follower of truth to have hesitated for a moment to
throw aside an opinion once held, if shown to be fal-
lacious, or to doubt that from the collision of im-
perfectly discerned truths a spark might be struck
out that would light to further insight. Those to
whom the system of this philosopher, when brought
nearer to maturity, presents matter of interest, will
thus have the best assistance that can be supplied
towards tracing its growth through successive stages;
they are asked in return nothing but what every
labour of thought has a right to claim from a reader,
to understand each combination of ideas, where there
can be room for doubt, according to their best admis-
sible meaning.

Many may be of opinion that some regions into
which the ocean of philosophic discovery spreads,
have not been tracked with sufficient diligence by
this explorer; such comparative incompleteness mayxliv

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

render his system less valuable in the eyes of some
than it will seem to others: there may be readers
to whom its fundamental axioms are a stumbling-
block. A few may dare to believe that in originality,
depth, and truth, it is surpassed by no philosophy
which this century has seen produced in Britain.

The sincere thanks of the editors are due to some
of Mr Ferrier's early friends, who have kindly con-
tributed the best help they could towards rendering
this brief introduction less incomplete than it might
have been; Professor Solly, of Berlin, and George
Makgill, Esq. of Kemback, are entitled to especial
acknowledgement.

E. L. L.

POSTSCBIPT FOR THIBD EDITION.

As a slight indication or specimen of the recep-
tion which Ferrier's philosophy, when first pub-
lished, met with in Germany, two translated ex-
tracts are subjoined. It would be easy, but it is
unnecessary, to multiply such testimonies. The
editors from time to time receive evidence that
the impression made by Ferrier's philosophy has
not been ephemeral, but that in Scotland, in Eng-
land, and even in France, young minds are still
captivated by Ferrier's manner and stimulated by
his thought; and that mature and profound thinkersINTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xlv

recognise in him a metaphysical genius whose
achievements the world will not willingly let die.

A. G.

E. L. L.

1. From a notice of Ferrier's ' Institutes of Meta-
physic,' by Dr Wirth, one of the Editors of the ' Zeit-
schrift fur Philosophie und philosophische Kritik,'
vol. xxx. p. 243 (1857):—

"We hail in this volume one of the cheering signs
that English philosophy has raised itself above the
one-sided empiricism which has long been predom-
inant in it, to a higher standpoint of knowledge,
uniting empiricism and idealism; at the same time
a sign of the approach towards German idealistic
speculation, noticeable too in other instances, among
the deeper thinkers on the other side of the Chan-
nel. While our German philosophy has descended
step by step from the ethereal height on which in
earlier days Fichte's Idealism moved, till in some
writers it has taken a completely sensualistic form,
and so laid the foundation for the most determined
materialism—a process analogous to the evolution
of Greek philosophy in its second period, beginning
with the idealism of Plato, and ending in sensual-
ism, materialism, and lastly, a scepticism despair-
ing of all knowledge — writings like this of
Ferrier's seem to prove that, conversely, Englishxlvi

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

philosophy, after taking an empirical starting-
point in Bacon, and being carried on farther in
the same direction by Locke, is recently mak-
ing an effort to take into itself the a priori and
idealistic element of knowledge. Assuredly this
tendency to unite the idealistic element with realism
is so interesting and important a phenomenon, that
we have every reason to take special notice of it
in reviewing this work. The author endeavours
throughout to raise himself above the antitheses in
which abstract thought so easily becomes entangled,
especially that of realism and idealism, and to grasp
firmly their unity. . . . He is entirely in the
right when he repels the charge that the law of
cognition laid down by him is a one-sided or sub-
jective-idealistic principle. He maintains that it
never occurred to genuine idealism to deny that things
really exist externally to ourselves. Idealism, he
avers, not denying this, asks only what is meant by
external, apart from all relation to an internal; and
he proves that without this relation the word exter-
nal has and can have no meaning." After a more
detailed examination of the work, the reviewer states
his aim to have been " to show that what I regard
as the genuine fundamental idea of recent German
philosophy is now opening a path for itself among
our kinsmen the English; and I hope that the dif-
ferences which I have expressed from the honoured
author, if this notice meets his eye, will be regarded
in the true light in which they seek to be regarded,INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

xlvii

as put forward not with the purpose of impugning
that fundamental idea, but rather with the aim of
throwing clearer light upon it from a nearly-related
point of view."

2. From a notice of' Lectures on Greek Philosophy/
&c., 2 vols., by Professor Hermann Ulrici, an Editor
of ' Zeitschrift fur Philosophie und philosophische
Kritik,' vol. liv. p. 185 (1869):—

"The 'Philosophical Remains' include not the whole
but the best and most important portion of the writ-
ings on philosophy left by James Frederick Ferrier,
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Political Economy
at the University of St Andrews, who died 11th June
1864. We know the author through his ' Institutes
of Metaphysic,' a work which even in England made
a strong impression, and shortly after its appearance
received a notice in this periodical which entered
into and duly appreciated its views. We lament
with the editors the premature death of this eminent
man, whom we rank far higher than the newest cele-
brities for the day of English philosophy (J. S. Mill,
A. Bain, &c.)—the more since he had the courage to
do battle against the stream of shallow empiricism
which English philosophy still follows, and which in
consistency leads inevitably to one-sided materialism,
sapping not only all ethical science, but all science
whatever.

" The first volume contains almost exclusively lec-
tures on the history of Greek philosophy, which Fer-xlviii

INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.

rier repeatedly delivered before the students of his
University. He praises in the introduction Hegel
and Zeller as the historians of philosophy who made
the first successful attempt' to grasp the inner soul
rather than the external environment of bygone
speculations, and to trace the logical concatenation of
systems.' . . . The lectures are distinguished by
abundant originality of conception, by clearness and
thoroughness of exposition, and by the skill with
which, entering into his hearers' standpoint and
power of apprehension, they succeed in smoothing
their road to the understanding of philosophy and
its history. Pre-eminently directed to this end is a
copious introduction on the essence and conception
of philosophy. In this respect they may well be
recommended to many of our historians, and to all
who have to deliver lectures on the history of philo-
sophy, as models worthy of careful study."GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

I. THE PRE-SOGJtATIC PERIOD.

INTRODUCTORY.

1. In the present session I propose to treat of the
history of Philosophy, both moral and metaphysical,
on a more extended scale than I have yet been in the
habit of doing. Philosophy itself must, of course,
engage our attention; because, unless we know what
philosophy is, unless we have a clear conception of
its aim and results, the history of philosophy must
remain a blank, a sealed book, a mere repertory of
dead and unprofitable dogmas. But when we have
once formed a right conception of philosophy, the
study of its history will then be found to react power-
fully in confirming and enlarging our knowledge, and
in directing and enlightening our energies. The aim
of philosophy is to raise us into the region of uni-
versal, or, as I may call it, unindividual, thinking;
the accidents of reason must fall away, and the

a9

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

essence of reason must stand forth declared: all that
is arbitrary in human thought must disappear; and
we must rest on the necessary elements of mind and
of the universe. That is the end which philosophy
proposes to her votaries, because it is only through
this abnegation of particular or optional thinking
that universal truth can be attained. This is the
end which, on a small scale, must occupy the indi-
vidual thinker; it is the end which, on a large scale,
has occupied all the generations of philosophers from
the dawn of speculation until now. Hence, in study-
ing the history of philosophy, we shall find that we
are in fact studying only the development of our own
reason in its most essential forms, with this difference,
that the great problem which, in our minds, is worked
out in a hurried manner, and within contracted limits,
is evolved at leisure in the history of philosophy, and
presented in juster and more enlarged proportions.
The history of philosophy is in fact philosophy itself
taking its time, and seen through a magnifying-glass.

2. The chief aim of the historian of philosophy
ought to be, to give a continuity or organised con-
nection to the different parts of his narrative. But
to do this, he must endeavour to verify in his own
consciousness, and as the indigenous growth of his
own mind, the speculations of antecedent thinkers.
He may not agree with these speculations; but he
ought, above all things, to understand what they
mean—what they are in their spirit, and not merelyINTRODUCTORY.

3

in the letter. When I say that he must verify these
doctrines in his own consciousness, I mean that he
must actively reproduce and realise them in his own
thoughts, together with the grounds on which they
rest. He must be able to place himself in the mental
circumstances in which they arose, and must observe
them springing up in his own mind, just as they
sprang-up in the minds of those who originally pro-
pounded them. They must be to him, not the dead
dogmas of their thinking, but the living products of
his own. They must come to him not as antiquated
traditions, but as teeming with present interest, and
as fraught with a present and inextinguishable vital-
ity. As an original thinker, he must reanimate
these doctrines from within, while as a critic and
historian, he is engaged in receiving and deciphering
them from without. What he receives from others
he must also find as the indigenous growth of his
own mind. What he must be able to say to himself
is this: Such a system, or such a doctrine, or such a
problem, is not what some individual thinker has
chosen to think, or has accidentally thought, but it
is what thinking itself, in certain circumstances, must
inevitably think. It is only when he conceives and
executes his vocation in this spirit that the historian
of philosophy can be regarded as having verified
and reanimated the systems which he is expounding.
When he has so verified them—verified them in the
manner thus imperfectly described—he has obeyed
the primary obligation by which the historian of4

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

philosophy is bound, and has fulfilled a requisition
which either contains all other rules, or renders all
other rules superfluous.

3.	In the older histories of philosophy this rule is
but little attended to, this obligation is very imper-
fectly fulfilled. They abound in learning, but they
are lamentably deficient in insight. They are in
general mere repertories of disjointed and exploded
opinions, of capricious and arbitrary thoughts, which,
as presented in these compilations, contain no point
of interest for any living soul. The letter is there,
but the spirit has altogether fled; there is abundance
of the husk, but the kernel is nowhere to be found.

4.	Of late years the history of philosophy has been
studied in a profounder and more rational spirit.
Living insight has been aimed at rather than dead
learning. Attempts have been made to grasp the
inner soul rather than the external environment of
bygone speculations, and to trace the logical filiation
of systems. These attempts, it must be owned, have
been only partially successful. Much still remains
to be done. The ground has been broken; but it
cannot be said that the jungle has been cleared, or
the roads made. The most diligent pioneers in this
good work have been the two German philosophers,
Hegel and Zeller. But Hegel's work on the history
of philosophy labours under the disadvantages inci-
dent to a posthumous publication, and seems in manyINTRODUCTORY.

5

places to contain mere hints which probably were
more fully expanded in the oral delivery of his lec-
tures. Much of it may be described as made up of
dark, abrupt, and laconic jottings. Zeller's history
of the Greek philosophy is in some respects more
complete, and is indeed a very valuable work: but
it is too much pervaded, particularly in those places
where clearness is most required, by that obscurity,
indeed I may say unintelligibility, which seems to be
inseparable from the philosophical lucubrations of our
Teutonic neighbours. With all these shortcomings,
however, I am of opinion that these two historians
of philosophy, Hegel and Zeller, are entitled to take
precedence before all other inquirers in this difficult
field of research.

5. To enable the historian of philosophy to enter
on his work with any chance of success, we have now
to consider what equipment he requires—requires on
his own account, and also on account of those whom
he addresses. "We have to consider what preliminary
study he has to go through before he can prosecute
his researches successfully, and what preparatory in-
formation he must lay before his audience before he
can expect to render intelligible to them the result of
those researches. It is principally, I think, in regard
to this preparatory or introductory matter that all
the histories of philosophy are wanting; and it is for
the purpose of supplying this defect, and of remedy-
ing it in so far as I can, that I proceed to speak of6

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

what I conceive to be the essential preliminaries to
the study of the history of philosophy.

6.	The essential preliminary to the study of the
history of philosophy is, a clear conception of philo-
sophy itself. Without this the history of philosophi-
cal systems cannot be studied to much—or, I would
rather say, to any—advantage. It may be thought
that philosophy itself is best learned from the study
of its history: and there can be no doubt that the
latter reacts upon the former in the way of rendering
our conception of philosophy more definite, as well
as more comprehensive. The conception of philo-
sophy is confirmed and enlightened by the survey of
philosophical systems. But without some tolerably
definite conception of what philosophy is, and of
what it aims at, the study of these systems is a vain
and unprofitable pursuit. We must have this con-
ception to begin with—we must have it to found
upon—otherwise we cannot expect to derive any in-
tellectual improvement from the study of the history
of philosophy; we shall be baffled and bewildered at
every turn by the apparent extravagances and unin-
telligibilities which we encounter. Even when we
carry with us a clear conception of philosophy, we
are frequently perplexed when tracing historically
the mazy windings of speculation; but without this
clue we should be utterly lost and confounded.

7.	What, then, is the conception of philosophy?INTRODUCTORY.

7

I cannot tell you this in one word or in one sentence.
We must make our approaches to it gradually, be-
ginning with what is very indefinite, and making it
more definite as we proceed. Let us begin, then, with
a definition, which, though it conveys very little in-
formation, is quite unexceptionable—is, indeed, what
the whole world is willing to assent to—and let us
say that philosophy is the pursuit of truth. This is
the first, and simplest, and vaguest conception and
definition of philosophy which we can form.

8.	This definition calls for some explanation as to
what we mean by truth. When we say that philo-
sophy is the pursuit of truth, we must at any rate
have some notion of the object of which philosophy
is the pursuit. What, then, do we mean by truth ?
I commence by calling your attention to a distinc-
tion by means of which we may clear up our idea of
truth, and bring ourselves to understand what it
means; I refer to the distinction of truth into truth
relative and truth absolute. When I have explained
what these two kinds of truth are, we shall then be
able to render our definition of philosophy more dis-
tinct and complete by declaring whether philosophy
be the pursuit of truth relative or of truth absolute.
I proceed, then, to speak first of relative truth, and
secondly of absolute truth.

9.	First, of truth as relative. A relative truth is
a truth which is true for one mind, or for one order8

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

or kind of minds, but which is not or may not be
true for another mind, or for another kind of minds.
All sensible truth is or may be of this character;
indeed, all truth which the physical organism is in-
strumental in bringing before the mind is merely
relative. It is merely relative, because with a dif-
ferent organism a different truth would be presented
to the mind. This may be readily understood with-
out much illustration. If our eyes were constructed
like microscopes, the world would present to us an
aspect very different from that which it now wears;
if they were formed like telescopes, the spectacle of
the starry heavens would be wonderfully changed.
If the sensibility of our retina were either increased
or diminished, the whole order of colours would un-
dergo a corresponding variation. So, too, in regard
to sounds and tastes: alter the organism on which
these depend, and what was once true in regard to
them would be true no longer; the thunder might
sound softer than the zephyr's sigh, or the lover's
lute might be more appalling than the cannon's roar.
So, too, even in regard to touch: if our touch were
strong and swift as the lightning's stroke, the most
solid matter would be less palpable than the air. So
purely relative is the truth of all our sensible impres-
sions : and many other truths with which we have to
do may be admitted to be of the same relative char-
acter—to be truths merely in relation to us, and to
beings constituted like us, but not necessarily truths
to other orders of intelligence.INTRODUCTORY.

9

10. Secondly, of truth as absolute. As relative
truth is truth which is true for one mind, or for one
order of intelligence, so absolute truth is truth which
is true for all minds, for all orders of intelligence.
It is plain that absolute truth cannot mean truth
placed altogether out of relation to intelligence, for
that would be equivalent to saying that the highest
truth could not be apprehended by the most perfect
intelligence, not even by omniscience. To define
absolute truth as that which stands out of relation to
all reason—as that which is not to be known on any
terms by any intelligence—is a position too absurd
to require any exposure. All truth, therefore, is in
this sense relative, that is, can be conceived only in
relation to intelligence; but the distinction between
absolute truth and relative truth is, as has been
stated, this: that relative truth is what exists only
for some, but not necessarily for all minds; while
absolute truth is that which exists necessarily for all
minds. We shall find hereafter that this distinction
is of great service to us in leading us to understand
the grounds upon which philosophers generally have
set so little store on the truth of our mere sensible
impressions. No philosopher ever denied that the
intimations of the senses are relatively true, or that
we should place implicit confidence in them as pre-
sentations relatively true. But many have denied
that these intimations were absolutely true, were
valid of necessity for all minds. The grounds, how-
ever, on which those philosophers proceeded, have10

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

been frequently mistaken. Hence many perplexities
have arisen, and hence speculative thought has been
often unjustly charged with inculcating absurdities,
which existed nowhere except in the misapprehen-
sions of its accusers.

11.	Having thus explained and defined (intelligibly,
I trust, though not fully, and perhaps not convinc-
ingly) the distinction between relative truth and
absolute truth, we have now to ask, Which of these
two forms of truth is the special object of philo-
sophy ? The answer is, that the attainment of ab-
solute truth, of truth as it exists for all intellect,
is the principal, though not the exclusive, aim of
philosophy. Philosophy must not overlook alto-
gether the consideration of relative truth, because
perhaps a finer analysis will show us that the two
are ever blended together in an essential and in-
separable contrast. But nevertheless, as I have said,
absolute truth is the principal, indeed the proper,
object at which philosophy aims; it is the point at
which all the higher metaphysicians of every age and
of every nation have aimed, and at which it is their
duty to aim (however far short of the mark their
efforts may be doomed to fall), if they would con-
tinue true to their vocation.

12.	A question here arises which threatens to cut
short our progress: Are man's faculties competent
in any degree to the attainment of absolute truth ?INTRODUCTORY.

11

The whole prospects of philosophy, according to
the conception of it which we are endeavouring to
fix, are obviously involved in the answer to this
question. If we reply peremptorily that man's facul-
ties are in no degree competent to the attainment
of absolute truth, our discussion is at once cut short,
and our conception of philosophy is annihilated.
Such is the result if we answer this question in the
negative. Therefore, while I admit the difficulty
and the importance of the question, I am con-
strained to answer it in the affirmative, although I
cannot at present set forth fully the grounds of my
decision. I answer it in the affirmative with this
proviso — a proviso which may perhaps save me
from the charge of speaking too dogmatically—and
I say that man's faculties are competent to the
attainment of absolute truth, provided and in so far
as man's mind has something in common with all
other minds; in other words, provided there be a
universal intelligent nature in which he is a par-
taker. It is obvious that this community of intellec-
tual nature is the ground, and the only ground, on
which man can lay claim to any knowledge of the
absolute truth, because absolute truth has been de-
fined as that which exists for all minds; but unless
man's mind has something in common with all
minds, absolute truth cannot exist for him, can
have no meaning in reference to him; while, on the
other hand, if he has something in common with all
other intelligences, he may lay claim to an interest12

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

in absolute truth, and is competent to attain to it
when the requisite exertions are put forth.

13. You thus perceive that the question regarding
our competency to attain to absolute truth resolves
itself into the new question, Is there in the mind of
man a universal part—that is, a part which in all
intelligences is essentially of the same character?
Intelligence itself seems to constrain us to answer
this question in the affirmative. That there is such
a part seems to me to be an axiomatic truth of rea-
son. To suppose, for example, that the supreme
intelligence has nothing whatever in common with
the human intelligence, is to suppose that the one
of them is an intelligence, and that the other is no
intelligence at all. It is to dissolve the very ground
on which we conceive both of them as intelligences.
Two intelligences which have nothing whatever in
common cannot both of them be intelligences; they
cannot be both placed under that category of thought,
or indicated by the one word intelligence, because it
is only through our thought that they possess some
point or quality in common that we can think of
them as intelligences; and therefore, to think of
them as having no common quality, and at the
same time to think of them as intelligent, is to think
of them as both having, and as not having, something
in common; in other words, it is to think a down-
right contradiction. This truth, then, in regard to
the constitution of the human minds, and of allINTRODUCTORY.

13

minds, namely, that they agree in some respect,
seems to be a necessary axiom of reason. In all
intelligence there is, by the terms of its conception,
a universal, that is, an essential unity of kind, how-
ever small the point of unity may be.

14.	On religious grounds this unity might be much
more largely insisted on. Its postulation is the very
foundation and essence of religion. This unity con-
stitutes the very bond, and the only bond, between
the Creator and the creature. Deny this connection
between the divine and the human reason, and you
destroy the very possibility of religion.

15.	I admit, however, that the answer which I
have ventured to return to this question is one which
cannot be expected to command your assent until
you have time to reflect upon it more fully, and it
is well worthy of your most attentive consideration.
It is indeed the question of the present day, as it was
the great question of philosophy in the time of So-
crates and the Sophists. The whole sophistical phil-
osophy proceeded on the assumption that there was,
or might be, an absolute diversity of kind in the
constitution of intellectual natures ; that different
orders of minds had not necessarily anything what-
soever in common. From whence it followed that
there were as many kinds of truth as there were
kinds of mind, quot mentes, tot veritates; in other
words, that there was no truth at all, no absolute14

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

truth, no truth, in the strict sense of the word, any-
where in the universe. In these few words are con-
tained the sum and substance of the sophistical phil-
osophy, and the arguments by which Socrates en-
deavoured to rebut the conclusions of the Sophists
proceeded on no other principle than that which I
have attempted to place before you; the principle,
namely, that there is a common nature, known by
the name of reason, in all intelligent beings; and
that, in virtue of this common nature, man can rise
to some extent to the contemplation of absolute
truth, which exists, and can exist, only as the coun-
terpart and object of this common reason, of which
man, in his degree, is a partaker.

16. But my object at present is not so much to
settle the question in regard to the unity or common
nature of intelligences, as to place before you a clear
conception and precise definition of philosophy, a
conception and definition which may be of service
to us when we come to deal with the history of
speculative systems. I defined philosophy at the
outset as the pursuit of truth. I now define it as
the pursuit of absolute truth; and farther, having
defined absolute truth to be truth as it exists for all
minds, I add that circumstance to the definition, and
I affirm that " philosophy is the pursuit of absolute
truth, that is, of truth as it exists for all intelligence."INTRODUCTORY.

15

17. What I wished principally to impress upon
you in my last lecture was, the distinction between
relative truth and absolute truth. All truth is, in
one sense, relative ; that is to say, whatever we know
or think of must be known or thought of in relation
to ourselves. All that we know must be known in
conformity with our capacities of knowledge, and
cannot be known except under the conditions im-
posed by these capacities. But here is where the
distinction lies : relative truth is truth which comes
to us in virtue of our particular nature as human
intelligences ; absolute truth is truth which comes to
us in virtue of our common nature, as intelligences
simply, what is here looked to being merely the
circumstance that we are intelligences at all, and not
the circumstance that we are this or that particular
kind or order of intelligence. Let us suppose a
number of intelligences divided into different kinds,
into various orders and degrees; you will observe
that, by the ordinary logical doctrine, each of these
kinds must embrace something peculiar to itself, and
also something common to the whole number, how-
ever numerous the classes of intelligences may be.
Now, what I want to impress upon you is this : that
each of these kinds of intelligence will know and
apprehend partly in conformity with the peculiar
endowment of what I have spoken, and partly also in
conformity with the common endowment of which I
have spoken. And what it apprehends in conformity
with its peculiar capacity is relative truth; what it16

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

apprehends in conformity with its common capacity
is absolute truth. It is further obvious from this
explanation that relative truth is, as I have already
frequently said, truth merely for some minds ; while
absolute truth is truth for all intelligence: and this
analysis of the mind into a common capacity and a
peculiar capacity, furnishes us, we shall by-and-by see,
the true ground of the well-known distinction of the
human faculties into sense, understanding, and reason.

18.	To return to our definition of philosophy:
Without altering the meaning of that definition, I
may slightly vary its expression; for ideas some-
times gain in distinctness by being presented under
different forms of expression. Truth, we may say, is
that which is—it is the real; so that, instead of say-
ing that philosophy is the pursuit of absolute truth,
that is, of truth as it exists for all intelligence, we
may say that " philosophy is the pursuit of the ab-
solutely real, that is, of the real as it exists for all
intelligence." These two expressions are synony-
mous ; but, perhaps, to some of you the latter form of
the definition may be the more significant of the two.

19.	This definition may be open to objections ;
but I cannot think that it is open to any well-
founded objections. As objections, however, are
actually urged, which are very pertinacious, if not
very strong, some notice must be taken of them.
They are so obtrusive, and they have carried withINTRODUCTORY.

17

them so much apparent weight, that the dominant
philosophy of this country is founded upon a denial
and repudiation of the definition which I have ven-
tured to lay down as the only true definition of
philosophy. In direct contravention of this, high
authorities have maintained that philosophy is the
pursuit of mere relative truth, of truth as it exists,
not for all, but only for our intelligence. And they
found this definition on the consideration that man
can deal with truth only as it presents itself to his
particular mental constitution. Their own doctrine
and their objection to our position may be summed
up under the following query, which they address to
us: How is it possible for man to know or to speak
of any truth, except such as exists for his 'particular
intelligence ? How can he have anything to do with
truth ? What can he know about truth as it exists
for all intelligence ?

20. I answer, that man can have nothing to do
with truth as it exists for all intelligence, can know
nothing at all about it, unless there be something in
his intelligence which links him to all intelligence;
some point or quality in which his intelligence agrees
with all other intelligences; in short, unless there be
a universal or common nature in all intelligences.
If there be this, if intelligence be to some extent
universally the same, then it is obvious that man can
know the truth as it exists for all intelligences; for
he has merely to look to the truth which addresses

B18

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

itself to the universal part of his own intelligent
nature; this universal part being the same in all,
the truth which it apprehends must be the same for
all; in other words, that which it apprehends must
be the truth for all intelligence, and not merely the
truth for man's intelligence; it must be absolute and
not mere relative truth. On the other hand, if it be
true that there is no common nature, no universal
faculty in all intelligence, no point in which all
minds agree; in that case it must be admitted that
the objection is fatal to our definition of philosophy.
In that case man can have no dealings with absolute
and universal truth; the only truth of which he can
be cognisant must be relative and particular. But
observe the contradiction in which we get involved
if we take up this position. I have already stated
what this contradiction is, and therefore I merely
repeat my statement, that if we deny to intelligences
a common nature in which they all participate, or if
we deny to man's intelligence a participation in this
common nature, we fall into the absurdity of at once
including certain things under the same category of
thought, and of excluding at the same time some of
these things from that category.

21. My object at present is rather to furnish in-
sight than to inspire conviction. I wish you rather
to understand what I say, than to be convinced by
what I say; and I think you may now understand
distinctly the positions respectively occupied by theINTRODUCTORY.

two parties who divide the philosophical world. On
the one hand, we have those whom I venture to re-
gard as the true philosophers. They hold, first, that
there is some principle or quality or faculty common
to all intelligence; and, second, that in virtue of this
common faculty man is competent, to some extent, to
apprehend the truth as it exists for all intelligence;
in other words, is competent to apprehend the abso-
lute truth. And founding on these two postulates,
they obtain such a definition of philosophy as that
which I have given you—a definition which follows
at once from these two postulates, namely, that philo-
sophy is the pursuit of the absolute truth, or of the
absolutely real; that is, of the true and real as they
exist for all intellect. On the other hand, we have
those whom I venture to regard as the opponents of
true philosophy. They hold, first, that there is no
principle or quality or faculty common to all intelli-
gence: and, secondly, that in consequence of there
being no such universal principle, man is not com-
petent to apprehend the truth as it exists for all
intelligence; in other words, is not competent to
apprehend the absolute truth: and founding on these
two postulates, they obtain the following as their
definition of philosophy—Philosophy is the pursuit
of mere relative truth, or of the relatively real; that
is, of the true and real as they exist merely for man's
intelligence.

22. You have now before you the two definitions20

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which express the two conceptions that lie at the
root of the two great schools of philosophy that have
divided the world, and two more fundamental con-
ceptions of these antagonist philosophies I believe it
is not possible to obtain. I have called both of these
schools philosophical; but in strict speech we ought
to say that while the one of them is philosophical,
the other is anti-philosophical, for they are directly
opposed to each other, as you may see from the
opposite conceptions which each of them entertains
in regard to the proper business of philosophy. But
we need not quarrel about the use of a word; and,
provided the opposition between the two parties be
understood, we may apply the term philosophical to
both of them.

23. But to render our definition of philosophy
complete, something, indeed a good deal, still re-
quires to be added to it. Philosophy, I have said, is
the pursuit of the real as it exists for all intelligence.
This definition proceeds, as I have said, on the pos-
tulate—a postulate which I regard as axiomatic—
that all intelligences know and think in some re-
spects alike. It is not necessary, at present at least,
to suppose that there are more intelligences than
ours in the universe; but if there are other intelli-
gences, it is necessary to suppose that they agree in
some respect with ours, or, in other words, that all
intelligences, actual or possible, have something in
common. Now, the question here arises, What isINTRODUCTORY.

21

this universal principle, this faculty which is com-
mon to all minds, in virtue of which we are able to
apprehend the truth, not merely as it exists for us,
but as it exists for all? What can we say in ex-
planation of this faculty ?

24. To explain this universal faculty, I shall bring
forward a few illustrations as the best means of ren-
dering myself intelligible; or rather, without assum-
ing that we have such a faculty, I shall produce the
grounds which compel us to hold that there is some-
thing universal, as well as something particular, in
our intelligent constitution. When I apply sugar
to my palate, and declare that the taste is sweet and
agreeable, am I entitled to declare further that sugar
is sweet and agreeable to all sentient and intelligent
beings? Can I announce this as a truth for all
intelligence ? Obviously I cannot; and why can I
not ? Simply because I am under no compulsion so
to regard it: I can help thinking it as a truth for all
intelligence. And on what ground can I help so
thinking it ? On the ground that an intelligence
with a different organism from mine would apprehend
the sugar differently. Therefore the truth for me,
namely, that sugar is sweet and agreeable, cannot be
laid down as a truth for all intelligence. Take
another case. I say, "The earth goes round the sun."
Is that a truth for all intelligence ? It looks very
like one, but it is not one. And why not ? you will
ask. I answer, for this reason: that a truth for all22

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

intelligence means a truth which is valid for all in-
telligences which may have existed in the countless
ages of the past, or which may exist in the countless
ages of the future. Now, I am under no compulsion
to think that the earth from all eternity has revolved
around the sun, or that it will continue throughout
all eternity so to revolve around the sun; in other
words, I can help thinking that it always has travel-
led, and that it always will travel, as it now travels.
I can conceive the operations of the universe changed.
This, therefore, is not a truth valid at all times for
all intelligence. Take another case. I say, The square
on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal
to the squares on the other two sides; or, to take a
simpler case, I say that two straight lines cannot en-
close a space. Are these truths which exist for all
intelligence ? Yes, they undoubtedly are. Take the
former: it is a truth which is valid for all intelli-
gence. And why do I so regard it ? Simply because
I am compelled. I cannot help thinking it as a truth
which every intelligence which follows the demonstra-
tion must assent to. And why can I not help thinking
it to be a truth of this character ? Because I cannot
conceive that any difference in the organism, or any
difference in the constitution of the universe, or any
difference in the intelligence which apprehends it,
should cause it to be apprehended differently. I
cannot conceive any mind which understands the de-
monstration to hold that the squares on the two sides
are either greater or less than the square on the thirdINTRODUCTORY.	23

side; and therefore I maintain that this is a truth
valid not only for any intelligence, but valid for all
intelligence; and that all mathematical truth, from
the simplest axiom up to the most recondite conclu-
sions, is of this character.

25. These observations (which have been somewhat
hastily thrown together) are designed to contribute
towards establishing this great and important conclu-
sion, that the mind of man consists of a universal
part as well as of a particular part, or of what we
may call a universal faculty and a particular faculty.
To pave the way for a right understanding of this
distinction, I adduced these illustrative truths. The
first was the truth that sugar is sweet; the second
was that the earth goes round the sun; the third was
(to take the simplest of the two cases) that two
straight lines cannot enclose a space. Now, I have
shown you that the first and second of these truths
cannot be said to be true for all intelligences; and I
have assigned the reason of this, which is, that either
the constitution of the person who apprehends them,
or the constitution of nature, can be conceived to
be changed in so far as regards these truths, and
that with the change, either in the constitution of
the person or in the constitution of nature, the truth
would cease to be true. Therefore they are particu-
lar and relative. I have further shown you that the
third of these truths can be declared true for all intel-
ligence, because no change in the constitution of the24

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

person who apprehends it, no change in the constitu-
tion of nature, can in any degree affect it. This truth,
then, that two straight lines cannot enclose a space,
is universal and absolute. Thus we have two sorts of
truths; a particular order, comprising all the truths
represented by our first and second truths, and a uni-
versal order, comprising truths represented by our
third truth. The particular order may be described
as consisting of truths for some, but not for other,
not for all, intelligences. The universal order may
be described as consisting of truth for all intelli-
gences.

26. What I have now particularly to call your
attention to is, that just as there is one order or form
of truth which is particular, and another order which
is universal, so there is a faculty in man which is
particular, and a faculty which is universal. The
difference in the truths justifies us in maintaining a
difference in the faculties or organs by which they are
apprehended. We do not begin by finding that the
mind has different faculties, but we begin by finding
that the truths which the mind apprehends are very
different in their character; that some of them are
particular and relative, are truths merely for us;
while others of them are universal and absolute, are
truths for all intelligence; and in virtue of the objec-
tive distinction, as we may call it, we postulate a
subjective distinction in the mind which apprehends
them. We declare that, in reference to the particularINTRODUCTORY.

25

truths, man has a corresponding particular faculty;
and in reference to the universal truths, that he has
a corresponding universal faculty.

27.	This analysis I regard as the most fundamental
distinction which can be drawn in the science of the
mind. It lies at the root of the ordinary division of
the mind into Sense, Understanding, and Eeason. If
you were asked in what do these three differ, you
would find it difficult to return a perfectly satisfactory
answer. In regard more particularly to understand-
ing and reason, you would find yourselves at a loss;
for the difference between these two is what no psy-
chology has as yet succeeded in explaining. But say
that reason is the universal faculty, the faculty of
truth as it exists for all intelligence, and that sense
and understanding are divisions of the particular fac-
ulty, that is, of the faculty of truth as it exists for
some, but not for all intelligence, and light breaks in
upon the distinction. You perceive that the faculty
which is conversant with truth for all must be dif-
ferent from the faculty which deals merely with truth
for some; and perceiving that, you obtain an insight
into the distinction between sense and understanding
on the one hand, and reason on the other hand ; you
begin to comprehend something of the constitution of
your own mind, and also of mind universally.

28.	I have just one more remark to make before
I expand my definition of philosophy, by means of26

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

what I have said in regard to the universal faculty
in man. It is obvious that this faculty must be
the power, or seat, or place of necessary thinking,
that is, of thoughts which we cannot help thinking,
thoughts of which the opposites are pure nonsense;
and in like manner it is obvious that the truths with
which this faculty deals must be necessary truths,
truths which cannot help being as they are, truths
which cannot be otherwise than they are, and the
opposites of which are pure nonsense. There is
thus an objective necessity in truth, and a subjective
necessity in thought, and the one of these corresponds
to the other. For example, we say it is an objective
necessary truth that two straight lines should not
be capable of enclosing a space. And we say it is a
subjective necessary thought that two straight lines
should not be thought capable of enclosing a space.
But what you have chiefly to attend to is, that wher-
ever a necessary truth is apprehended, a truth which
cannot be otherwise than it is, there the faculty of
necessary truth, the universal faculty, comes into play,
there necessary thinking takes place, there we think
a thought which we cannot help thinking.

29. These considerations enable me to add some-
thing to my definition of philosophy, and to give it
out in the following terms, which are the most defi-
nite, as well as the most complete, which I can at
present devise. Philosophy is the pursuit of absolute
truth, or of the absolutely real that is, of the true andINTRODUCTORY.

27

real as they exist for all intelligence; and this pur-
suit is conducted under the direction of the universal
faculty in man, or, in other words, is conducted under
the direction of necessary thinking.

30. If you attend to the definition of philosophy
which I have given you, you will perceive that it
comprehends two important points: it states both
what the truth is which philosophy pursues, and
what the faculty is which is engaged in the pursuit.
The first part of the definition declares what the
truth is which philosophy pursues: it says that
philosophy is the pursuit of absolute truth, that is,
of truth as it exists for all intelligence. This may be
called the objective part of the definition; it declares
what is the proper object of philosophy. But the
definition would be incomplete unless we added some-
thing in explanation of the faculty by means of which
the object of philosophy is to be attained. Therefore
we subjoin:—And this pursuit is conducted under
the direction of the universal faculty in man; in
other words, is conducted under the direction of
necessary thinking. Man's faculty of necessary
thought is properly called his Eeason. So that the
definition expressed shortly is this: Philosophy is
the pursuit of absolute truth conducted under the
direction of reason. But the definition under this
compendious form expresses a mere vague truism,
unless you keep in mind what we mean by absolute
truth, and also what we mean by reason.28

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

31.	There is one difficulty which this definition
leaves unresolved, and that is the question, Whether
the truth of which philosophy is the pursuit be a
hind of truth or an element of truth ; in other words,
whether absolute truth can be apprehended by itself,
or whether it must always be apprehended in union
with relative truth ? In short, whether each, the ab-
solute and the relative, is a form of truth which can
be apprehended without the other, or whether each
can be apprehended only in combination with the
other ? This question I have considered under Pro-
position VI. of my ' Institutes of Metaphysic,' where
I have stated my own opinion, that the two must
always be apprehended together. But as this is a
point which can be settled only as the result of our
researches, and as the whole history of philosophy
shows that it is a very undecided question, I think it
better to make no allusion to it in the definition, but
merely to affirm that absolute truth is the object of
philosophy, without saying whether absolute truth
is a kind or is an element of truth. And, in the
same way, I do not at present discuss or decide the
question, whether reason be itself a faculty or merely
an element of a faculty, sense being the other element
which goes to make up the completed faculty.

32.	Philosophy having been thus defined, we are
now in a position to define the history of philosophy.
This definition is very easily given—it follows as a
matter of course. If philosophy be the pursuit whichINTKODUCTOKY.

29

I have described, the history of philosophy must be
the history of that pursuit, and accordingly we define
the history of philosophy as the history of the pursuit
of absolute truth, or of truth as it exists for all intel-
ligence ; and the history, moreover, of this pursuit, as
conducted under the direction of the universal faculty
in man, that is, under the direction of necessary
thinking, or, more shortly, of reason.

33. These preliminaries being understood, the his-
torian of philosophy ought now to have a tolerably
distinct conception of the work which he has to take
in hand. The task which he has to undertake is now
apparent, although it may be beyond his power to
execute that task even moderately well. It is ob-
vious that the great business of the historian of phil-
osophy must be to note and to point out how, and to
what extent, philosophy, as manifested in its history,
corresponds with philosophy as laid down in its defi-
nition. It is obvious that if philosophy, as manifest-
ed in its history, does not correspond at all—indeed,
unless it corresponds to a very large extent—with
philosophy as laid down in its definition, the defini-
tion must be false. It is incumbent, therefore, on the
historian of philosophy to show this correspondence.
This is the principal work he has to perform. He
must be able to show that the spirit of speculative
inquiry when looked at in itself, is borne out by the
spirit of speculative inquiry when looked at in its
historical progress.30

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

34.	The definition of philosophy thus expresses
the bond of union which unites the different sys-
tems, and serves as a clue by which the progress
of the historian may be directed. The historian
may sometimes lose sight of this clue, at other times
he may perceive it very indistinctly, but in general
he will be able to trace it as a fine thread running
through and binding together the different systems
which come under his inspection. The clue, in short,
on which he must fix his eye, is the circumstance,
that the truth which philosophical systems aim at is
absolute, and not relative, truth; that is to say, is
truth as it exists for all, and not truth as it exists
merely for some, intelligence.

35.	The difficulty of following out this principle
must be confessed to be great; and this difficulty
arises mainly from the fact that the philosophers
whose system we have to examine and estimate, never
distinctly realised, or held clearly before their minds,
that conception of philosophy which is expressed in
our definition. Hence they frequently appear to be
engaged in researches which have little or no con-
nection with that pursuit which we have defined as
the proper vocation of philosophy. They frequently
appear to reach results which fall very far short of
the absolute truth, results very different from those
which we might expect philosophers to place before
us. They frequently appear to entertain the most
wayward and capricious opinions, instead of beingINTRODUCTORY.

31

guided by the strict necessities of reason. But if we
keep in mind this consideration, that the moving
forces of speculation, as of everything else, operate
secretly long before they openly show themselves, we
shall not consider it surprising that the outward ex-
pression of philosophy should often differ extremely
from its inward spirit; that its invisible life should
often find a very inadequate exponent in its visible
form; that the written letter should often indicate
very imperfectly the unwritten meaning. It has only
been by slow degrees that the mind of man has
attained to a distinct consciousness of the right con-
ception of philosophy as the pursuit of truth as it
exists for all intelligence, and to the right concep-
tion of the means to be employed in that pursuit,
namely, necessary thinking. Yet there is sufficient
evidence to show that both of these conceptions were
at the bottom of the endeavours of the very earliest
philosophers, and were the animating principle of
their researches.

36. Nothing is more perplexing to the student of
the history of philosophical systems than the oppo-
sition to his ordinary modes of thought which these
systems usually present. They seem quite alien
from his ordinary ways of thinking. Their thoughts
are not as his thoughts, and he cannot understand
how their views of things should be so different from
his. The explanation is, that while he is imbued
with truth as it exists for his mind, with relative truth32

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

appealing to the particular part of his nature, these
systems are aiming at the attainment and exhibi-
tion of truth as it exists for all minds, of absolute
truth, appealing to the universal part of man's nature.
In these attempts they may be far from successful;
but knowing what their aim is, and knowing that
there must be a difference between truth considered
as universal and absolute, ultimate and elementary,
or truth as it is for all, and truth particular, relative,
or as it is for some, we are in a position to compre-
hend their drift and scope; and although they may
fail to convince us, we shall in general be able to
understand them.

37. For example, throughout the whole history of
philosophy we find sensible knowledge held in but
slight esteem. The truths of the senses are denied
to be truths at all in the proper and strict accepta-
tion of the word truth, and we are referred away to
some other form of truth, of which no very clear
account is given. To the young student of philos-
ophy this is a most disheartening and perplexing
procedure. He cannot understand why the truths of
sense should be set aside as of little or no account,
and why another set of truths, which seem to him far
less satisfactory, should be brought forward in their
place. And in no work, either on philosophy or on
its history, does he find any very satisfactory reason
assigned for this preference. But let him be told, and
let him be called upon to consider, that the truths ofINTRODUCTORY.

33

the senses are not necessarily truths for all minds,
but only truths for beings with senses like ours—are,
in fact, only truths for some intelligences; and let
him be further told, that the truth which philosophy
aims at is the truth as it is for all intelligences; and
he will be no longer surprised at the disparaging
tone in which sensible truth is spoken of in the his-
tory of philosophy. He may be of opinion that phil-
osophy is wrong in this, inasmuch as he may think
that all truth for man resolves itself into mere
sensible truth. But whether philosophy be right or
wrong, the student now understands distinctly the
ground on which philosophy proceeds in holding as
of little or no account the knowledge which comes to
man through the senses. He sees that the reason
why philosophy undervalues sensible knowledge is,
that such knowledge is the truth only for some, but
not for all intelligence. And he sees, further, that
philosophy, if she is to be true to the terms of her
own definition, not only may, but must, affix a brand
on all sensible knowledge, stamping it as compara-
tively invalid and irrelevant.

CIONIC SCHOOL,

thales.

1. I now proceed to consider the philosophy of
Thales, if indeed the term philosophy may be applied
to so meagre and barren a system. Thales and the
other inquirers of the Ionic school appear at first
sight naturalists (physici rather than philosophers).
When these systems are looked at in their letter they
seem to be entirely physical; it is only when their
spirit is attended to that they can be pronounced to
some extent philosophical. First, then, What did
Thales regard as the ultimately real, the absolutely
true ? For, as was formerly said, this is what philo-
sophy undertakes, or at least endeavours, to ascertain.
The determination of this question is identical with
the search for unity amid multiplicity; in other
words, is identical with an agency after some com-
mon principle, which is the groundwork of all things,
and which remains unchanged amid all the changes
of the universe. What, then, according to Thales, is
the ultimately real, the one in the many, the per-IONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

35

manent principle of the universe, the principle to
which all intelligence must yield assent ?

2.	Thales answers, that this principle is water ; that
water is ultimately real—the groundwork and origin
of all that is. It is probable that by the term water
he did not mean the element under the ordinary and
palpable form in which it is presented to our senses,
but under some more subtle or. occult form of mois-
ture or fluidity.

3.	That water plays a most important part in the
economy of nature is a truth too obvious to be over-
looked. All the functions of animal and vegetable
life depend on the presence of this agent, and it
is scarcely possible to conceive the world subsisting
without it. If any one element may be regarded as
the parent of all that lives, as the condition on which
the beauty and magnificence of nature depend,
water has probably the best claim to be regarded as
that element. Without moisture the universe would
be a heap of ashes: add moisture, and the desert
blossoms like the rose. These are reflections which
could scarcely fail to present themselves to the ear-
liest observers of nature; and, accordingly, we find
that Thales gave expression to these reflections in
the doctrine which announced that water was the
principle and origin of all things.

4.	Aristotle, commenting on the doctrine of Thales,36

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

confirms these remarks. In his Metaphysics (B. i.
ch. 3) Aristotle says, that Thales was probably led
to the opinion that water is the universal principle
" from observing that all nourishment is moist, that
heat is generated from moisture, and that life is sus-
tained by heat. He observed that the seeds of all
things were in their nature moist—this moisture they
must derive from water; and hence Thales," con-
tinues Aristotle, " held that water was the principle
from which all things proceeded."

5. Aristotle then goes on to consider how far this
doctrine of Thales may have been traditional. " There
are some," says he, " who think that our very remote
ancestors entertained theological speculations of the
same character concerning nature. For they made
Oceanus and Tethys the parents of generation; and
water, under the poetical name of Styx, this they
made the oath of the gods; for that which is the
most ancient is the most respected; but the oath
is the most highly respected of all things." The
meaning of this is, that the gods swear by Styx,
that is, by water; but the gods swear by what
they respect most, but what they respect most is
the most ancient and the most permanent of all
things, in other words, is the ultimately real and
true; and, therefore, water being that which they
swear by must be the ultimately real and true. Thus,
you observe that Aristotle traces the opinion of
Thales ^up to a theological tradition respecting theIONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

37

oath of the gods. There is an old dogma, he says,
that the gods swear by water; but what the gods
swear by must be the most ancient, the most sure
and steadfast—must be the ground of everything—
the very kernel, as we may say, of the universe.
Therefore, water must be the ground or kernel of
everything. Thales translated into philosophy this
old mythological tradition.

6. Here it naturally occurs to one to ask how
Thales derived the various objects of the universe
from the single principle of water? The only ex-
planation offered is, that these diversified objects are
formed by means of a process of thickening or of
thinning, which water undergoes. Aristotle's words
in reference to this process, although it is somewhat
doubtful whether he is speaking of Thales when
he uses them, are irvKvorr75 koX /lavorr}?, i.e., a thicken-
ing and a thinning, a close consistency and a loose
consistency. Water, when its consistency is loose,
becomes vapour or air, when its consistency is still
looser it becomes a fiery ether; in the same way
thickened water becomes slime, and slime, when
further condensed, becomes earth. In other words,
the rarefaction of the watery principle yields air and
fire; the condensation of the watery principle yields
slime and earth, and out of the earth all things are
produced. Water is thus a very Proteus, which pre-
sents itself to us under manifold forms in all the
objects we behold. What we call water is only one38

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of these forms. Perhaps we may understand this
by considering that it is really impossible to say what
the proper form or peculiar nature of water is. Water
fluid is water commonly so called; water solid is
ice; water rarefied is vapour or steam, and no man
can say that the one of these is more water than the
other. We assume fluidity as the normal state of
water, and reckon ice and steam deviations from
this; but it would be just as correct to assume ice
or steam as the normal state.

7.	If we further ask how the machinery of the
universe is originally set in motion—how this con-
densation and rarefaction of water is brought about ?
the only answer we obtain is, in the words of
Diogenes Laertius (Lib. i. § 27), who says that, ac-
cording to Thales, the world is animated and full of
gods: or, in the words of Plutarch (De Placitis Phil,
i. 7), who says that Thales has proclaimed God as
the intelligent principle (i/ov?) of the world: or, in the
words of Cicero (De Nat. Deor. i. 10), who says,
"Thales Milesius . . . aquam dixit esse initium
rerum, Deum autem earn mentem quae ex aqua
cuncta fingeret;" i.e., Thales the Milesian asserted
that water is the origin of all things, and that God
is the presiding or quickening mind who formed all
things out of water.

8.	That Thales contended for some sort of uni-
versal soul or life in nature is in the highest degreeIONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

39

probable; but that this soul was conceived by him
as an intelligent principle, or that he inculcated the
natural theology which Plutarch and Cicero gave him
credit for, is disproved by the assertion of Aristotle,
who says expressly that Anaxagoras, a philosopher
considerably subsequent to Thales, was the first who
held that intelligence was the principle of the uni-
verse. Thales, therefore, cannot be held to have
propounded a scheme of natural theology.

9.	The philosophy of Thales reduces itself to the
following five points: first, he contemplates the uni-
verse from a physical point of view; secondly, he seeks
for a principle of unity, he inquires after the common
element, the primary and permanent essence of all
things; thirdly, he finds this in something sensible
and material, namely, in water or moisture; fourthly,
he accounts for the various appearances of nature,
for the different objects which the universe presents
to us, by means of a thickening or a thinning of
the original element, water—water is the substance,
the essential, and these are merely its phenomena;
fifthly, he ascribes to the universe a power of motion
and of life by which the various changes that take
place, and the various objects it contains, are pro-
duced. These five heads embrace, I think, the
whole philosophy of Thales, in so far as it is known
to us.

10.	The results of this system, when regarded as40

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

facts, are, it must be confessed, unsatisfactory enough.
They are, indeed, utterly worthless. Considered as a
statement of facts, the system has no interest what-
ever, either physical or philosophical. The facts are
not true, and the explanations explain nothing; but
even though the facts were true, and the explana-
tions explanatory, they would be of no speculative
value, for they are merely a description of the uni-
verse according to sense, and not according to reason.

11. To see any merit in this early system we must
turn away from it in its dogmatic form; we must
let it go as a statement of fact, and must look merely
to its general spirit and tendency. When we look to
this, we are able to rate at a higher value these ineffi-
cient essays in philosophy. The very conception of
reducing the diversified exuberance, the infinite pleni-
tude, of nature to the unity of one principle, showed
a speculative boldness which proved that a new in-
tellectual era was dawning on mankind. To perceive
that truth was to be found in the one, and not in the
many, was no insignificant discovery. To be con-
vinced that a thread of simplicity ran through all the
complex phenomena of the universe was the inaugu-
ration of a new epoch—was a great step taken in
advance of all that had gone before—was, in fact,
the very first movement which gave birth to science
among men. This incipient generalisation, or tend-
ency to generalise, as we see it put forth in these old
philosophies, is the earliest attempt made by theIONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

41

mind of man to reduce to comprehension nature's
infinite details; and as such it stands opposed, first,
to the mythological spirit of those ancient times;
secondly, to the ascendancy of the senses ; and, thirdly,
it proves that the cogency of necessary truth was now
beginning, although obscurely, to be appreciated.

12. I shall say a few words on each of these points
separately. First, the spirit of generalisation, or the
tendency to carry up the phenomena of nature to the
unity of one principle, or to the simplicity of a few
principles; this tendency is directly opposed to those
old poetical dreams respecting nature, which gave
birth to the Greek mythology. Mythology ran riot
in a plurality or multitude of powers which it
invoked, and to which it assigned the government of
the universe; but philosophy, on the contrary, aimed
at a unity of agency or causation in all things. In
the old Greek mythology the number of divine agents
(or celestial powers, greater and lesser) was infinite.
While there was one general patron-god for woods
and forests, each grove had, moreover, its presiding
divinity; even each particular tree had its tutelar
protector. There was one patron-god who presided
over seas, rivers, and fountains; but each river and
fountain had also its particular nymph, and I believe
that I speak within the limits of the mythological
spirit when I say that each individual wave floated
its tiny god. The same may be said of every moun-
tain and cave, and of every other natural object.42

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

Even the cloud-compelling Jove himself, even he
owed his supremacy as the general father of gods
and men, and as the general ruler of the universe,
rather to the elevated region in which he was sup-
posed to dwell, the summit of cloud-capped Olympus,
than to the notion of any universal presidency which
he exercised over all created things.

Now, to these poetical fancies the philosophy of
Thales, crude as it is, stands opposed. The mytho-
logical disposition aims, we may say, at finding the
manifold in the manifold. It is satisfied with the
infinitude of nature, and makes no attempt to reduce
her phenomena to finitude and unity. If it is ani-
mated by the desire to reach the ultimately real, it
is directed in this pursuit, not by the reason, but
solely by feeling and imagination. Philosophy, on
the other hand, aims at finding the one in the mani-
fold. It attempts, by means of some principle, to
reduce to unity the innumerable phenomena which
press upon us from every side. Its researches are
guided, not by the imagination, but by the reason.
Even the philosophy of Thales evinces this tendency.
It indicates a disposition of mind antagonistic to
the mythological disposition, and therefore, meagre
though it be, it is entitled to be regarded as the
fountainhead of the great river of science which is
now flowing through the world.

Secondly, another point of interest to be foundIONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

43

in the philosophy of Thales, when we look away
from the letter of the system, and regard rather its
general scope, is that it stands opposed to the autho-
ritative deliverances of the senses. That the mind
of man should throw back and away from it the rich
fulness and the diversified forms of sensible exist-
ence, and should strive to reduce them all to one
primitive element, this was a bold and a novel
procedure. It showed that the mind, in its pursuit
of the ultimately real, was beginning to emancipate
itself from the ascendancy which the senses had
hitherto exercised in determining its decisions. It
showed that the senses were beginning to lose their
authority as the criterion of ultimate truth, and that
a tendency to appeal to a different tribunal, the
tribunal, not of sense, but of thought or reason, was
beginning to declare itself. It was not truth for
some, truth acquired through the particular faculty,
that was now aimed at, it was rather truth for all;
truth to which every mind could and must respond,
whether it had senses such as ours or not; truth, in
short, for the universal faculty in our nature. This
emancipation of the philosophic mind was carried,
indeed, to no great length in the school of Thales
and the other Ionic speculators. Sense, in fact, still
remained the criterion of truth; all that can be
affirmed is, that there was a tendency to rise to a
different standard, the standard of thought and rea-
son, in the settlement of philosophical questions
—the tendency to find something which should44

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

be true for all intellect, and not merely for our
intellect; and this tendency showed itself unmis-
takably in the reduction of all sensible pheno-
mena to one sensible principle — to wit, water, or
moisture.

But, thirdly, another important feature in the
philosophy of Thales, when we look to its general
spirit, is its recognition of the necessities of thought.
It is founded on necessary thinking. There is, indeed,
no necessity for our thinking that water is the unity,
the common principle in all things; but there is a
necessity for our thinking that there is some unity,
some common principle in all things. This is what
we cannot help thinking. It is a necessity of reason
that we should think some central principle in all
that is. There must be an element of agreement in
all things. Because, to suppose two things absolutely
and in all respects different from each other, would
involve the supposition that one of them was a thing,
and that the other was not a thing at all. But the
supposition is that both of them are things, therefore
they cannot differ absolutely, but must agree in some
respect; and that respect in which they agree is their
unity, their common quality, or as we frequently ex-
press it, their universal. That there is a universal,
then, a point of unity or agreement in all things,
this is a necessary truth of reason. This truth is
the basis of all intelligence, and the recognition of it
is the basis of all philosophy. What the universalIONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

45

in all things is, is a very different question, and one
not easily settled, as the whole history of philosophy
shows. It certainly is not water, as Thales maintains.
But that there is a universal, some common ground,
in all things, this is a truth which forces itself upon
us whether we will or not. It is no opinion, no
arbitrary excogitation, but a thought which we can-
not help thinking, a law or category binding on all
intelligence. And the chief merit or value of the
philosophy of Thales consists in its having recognised
implicitly, for I cannot say that it did so explicitly,
the necessity of this truth or law.

13. In estimating, then, the philosophy of Thales
according to its general scope, we find the following
points to be approved of as philosophical. First,
this system inquires after the ultimately real. Sec-
ondly, it is a substitution, to some extent, of philo-
sophic thought in the room of the creations of fancy,
inasmuch as it is antagonistic to the mythological
manner of viewing things. Thirdly, it is a rejection,
to some extent, of the authority of the senses as the
criterion of truth, and it is the establishment, to some
extent, of a new criterion; and, fourthly, it is founded
implicitly, though not explicitly, on the recognition of
necessary truth, inasmuch as it proceeds on the idea
that unity, or a universal, is the ultimately real in all
things. These four points contain, I think, all that
can be called philosophical in the system of Thales;
and these points are gathered not directly from the46

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

system itself, but are obtained by considering its
general scope and tendency.

14. When we look to the system itself, when we
try it by its letter and not by its spirit, in other
words, when we regard it as a dogmatic statement of
facts, it is seen at once to be exceedingly imperfect;
to be destitute, indeed, of all philosophical value.
There is no rational proof given, no sufficient evi-
dence adduced, to show that water is the principle
of all things. Still less is any rational explanation
afforded as to how the various forms of actual exist-
ence are evolved by means of a thickening and a thin-
ning of water; and the system leaves us completely
in the dark in regard to the active or formative energy
by which things are produced. But, setting these
imperfections aside, the two objections most fatal to
the system are these : first, that the universal which
it sets forth is a mere sensible universal; and,
secondly, being such, it is not a true universal, not
a universal at all. The consideration of these two
points will conclude what I have to say on the phil-
osophy of Thales, and will open the way for the
system of his successor Anaximander, in which an
attempt is made to obviate the objections referred to.
You will thus perceive how the system of Anaximan-
der is affiliated to that of Thales. This connection,
this genesis of one system out of another, is in fact
the most important matter to be attended to and kept
in view in studying the history of philosophy.IONIC SCHOOL—THALES.

47

The first objection is, that the universal which the
system of Thales sets forth is a mere sensible uni-
versal. This is obvious from the consideration that,
let us form what conception of water we may, we still
think of it under some form of sensible representation.
It is originally made known by the senses; and how-
ever delicate and subtle the form may be in which
we endeavour to construe moisture to our minds, it
still retains, in our conception, to a greater or less
degree, the form under which we originally appre-
hended it. In other words, water or moisture is, in
the first instance, an object of sense, a sensible pre-
sentation ; and when we imagine it, or construe it to
our minds, in the second instance, it is always a sen-
sible representation.

In regard to the second ground of objection, I shall
merely remark that water, the universal principle of
all things according to Thales, being a sensible uni-
versal, is consequently not a necessary truth, not a
truth for all intelligence, but only for those who are
endowed with senses similar to ours. And conse-
quently this system must be set aside as insufficient,
inasmuch as it does not meet the requisitions of
philosophy, philosophy being, according to our de-
finition, that science which aims at the attainment
of absolute truth, that is, of truth as it exists, not
for some, but for all intelligence.48

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ANAXIMANDER.

15.	The next philosopher of the Ionic school was
Anaximander. This philosopher was born in the
year 610 B.C., and died in 547 B.C. Miletus was
his birthplace, and he was the friend and disciple of
Thales. He is said to have lived for some time in
the island of Samos, at the court of the great Poly-
crates, where also Pythagoras and the poet Anacreon
were at that time residing. Anaximander is said to
have been the first philosopher who put down his
thoughts in writing. He made a map of the earth
and the sea, in which it is probable that a good deal
of conjecture was embodied. He invented the sun-
dial, and was celebrated generally for his attainments
in mathematics, and for his invention of mathemati-
cal instruments.

16.	The German historian of philosophy, Hitter,
followed by Mr Lewes, takes Anaximander out of his
place in the Ionic school, and connects him rather
with the Pythagoreans. They do this on the ground
that his speculations were rather mathematical than
physical. It seems to me, however, that the position
usually assigned to him as the immediate successor
of Thales, and as a member of the same school, is his
right place in the history of philosophy. And, accord-
ingly, I have ranked him among the Ionic philoso-
phers, both on account of his birthplace and of his phil-IONIC SCHOOL—ANAXIMANDER.

49

osophy, which seems to have been an attempt to de-
velop and improve the system propounded by Thales.

17.	The three following sentences from Diogenes
Laertius, from Simplicius, a commentator on Aristotle,
and from Aristotle himself, contain the substance of
the philosophy of Anaximander, in so far as it has
been handed down to us. Anaximander, they tell
us, laid down the infinite or unlimited (to aireipov) as
the principle and element of all things; and not any
determinate matter, such as water, air, and so forth.
This was his principle, because that which is the
ground of all must be susceptible of receiving every
form or variation. Accordingly, he assumed the
infinite or indeterminate as a principle adapted to
every species of production. " That indeterminate
not being itself any particular thing, is capable of
becoming any particular thing. This principle is
itself without beginning, being the beginning of all
other things; it embraces and governs all—it is the
divine, the immortal, and the incorruptible/' Such is
the substance of Anaximander s doctrine, as gathered
from the three authors referred to. (Arist. Phys. iii. 4;
Simplic. ad loc.; Diog. Laert., ii. 1.)

18.	In explanation of these words, this may be
added, that if we attempt to explain all things by
means of a material principle or element, we can
easily see that that principle must in itself be inde-
terminate, without form or quality; for, suppose it

D50

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

to be determinate, or to have a form, in that case it
becomes one of the very things which call for ex-
planation. In other words, the question instantly
arises, Whence this determinate matter ? And sup-
pose that the answer again is, It arises out of deter-
minate matter, this determinate matter again requires
explanation, and so on for ever, so that no approach
at all is made to an explanation if, in explaining
the origin of determinate or apparent matter, we are
always referred to an antecedent determinate matter;
and therefore, if this explanation of the origin of
material things is to be held good for anything, we
must ultimately be thrown in upon a matter which
is altogether formless and indeterminate. This is
the conception which Anaximander appears to have
reached, and which he expressed by the term aireipov,
the conception of a materia prima, a matter which,
having no form or determination in itself, is capable
of receiving all forms or determinations. That which
is open to, and recipient of, all forms or qualities
must in itself be invested with no form or quality,
otherwise it would be foreclosed against the recep-
tion of other qualities.

19. Such is the aireipov of Anaximander, in which
we seem to find the germ of the distinction between
matter and form, a distinction which afterwards be-
came conspicuous in several schools of philosophy,
and which, when construed into logic, became con-
vertible with genus and difference ; genus was matter,

\IONIC SCHOOL—ANAXIMANDER.

51

form was difference. The a7reipov of Anaximander
was a 7TpcoTTj v\r), a first matter, from which all form
or difference had been stripped, or rather to which
no form or appearance was as yet appended, although
Anaximander seems to have accorded to this matter
a power of developing or secreting differences.

20.	As an illustration of this conception, you may
take the case of flour baked into bread. The bread,
we shall say, exists as loaves and cakes in every
variety of form. You explain these loaves and cakes
as determinate flour, as flour determined or fashioned
in a multiplicity of different ways. But then flour is
itself something determinate, and therefore you will
next be asked, What is flour the determination of ?
What is its principle ? You must assign as its origin
either something determinate or something indetermi-
nate. If you assign something determinate (wheat,
for example) as its origin, you are again asked, But
what is the origin of the wheat ? Again your answer
must yield something determinate or something in-
determinate. If determinate, then the same question
recurs, and your explanation goes for nothing. It has
reached no ultimate, so that you are driven in the last
resort to assign an indeterminate matter as the ulti-
mate origin of the bread. This indeterminate matter
is this matter without form, the anreopov of Anaxi-
mander.

21.	So far, then, the position of Anaximander is an52

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

advance beyond that of Thales. The principle of
Thales (water, namely) was too definite and particular
to serve as the common ground or basis of all things.
Being already qualified, it was not open to all quali-
fication. Anaximander thought that this objection
was obviated by his aireipov. This, being unmodified
in itself, was susceptible of all modification; being
absolutely unconditioned, it was capable of becoming
conditioned to any extent; and accordingly he adopt-
ed this as his universal, and set it forth as the princi-
ple of all things. The aireipov was perhaps the prosaic
and philosophical name for the chaos of the poets.
In the language of Ovid—

" Ante, mare et tellus, et quod tegit omnia, coelum,

Unus erat toto Naturae vultus in orbe,

Quern dixere chaos, rudis indigestaque moles.

Quaque fuit tellus, illic et pontus et aer :

Sic erat instabilis tellus, innabilis unda,

Lucis egens aer ; nulli sua forma manebat,

Obstabatque aliis aliud, quia corpore in uno
Frigida pugnabant calidis, humentia siccis,

Mollia cum duris, sine pondere habentia pondus :

Hanc Deus et melior litem natura diremit."

22. To this matter, originally indeterminate or
unconditioned, Anaximander seems to have ascribed
some inherent power of assuming form or of secreting
differences, and thus the various objects of the uni-
verse arose. The process is very insufficiently ex-
plained. All that we can say is, that Anaximander's
doctrine probably was that things have assumed the
forms in which we behold them in consequence of
certain affinities and certain repugnances pervadingIONIC SCHOOL—ANAXIMANDER.

53

the boundless and chaotic mass in which everything
at first lay blended and enveloped.

23.	The only two points, then, in the system of
Anaximander seem to be these: first, the principle of
all things, the universal in nature, the groundwork of
the universe, the ultimately real and true, is, according
to him, an unbounded, indeterminate, formless matter;
this he calls apxv> beginning, and airetpov, the un-
limited ; and secondly, to this aireipov he seems to have
assigned some power of self-limitation, through which
a shape was given to the different objects of the senses.

24.	When we look to the mere letter of Anaximan-
der's system, we find in it as little to satisfy the de-
mands of reason as we found in the system of Thales,
when embraced according to the letter. Even from
the scope and spirit of the system we cannot gather
much which is of philosophical or speculative value.
Perhaps the chief merit of the system lies in its ten-
dency to bring to light the opposition between the
finite and the infinite. All true philosophy, I con-
ceive, is based on a conception which conciliates, or
reduces to one, these two, the finite and the infinite.
But that this conciliation may take place, the opposi-
tion between them requires first of all to be signalised.
And Anaximander seems to have been the first in
the history of philosophy who marked the distinction.
Finite things, the various objects of the universe,
these cannot be explained out of the finite. Such an54

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

explanation explains nothing, because it lays down,
as the ground of the explanation, the very thing to be
explained. The finite has to be accounted for. But
it is certainly not accounted for when we say that
the finite accounts for it. It is obvious, therefore,
that the finite must be an outcome from the infinite,
that is, its ground or principle must be the negative
of the finite. The negative is a very important ele-
ment of conception; it is essential to the very consti-
tution of reason. Affirmation seems to be the moving
principle of intelligence; but the power of negation
is equally necessary; without this, intelligence could
not work—all would be a blank. Anaximander
seems to have been the first thinker who recognised
the power and significance of the negative. His
aireipov is the negative of the finite. But he does not
carry out his own principle. The finite being con-
vertible with the material, the right inference would
have been, that the infinite, being the negative of the
finite, was also the negative of the material, was the
non-material; but Anaximander falls short of this
conclusion. His anrupov, though the negative of the
finite, is still regarded by him as some sort of form-
less or unlimited matter.

ANAXIMENES.

25. Of the life of Anaximenes, the third philoso-
pher of the Ionic sect, we have little or no record.
He was probably twenty or thirty years younger thanIONIC SCHOOL—ANAXIMEHES.

55

Anaximander, and may have been born about 590
B.C. He also was a Milesian.

26.	As Thales had fixed upon water, and as An-
aximander had fixed on the infinite or unbounded,
as the universal principle, the ultimately real in all
things, so Anaximenes fixed upon air as the common
principle of the universe. Anaximenes thus fell back
on the ground occupied by Thales, that is to say, he
chose as his principle a natural determinate element.
At the same time, by selecting an element less palp-
able, less visible, less formed than water (air, namely),
he seemed to aim at combining into one the principle
of Thales and the principle of Anaximander. The
principle of Thales was too sensible, too material, too
definite, to be the universal in all things. The prin-
ciple of Anaximander again was too indefinite to be
comprehended. But air combines the two. It is suf-
ficiently indefinite to be universal: it is sufficiently
definite to be perceived and understood. It is, in
short, a determinate infinite. Such appears to be
the position occupied by Anaximenes in the philo-
sophical genealogy which we are sketching. He at-
tempted to effect a sort of compromise between the
philosophy of Thales and the philosophy of Anaxi-
mander.

27.	In representing air as the essential and ani-
mating principle of all things, Anaximenes appears
to have made a nearer approach to the conception of56

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

mind, soul, or spirit, than had yet been made. We
must remember that, although we are nowadays fa-
miliar with these words, and attach to them some sort
of idea, it was very different in these early times.
Then no such words as mind, soul, spirit, and conse-
quently no such conceptions, existed; and when such
conceptions first began to dawn, they were clothed
in words which originally signified breath or air
(animus,	spiritus, Trvevfjua—the original sense of

these words is breath or wind): so important did air
appear to the ancient framers of speech that they
supposed it to be the sustaining and moving prin-
ciple not only of our physical life, but of our intelli-
gent and spiritual functions.

28. This opinion, which Anaximenes either adopted
or originated, was carried out still further by his pupil,
Diogenes of Apollonia, a city in Crete. This philo-
sopher held that the air was itself sensible and intel-
ligent ; and that it was through his participation in
this ethereal principle that man both felt and under-
stood—a doctrine which was revived at a late period
by Campanella, a philosopher of the sixteenth century,
whose works have fallen into more complete oblivion
than they deserve. Campanella published a work,
entitled 'De Sensu Eerum,' in which he contends
that all nature possesses some sort of intelligence and
sensibility, although it is only in man that this in-
telligence and sensibility attain to self-consciousness.
His reason for this opinion is given in these words:IONIC SCHOOL—ANAXIMENES.	57

" Quicquid est in effectibus, esse et in causis; ideoque
elementa et mundum sentire " (' De Sensu Kerum');
which, with a little expansion, may be translated—
" Whatever is in the effects, that is also in the causes.
Man's sensations are the effects of the actions of the
elements and the world, therefore the elements and
the world are endowed with sensations/' But I shall
say no more at present either about Campanella or
Diogenes of Apollonia. I mention the latter merely
in connection with Anaximenes, whose disciple he
was, and as the fourth and last name in the older
Ionic school which it is at all necessary to particu-
larise. Heraclitus was also an Ionian, but he comes
later, and is therefore not to be classed with the
four of whose names and opinions I have endeav-
oured to give you some account.

29. Without carrying further our exposition of
these systems, and without entering on any detailed
criticism of their merits or demerits, I shall just
make this concluding remark: that these systems
are truly philosophical, in so far as they aim at the
attainment of a unity, a universal in all things, and
in so far as they are animated and carried forward by
the conviction, obscure and inexplicit though that
conviction may have been, that the universal in all
things is the ultimately real—is the truth for all in-
telligence ; and that they aim at such a unity, and
that they are, to a large extent, actuated and inspired
by such a conviction, this, I think, is undoubted.58

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

So far they proceed under the direction of reason, of
necessary thinking, and so far they are truly philo-
sophical. But, on the other hand, they are truly un-
philosophical in their details, or in their attempts to
show what the universal in all things is. The true
universal is certainly not water; it is certainly not
formless or unlimited matter; it is certainly not air:
for though we are under the necessity of thinking
some universal in all things, we are not under the
necessity of thinking this as water, or as formless
matter, or as air; therefore these elements are not
forced on our acceptance by any necessity of thought;
therefore they are only relatively, and not absolutely,
true, they are only truths for some and not truths for
all intelligence: they are at the utmost merely truths
for the senses and the understanding, not for the
reason; they are merely disguised sensibles, and, as
such, we cannot accept them as the veritable univer-
sal of which philosophy is in quest.ITALIC SCHOOL,

pythagokas.

1. The notices of the Pythagorean philosophy
which have been transmitted to us, whether in its
earlier or in its later manifestations, are scanty and
extremely obscure. With the later manifestations
we need not trouble ourselves. They are founded on
spurious data, or at least on data which are not suffi-
ciently authenticated. They are mystical in the ex-
treme, and their symbolism is utterly incomprehen-
sible. The earlier form of the philosophy, in so far
as it is extant, is preserved in the fragments of Philo- ✓
laus, and in a few notices by Aristotle. Philolaus
was a contemporary of Socrates, and flourished about
420 b.c. Aristotle was a good deal later: so that there
was an interval of nearly a hundred years between
Pythagoras, who was in his prime about the year 540,
and the earliest expositor of his opinions with whom
we are acquainted. These two, Philolaus and Aris-
totle, are the principal sources of our knowledge of
the Pythagorean philosophy in its earlier form. For60

GEEEK PHILOSOPHY.

the later manifestations of this philosophy Sextus
Empiricus, who lived in the first half of the third
century A.D., must be studied.

2.	Aristotle lays down the general principle of
the Pythagoreans in the following terms: "Num-
ber," he says, " is, according to them, the essence of
all things; and the organisation of the universe, in
its various determinations, is a harmonious system of
numbers and their relations." " The boldness of such
an assertion," says Hegel, " impresses us as very re-
markable ; it is an assertion which strikes down at
one blow all that our ordinary representations declare
to be essential and true. It displaces sensible exist-
ence, and makes thought and not sense to be the cri-
terion of the essence of things. It thus erects into
substance and true being something of a totally dif-
ferent order from that form of existence which the
senses place before us." (Werke, xiii. 237-38.)

3.	What Pythagoras and his followers meant pre-
cisely by number it is not easy to say. One point seems
to be certain, that number, in the Pythagorean sense,
denoted law, order, form, harmony. It is said that
Pythagoras was the first who called the world /eooyxo?,
or order, thereby indicating that order was the essence
of the universe—that law or number, or proportion or
symmetry, was the universal principle in all things.

4.	If we compare this position with that occu-ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGORAS.

61

pied by the Ionic philosophers, we shall perceive
that it is an advance, an ascent, to some extent at
least, from sense to reason. In fact, the great dis-
tinction between sense and reason is now beginning
to declare itself. To revert for a few moments to
the Ionic philosophy. This philosophy is an advance
on ordinary thinking; ordinary thinking is held cap-
tive by the senses. It accepts their data implicitly,
or without question. In the estimation of ordinary
thinking, things are precisely as they appear: and
their diversity is more attended to than their unity.
In a word, ordinary thinking has eyes only for the
particular, and is blind, or nearly so, to the universal.
The Ionic philosophy rose into a higher position. It
aimed at unity: it sought for a universal amid the
diversity of sensible things; and this was an advance,
a step in the right direction. The Ionic philosophy
stood on a platform somewhat higher than that of
ordinary thinking. But still this platform is far from
being the platform of reason. The unity which the
Ionic philosophers sought for among sensible things
was sought for by means, and under the direction, of
sense itself. It was a mere sensible universal; water,
or infinite matter, or air; in short, it was something
in itself material, and therefore something which,
instead of being itself the universal in all things, did
itself require to be brought under a universal, or re-
duced to unity under a higher principle. It was, in
fact, a particular universal, in other words, a contra-
diction. The Ionic school, we may say, never rose62

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

above the region of sense, although within that re-
gion they certainly rose into a stratum of atmosphere
elevated above that of ordinary thinking.

5.	Let us now pass to the Pythagorean philosophy.
Whether the Pythagoreans emancipated themselves
completely from the thraldom of the senses, or whe-
ther such an emancipation be either practicable or
desirable, I shall not now attempt to determine; but
this is certain, that their speculations shot up higher
into the region of pure reason than did those of their
Ionic predecessors. Number is more an object of
reason, and less an object of sense, than either water
or air; and therefore we say that, while the position
of the Ionic school is more that of sense than that
of reason, the position of the Pythagorean school is
more that of reason than that of sense.

6.	Number is a truer universal than either water
or air, or any other sensible thing. It is possible
that the conception of number may not be an ade-
quate conception of the universal in all things; that
it may not be identical or coincident with the con-
ception of the ultimately and absolutely real; but it
is certainly a nearer approximation to this than any
conception which we find set forth in the systems of
the Ionic philosophers. The test of which is this:
Suppose you had to explain something about the uni-
verse to an intelligence different from man's, unless
that intelligence had senses similar to man's, he couldITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGOKAS.

63

not understand what you meant by water, or air, or
earth, or fire, or colour, or sound, or heat, or cold:
but whatever his senses were, or whether he had any
senses or not, I conceive he would understand what
you meant by number, he would know what one
meant, and what many meant. He would not under-
stand intuitionally what a tree was, and he could not
be made to understand it intuitionally: but he might
understand it symbolically, by being informed that
it and everything else was a unity which admitted of
being resolved into multiplicity, and that each of the
fractions was again a unity. Unless he could be
made to understand this—in short, unless he could
form some conception of number—it seems to me that
he would not be an intelligence at all. And there-
fore it may be said that number is a true universal,
that is to say, it is a necessary thought; it expresses
something which is the truth for all, and not merely
the truth for some, intelligence. At any rate, it is a
wider and truer universal than either water or air,
or any other sensible thing.

7. We are now able to understand the appar-
ently very paradoxical assertion of the Pythagoreans,
namely, that number is the substance of things, the
essence of the universe; and we are able, moreover,
to perceive in what sense this doctrine is true. The
whole paradox is resolved, the whole difficulty is
cleared, by attending to the distinction to which I
have so often directed your thoughts, the distinc-64

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

tion between truth for all, and truth for some, or
otherwise expressed, the distinction between the uni-
versal faculty in man, and the particular faculty in
man. If we hold that the substance of things is to
be found in that which is the truth for some, in other
words, that it is to be apprehended by the particular
faculty in man, in that case we shall certainly not
hold that number is the substance of things; on the
contrary, we shall hold that earth, or water, or air, or
matter generally, is the substance of things, because
this is what falls under the apprehension of the par-
ticular faculty in man. But if we hold that the sub-
stance of things is to be found in that which is the
truth for all, that the essence of things centres in
that which is the truth for all intelligence, in other
words, that the essence of things is to be apprehended
by the universal faculty in man; in that case we
shall certainly not hold that earth or water, or matter
generally, is the substance of things, for this is not
necessarily the truth for all intellect; on the other
hand, we shall experience no great difficulty in hold-
ing that number is the substance of things, because
number is the truth for all, and is that which falls
under the apprehension of the universal faculty in
man. You can thus readily understand the Pytha-
gorean doctrine, even though you may be not quite
willing to assent to it, that number is the essence
of the universe, the ultimately and absolutely real.
Number is this, because- number is the truth of the
universe for all intelligence; matter and its qualitiesITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGOKAS.

65

are not the essence of the universe, not the ulti-
mately and absolutely real, because they are not the
truth for all, but only the truth for some intelligence,
that is, for intelligence constituted with senses like
ours.

8. To clear up this philosophy still further, it is
right that I should state to you the grounds on which
I hold that number is an object of reason, that is, of
the universal faculty in man; in other words, is an
object of all reason, and is not an object of sense,
or of the particular faculty in man; in other words,
is not an object merely of some intelligence. My
reason, then, for holding that number is an object of
pure thought rather than of sense is this; that every
sense has its own special object, and is not affected
by the objects of the other senses. For instance,
sight has colour for its object, and can take no cog-
nisance of sound. In the same way hearing appre-
hends sound, and takes no cognisance of colour. In
like manner we cannot touch colours or sounds, but
only solids. Neither can any man taste with his
eyes, or smell with his ears. If number, then, were
an object of sense, it would be the special object of
some one sense; but it is not this. It accompanies
our apprehension of all the objects of the senses, and
is not appropriated to any sensible objects in particu-
lar. It is not, like all the other objects of sense, the
special object of any one sense, and therefore I con-
clude that it is not an object of sense at all, but an

E66

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

object of thought or reason. When we look at one
colour, what we see is colour, what we think is one,
i.e., number; when we look at many colours, what
we see is colour, what we think is many, i.e., num-
ber. This distinction, the distinction by which num-
ber is assigned to reason, and not to sense, is, I think,
an important aid towards understanding the Pytha-
gorean philosophy.

9. Number is a necessary form of thought under
which we place or subsume whatever is presented
to the mind. Hence form, which is another name
for number, and not matter, is the essence of all things,
at least of all intelligible things. It is the truth and
substance of the universe—its truth and substance,
not only in so far as it exists for us, but in so far as
it exists for intelligence generally. Without number
they are absolutely incomprehensible to any intelli-
gence. Take away number, that is to say, let the
universe and its contents be neither one nor many,
and chaos, or worse, is come again. We are involved
in contradictory nonsense. Number, then, or form,
and not matter, as the Ionic philosophers contended;
number, and not the numberless, or direopov of Anaxi-
mander, is the true universal, the common ground,
the ultimately real in all things. With Pythagoras
form or number is the essential, matter the unessen-
tial: with the Ionics matter is the essential, and
form or number the unessential. In their respective
positions the two schools stand diametrically opposed.ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGORAS.

67

But the Pythagorean is certainly a stage in advance
of the Ionic.

10.	In the account which I have hitherto given
you of the Pythagorean philosophy, I have taken the
statement of its principle from Aristotle, and, found-
ing on his text, I have endeavoured, by means of a
few critical reflections of my own, to impart to it some
intelligibility, and to show you that there is some
meaning, and also some truth in the assertion, that
number is the essence of all things. I go on to speak
of the Pythagorean philosophy as represented by
Philolaus. Philolaus was probably the first of the
Pythagoreans who committed to writing any of their
master's doctrines; for neither the founder of the
school, nor his immediate disciples, appear to have
put their opinions on record. Philolaus was, as
I said, a contemporary of Socrates. He wrote a
work on the Pythagorean system, with which Plato
seems to have been acquainted. Some fragments
of this work are extant, and were collected and
published in 1819 by a German scholar, Augustus
Boeckh.

11.	In this work we find these words: "Every-
thing," says Philolaus, "which is known has in it num-
ber, for it is impossible either to think or know any-
thing without number." He thus makes number the
source and condition of intelligence, and the ground
of the intelligible universe. But the following is68

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

even more important: " It is necessary," says Philo-
laus, "that everything should be either limiting or
unlimited, or that everything should be both limiting
and unlimited. Since, then, it appears, that things
are not made up of the limiting only, nor of the un-
limited only, it follows that each thing consists both
of the limiting and the unlimited, and that the world,
and all that it contains, are in this way formed or ad-
justed." This is a remarkable extract, for it shows
that the Pythagoreans had to some extent anticipated
the great principle of Heraclitus, namely, that every
thing and every thought is the unity or conciliation
of contraries; a principle, the depth and fertility of
which have never to this day been rightly appre-
hended or appreciated, far less fathomed and ex-
hausted.

12. In his dialogue entitled Philebus, Plato touches
on this Pythagorean doctrine. For the word irepaivov-
ta, which is Philolaus's expression for the limiting,
he substitutes Trepan, the limit; and the union of the
two (the limit and the unlimited) he calls /jllktov, the
mixed. So that, according to Pythagoras (and Plato
seems to approve of the doctrine), everything is con-
stituted out of the Trepas, and the airetpov, the limit
and the unlimited, and the result is the /jllktov, that is,
the union of the two. This principle, afterwards ap-
plied to morals, led to Aristotle's doctrine of the fieao-
T779, or of virtue as a mean between two extremes. The
7repa? in the physical world was a limit or law im-ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGORAS.

69

posed on the infinite lawlessness of nature: the
Trepa? or /-teeroTT?? in the moral world was a limit im-
posed on the infinite lawlessness of passion.

13.	To get a little further insight into this matter,
let us consider the conception of the fjuacrov. This, I
conceive, is equivalent to the limited. Now, let us
ask what it is, in any case, that is limited ? Perhaps
you will say that it is the limited that is limited.
But that would be an inept answer. What would be
the sense of limiting the limited, the already limit-
ed? That would be a very superfluous process.
Therefore, if the limit is to answer any purpose,
it must be applied, not to the limited, but to the
unlimited; and this, accordingly, is the way in
which the Pythagoreans apply it. The limit is an
element in the constitution of the limited; the un-
limited being the other element.

14.	Here is another way of putting the case. Take
any instance of the limited, any bounded or limited
thing, a book, for example. No one can say that
the book is without limits. The limit, then, is cer-
tainly one element in its constitution. But is the
limit the only element ? Does the book consist of
nothing but limits ? That certainly cannot be main-
tained. There is something in the book besides its
mere limits. What is that something? Is it the
limited ? Clearly it is not; because the limited is
the total subject of our analysis; and, therefore, to70

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

hold that the limited is the other element, would be
equivalent to holding that the whole subject of the.
analysis was a mere part or element of the analysis.
The limited (the book) is what we are analysing, and
therefore it would be nonsense to say that the limited
was one factor in the analysis, while the limit was
the other factor. This would be analysing a total
thing into that total thing and something else. But
if the limited cannot be the other term of the analy-
sis, that other term must be the unlimited. What
else can it be ? The limited, then—in this case the
book — consists of the limit and of the unlimited,
and these are the two elements which go to the con-
stitution of everything. Suppose the limits—for
example, the two ends of a line—taken away, and
no ends left, that which would remain would be the
unlimited. But that cannot be conceived, you will
say. Certainly it cannot. But it can be conceived
to this extent, that if that part of a line which we
call its ends or limits be taken away, and no new
limits posited, then the remaining part, considered
in and by itself, is necessarily the unlimited. This
element, which truly cannot be conceived without
the other element, is the anreipov of the Pythagoreans;
and it cannot be conceived for this reason, that con-
ception is itself constituted by the union or fusion
of these two elements, the limit and the unlimited.
Such is the Pythagorean doctrine, and it seems to
me to be not only perfectly intelligible, but also
perfectly true.ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGOKAS.

71

15. Another form which the Pythagoreans em-
ployed to express their principle was the expression
fiovas, the one, and aoptaro9 St>a?,'the indeterminate or
indefinite two. Of these terms, the latter, in parti-
cular, is very obscure, and has been very insufficiently
explained. I will endeavour to throw what light
upon them I can out of my own reflections. First
of all, these terms seem to be merely another form
of expression for the irepas and the airecpov; the fjuova9
or one is the Trepas or limit; the aopicrros Svas is the
aireipov, the unlimited and indeterminate. Every-1
thing in being limited is one. This is expressed by the
term iiovas, which stands for the sameness or identity
in things; but the diversity of things is inexhaustible;
and this capacity of infinite diversity is indicated by
the term aoptaros Svas, indefinite difference; so that,
according to the Pythagoreans, the general scheme of
the universe, as regarded by pure reason, is identity,
combined with a capacity of infinite diversity. Nei-
ther of the terms has any meaning out of relation to
the other. But let us for a moment consider each
term by itself; aopicrTos 8va$, taken by itself, stands
for absolute diversity. Everything in the universe is
absolutely different from every other; all things are
particular, and they are held together by no universal.
The aopuGTo? Sua?, in short, signifies, when taken by
itself, the unbounded and inexhaustible particular.
The fiovas, again, taken by itself, stands for their
unity; it signifies their feature of agreement. In a
word, it is their genus, just as the aopicTos hvm is a72

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

general expression for their difference. Mova9 is the
Pythagorean term for the universal; aopLcrros 8va$
is the Pythagorean term for the particular; and
neither of these is capable of being conceived with-
out the other. The true conceivable limit, whether
considered as a thought or a thing, is the result of
their combination.

16. We shall perhaps get more light thrown on
these terms if we consider them under a purely arith-
metical point of view. It might be thought that
these words, irova? and aopicrro5 Bvas, simply signified
one and two, or one and indeterminate two. But
that is not at all the meaning which the Pythagoreans
attached to them. According to the Pythagoreans,
every number consisted of these two parts; the /nova?
and the Sua? were not numbers, but were the mere
elements of number. This seems a perplexing posi-
tion, yet it is susceptible, I think, of explanation.
For example, every number is different from every
other number; 1 is different from 5, 5 is different
from 10, 10 is different from 20, and from 100, and
so on. But every number also agrees with every
number; and in what respect is it that all numbers
agree ? They all agree in this respect, that every
number is once, or one times that number, whatever
it may be; 5 and 10 and 20, and so on, agree in
being once 5, once 10, and once 20. Each of these
is one times what it is, so that they all agree in con-
taining the fjbovhs, or one. If you were to say five, orITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGOKAS.

73

five ones, and did not mean once five, or one times
five ones, your words would have no meaning. Nei-
ther you yourself nor any one else would know what
you meant. But when you say once five, and then
once ten, you not only express an agreement, you also
express a difference between five and ten. Now, the
general term for this difference is aoptaro? Sua?, and
this Sua? or diversity is said to be aopMrro? or indefi-
nite, because it varies indefinitely—once 10, once 20,
once 30, once 40, once 1000, once 1,000,000—the
once term, the fiovas, never varies, but the other term,
the Sua?, as expressed hy 20, 30, 40, 1000, 1,000,000,
varies indefinitely, and its variations are inexhaust-
ible ; hence it is called aopwTos. Perhaps the simplest
translation of aopiaros would be the indefinite any ;
aopio-Tos Sua?, any particular number. I conceive that
in this way the Pythagorean doctrine, that the /-torn?
and the aopio-Tos Sua? are the elements of number,
may be explained. Neither is the number one any
exception; it, too, is composed of the jiova? and the
aopiaros Sua?. One, like all other numbers, is differ-
ent from any other number. In what respect does
it differ from all other numbers ? It differs from
them in being one. In what respect does it agree
with them ? It agrees with them in being once one,
or one times one, or one one. When we say " one,"
we usually mean " one one;" but we do not always
or necessarily mean this, but may just as well mean
100 or 1000. One, viewed strictly, stands for once
any number; and therefore, when it stands for the74

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

numerical one, it should be, and it is, construed to
the mind as one one. One one, then, is the first
arithmetical number, and, if so, we must be able to
show that its elements are the /iora? and the Sua?;
for these are, according to Pythagoreans, the elements
of all number without exception; and this can be
shown without much difficulty. One one: which
word, in that expression, stands for the monad, the
point of agreement in all numbers ? The first one
does so. We say one one, one five, one ten, one hun-
dred. All these numbers agree in being one—i.e.,
once what they are. Then, again, which word in the
expression one one, stands for the duad—the diversity,
the point in which one one differs from all other num-
bers ? The second one does so. One one, one Jive, one
hundred. The second word in each of these expres-
sions expresses the difference of each of these num-
bers. One one is different from one five in its second
term, but not in its first. From these remarks it ap-
pears, I think, that even number one is no exception
to the Pythagorean law, which declares that the ele-
ments of all number are the monad and the duad, and
that these are not themselves numbers. Thus, by con-
sidering numbers, we obtain light as to the constitu-
tion of the universe. Everything in the universe
has some point in which it resembles everything else,
and it has some point or points in which it differs
from everything else ; just as every number has some
point in which it resembles all other numbers, and
some in which it differs from all other numbers.ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGORAS.

75

17.	The monad and the duad being the elements
of number must be viewed as antecedent to number.
There is thus a primary one which is the ground or
root out of which all arithmetical numbers proceed.
And there is also a primary duad from which num-
bers derive their diversity. These two enter into
the composition of every number (even into the com-
position of the numerical one), the one of them
giving to all numbers their unity, or agreement, or
identity; the other of them giving to all numbers their
diversity. The primitive numbers, the numbers an-
tecedent, as we may say, to all arithmetical numbers,
are the Pythagorean monad and the Pythagorean
duad. Of these, the former expresses the invariable
and universal in all number; the latter, the variable
and particular. And inasmuch as the particular is
inexhaustible and indefinite, the duad is called
aopiaros or indeterminate. Better to hold them ele-
ments of number than numbers.

18.	As an illustration of the spirit of this phil-
osophy, let me show you how a solid, or rather the
scheme of a solid, may be constructed on Pythagorean
principles. Given a mathematical point and motion,
the problem is to construct a geometrical solid, or a
figure in space of three dimensions, that is, occupy-
ing length, breadth, and depth. Let the point move
—move its minimum distance, whatever that may
be; this movement generates the line. Now let the
line move. When you are told to let the line move,76

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

your first thought probably is that the line should
be carried on in the same direction—should be pro-
duced ; but you see at once (the moment it is pointed
out to you) that such a movement is not a movement
of the line, but is still merely a movement of the
point. You cannot move the line, then, by continu-
ing it at one or at both ends. To move the line you
must move it laterally. That alone is the movement
of the line. The lengthening of the line is, as I
said, merely the movement of the point. The move-
ment of the line then generates a surface. Now,
move the surface. Here, too, you must be on your
guard against continuing your lateral motion, for that
is merely a continuation of the motion of the line;
and this is not what is required. You are required
to move not the line, but the surface; you must
therefore move the surface either up or down into
the third dimension of space, namely, depth; and
these three movements give you the scheme of solid.
You have merely to suppose this scheme filled with
visible and palpable matter, that is, with something
which is an object for the particular faculty in man,
to obtain a solid atom; and out of atoms you can
construct the universe at your discretion.

19. It seems at first sight a marvellous piece of
foolishness that a philosopher should ascribe to
empty unsubstantial number a higher degree of
reality than he allows to the bright and solid objects
which constitute the universe of matter. The ap-ITALIC SCHOOL—PYTHAGORAS.	77

parent paradox is resolved when we consider the
kind of truth which the philosopher is in quest of.
He is not searching for truth as it presents itself to
intellects constituted in a 'particular way, furnished,
for example, with such senses as ours. If that were
what he was in quest of, he would very soon find
what he wanted in the solid earth and the glowing
skies. But that is not what he is in quest of. He
is seeking for truth as it presents itself to intellect
universally, that is, to intellect not provided with
human senses. And this being his aim, he conceives
that such truth is to be found in the category of
number, while it is not to be found in stocks and
stones, and chairs and tables, for these are true only
to some minds, that is, to minds with human senses;
but the other is true to all minds, whatever senses
they may have, and whether they have any senses
at all or not. Slightly changed, the line of Pope
might be taken as their motto by the Pythagoreans,

"We think in numbers, for the numbers come."

They come whether we will or not. Whatever we
think, we think of under some form either of unity
or multiplicity. Number seems to be a category of
reason and universality.

20. This explanation seems to relieve the Pytha-
gorean principle from all tincture of absurdity, and
to render it intelligible, if not convincing; admit
that truth and reality are rather to be found in what78

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

is true for all minds, than in what is true for some
minds; and admit further, that number is true for
all minds, and that material things are not true for
all minds (but only for minds with senses); and
what more is required to prove that truth and reality
are rather to be found in number than in material
things ? The whole confusion and misapprehension
with which the Pythagorean and Platonic, and many
other systems, have at all times been overlaid, have
their origin in an oversight as to the kind of truth
which philosophy aims at apprehending. Philos-
ophers themselves have seldom or never explained
the nature of the end which they had in view, even
when they were most intently bent on its attainment.
Hence they seem to run themselves into absurdities,
and hence their readers are bewildered or repelled.
But let it be borne in mind that the end which phil-
osophy pursues is the truth as it exists for intellect
universal, and not for intellect particular—for intel-
lect unmodified, and not for intellect modified—for
intellect whether with senses like ours, or with senses
totally different; and the apparent paradoxes of the
Pythagorean and other ancient philosophies will be
changed generally into articles of intelligible belief,
and will stand out for the most part as grand and
unquestionable verities, at any rate, as nearer ap-
proximations to absolute truth than anything which
the mere senses can place before us.ELEATICS.

xenophanes.

1.	This sect derived its name from the town where
its principal philosophers resided, Elea or Yelia, a
Greek settlement in southern Italy. The leaders of
the Eleatic sect were Xenophanes, Parmenides, and
Zeno, to whom may be added Melissus. The general
character of this school is, that its speculations rose
into a higher region of abstraction or pure thought
than those either of the Ionic or of the Pythagorean
philosophers. While the tendency of the Ionic
inquirers was physical, and while that of the Pytha-
goreans was mathematical or arithmetical, the Elea-
tic sect may be characterised as dialectical in their
procedure. "We shall see by-and-by what the move-
ment in thought was which procured for this school
the title of dialectical.

2.	Xenophanes, a native of Colophon, one of the
principal Ionic eities in Asia Minor, was the founder
of this philosophy. A contemporary of Pythagoras,80

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

he lived during the sixth century B.C., and as his life
was protracted to an extreme old age, we may regard
it as extending almost from 600 B.C. to 500 B.C.

3.	At this time the art of prose writing had not
begun to be cultivated. The opinions and senti-
ments of Xenophanes were accordingly delivered in
verse. He seems to have been a composer and
reciter of various kinds of poetry, some fragments of
which have been preserved in the writings of Athen-
aeus, Sextus 'Empiricus, and some other ancient
authors. These relics have been collected, along
with those of Parmenides, by Karsten, a Dutch
scholar, and were published by him in 1830.

4.	The doctrines of Xenophanes were rather theo-
logical than speculative. One of his principal aims
was to disabuse the minds of his countrymen of the
ideas about the gods which had been instilled into
them by the poems of Homer and Hesiod. In his
opening fragment he proclaims a doctrine of mono-
theism, and- condemns anthropomorphism, or that
creed which fashions God after the likeness of men.

El5 060? €P T€ 660cat kcll avOpCOTTOLCTC /JbeyMTTOS,

Ovre Bifid? Qirryroicriv o/juouo? ovre vorjjuLa.

" There is one mightiest God among gods and men,
like to mortals neither in body nor in mind." Of
this being he says: " Without labour he governs all
things with the power of reason,"	airavevdeELEATICS—XENOPHANES.

81

7tovolo voov <f>p€vl itclvtcl KpaZaivet. " Men, however,"
he adds, " imagine that the gods are born, are clothed
in our garments, and endowed with our form and
figure. But if oxen or lions had hands, and could
paint and fashion things as men do, they too would
form the gods after their own similitude, horses
making them like horses, and oxen like oxen." He
then finds severe fault with Homer and Hesiod on
account of the disgraceful actions which they attri-
bute to the gods, and strongly reprehends the pre-
valent superstition in regard to the generation or
genealogy of the gods. Aristotle refers to this
(Ehet. ii. 23), where he remarks, " It is a saying of
Xenophanes that those who assert that the gods are
born are equally impious with those who maintain
that they die. For both equally affirm that there is
a time when the gods are not." But opposed as
Xenophanes was to the popular superstitions, and
anxious as he was to correct them, he professes him-
self unwilling to dogmatise about the gods or about
anything else. "For," says he, "naught is with
certainty known; mere opinion cleaveth to all
things—So/co? 8' iirl ntclctl reTy/crai"

5. Nevertheless, in his philosophy, of which I now
proceed to speak, he aims, to some extent at least, at
certainty and truth. The great distinction or anti-
thesis around which the whole Eleatic philosophy
revolves and gravitates is the antithesis of the one
and the many, the permanent and the changeable,

F82

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the universal and the particular, in Greek, the ev
and the nroWd. This antithesis is merely a variety
of expression for the antithesis between reason and
sense. Or, if we may distinguish between the two
forms of the opposition, we may say that the one ex-
pression, the permanent and the changeable, or the ev
and the TroWd, denotes the antithesis in its objec-
tive form; the other expression, reason and sense,
denotes the antithesis in its subjective form.

6. To adjust rightly the terms of this fundamental
antithesis, to determine the nature of the relation
which subsists between its two extremes, is the
main problem of the Eleatic philosophy. We have
to consider, then, how Xenophanes its founder went
to work. Xenophanes seems to have dwelt more
steadily than any other philosopher, whether Ionic
or Pythagorean, on the conception of the one or
of unity as the essence of all things. His con-
ception of unity as the principle of the universe
and as a primary necessity of thought seems to have
been more determinate than that of any of his pre-
decessors or contemporaries. He held that the one
was everywhere; and Aristotle adds, that Xeno-
phanes, looking forth over the whole heavens, that
is, the universe, declared that the one was God.* The
first position of Xenophanes, accordingly, is that
there is a unity in all things, and that this unity is
God. It is in and through God that the universe is
a universe, that is, has unity.ELEATICS—XENOPHANES.

83

7.	Another predicate of unity is permanence. The
unity which is God is also the permanent and un-
changeable, that is to say, it is exempt from genera-
tion and corruption. It cannot be born or produced,
for that which is produced proceeds either from that
which is the same as itself, or from that which is not
the same as itself. But the permanent cannot pro-
ceed out of what is the same as itself; because this
being already the permanent, cannot produce or give
rise to the permanent. Neither can the permanent
proceed out of what is not the same as itself; for
this would be the production of the positive out of
the negative—the generation of Being out of not-
Being, and a violation of the Eleatic axiom, Ex nihilo
nihil fit Or, more shortly stated, the reasoning of
Xenophanes is this: What is, or the permanent,
cannot arise out of what is, or the permanent, be-
cause the two are identical. Again, what is, or the
permanent, cannot arise out of what is not, or the
non-permanent, because what is cannot spring from
what is not. Nonentity has no power of generation.
The one permanent and unchangeable, the unity in
all things, or, according to Xenophanes, God, this
principle is from everlasting to everlasting. This is
the ground of all, the ultimately and absolutely real.
This alone is the certain and the true.

8.	Such being the primary position of Xenophanes
and the Eleatics, a question arises in regard to the
other member of the fundamental antithesis of84

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which I spoke, namely, the changeable. What does
this school of philosophy say about that ? Change
or "motion" (which was the generic word usually
employed by the older systems to denote every
species of change), this was too obtrusive and pro-
minent a feature in the constitution of things to
be overlooked. It is in dealing with this question
that the dialectical, i.e., the logical and metaphysical,
character of the Eleatic school reveals itself. It is
here for the first time that the dialectical movement
of human thought comes distinctly into play. In
the Ionic school the adjustment of the relation be-
tween the unchangeable and the changeable was not
attempted at all, or attempted after the crudest
fashion. In the Pythagorean school the conciliation
of the one and the many was rather taken for granted
than discussed and explained. They either ignored
or touched but lightly on the problem and the diffi-
culties which it involved. The Eleatics, I say, were
the first who seriously addressed themselves to its
consideration. And it is on this account, in part at
least, that their school has been characterised as
dialectical or logical and metaphysical, while the
Ionics were characterised as physical, and the Pytha-
goreans as arithmetical and mathematical.

9. When we take up this question—the question
in regard to the relation between the unchangeable
and the changeable, the one and the many—what
first strikes us is the repugnancy of the two termsELEATICS—XENOPHANES.

85

of the antithesis. The antithesis is ultimate or
fundamental, that is to say, there is nothing higher
than it in the region of thought, no higher cate-
gory under which these two extremes may be con-
ciliated or reduced to unity. It denotes a radical and
thoroughgoing opposition. This, at any rate, is the
point of view from which at first we are compelled to
regard it, and this is the point of view from which
Xenophanes and the other Eleatic philosophers re-
garded the antithesis. The necessities of thinking
seemed to them to declare that the distinction was
absolute and irreconcilable. A strict logic seemed
to necessitate this conclusion.

10. But now observe what follows from this con-
clusion. This follows from it, that whatever epithet
or predicate is applied to one of the terms of the an-
tithesis, the counter-predicate must be applied to the
other term. Unless this were so, the opposition would
not be absolute and complete. It follows, then, that
if we call the unchangeable, or the one, true, we must
call the changeable, or the many, untrue; that if we
call the unchangeable, or the one, real, we must call
the changeable, or the many, unreal. In short, if we
say that the one, the permanent, or the unchange-
able, is, we must say that the many, the fluctuating,
the unchangeable, are not Such was the logic by
which the Eleatic school found themselves compelled
to maintain the nonentity (the comparative nonentity
at least) of all sensible existence. For it was the86

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

data of sense, the universe as apprehended by the
sense, it was this which constituted the changeable
element in the fundamental antithesis with which
they had to deal.

11.	This dialectical movement—a movement not
urged against them by their adversaries, but one
forced upon them by the logical necessities of their
position, and one to which they readily yielded—this
movement comes more to the surface in Parmenides
and Zeno than it does in Xenophanes. But it showed
itself to some extent in Xenophanes, and in him we
first find an implied though not explicit severance
made between the intelligible world and the sensible
world, between the world of reason and the world
of sense, and the former represented as the sphere of
reality, the latter as that of unreality.

12.	Xenophanes did not hold that there was no
sensible world; no idealist ever maintained that,
although we shall see by-and-by that under the
stricter interpretation of his system Parmenides is
forced to such a conclusion. But I say Xenophanes
did not hold that there was no sensible world. He
held, however, that it had no reality, no reality in
itself, but only a reality in and for the mind of man,
which reality was, in fact, no reality at all. It was
a mere subjective phenomenon, and possessed no
such truth as that which reason compelled us to
attribute to the permanent one, which, according toELEATICS—XENOPHANES.

87

Xenophanes, was God. His tenets on this point may
be illustrated as follows: Suppose that the sun is
shining on the sea, and that his light is broken by
the waves into a multitude of lesser lights, of all
colours and of all forms; and suppose that the sea is
conscious, conscious of this multitude of lights, this
diversity of shifting colours, this plurality of dancing
forms.; would this consciousness contain or represent
the truth, the real ? Certainly it would not. The
objectively true, the real in itself, is in this case the
sun in the heavens, the one permanent, the persistent
in colour and in form. Its diversified appearance
in the sea, the dispersion of its light in a myriad
colours, and in a myriad forms, is nothing, and re-
presents nothing which substantially exists, but is
only something which exists phenomenally, that is,
unsubstantially and unreally, in the sea. Take away
the sea, and these various reflections no longer are.
This dancing play of lights is a truth only for the
sea, not a truth for the land; there the light falls
differently; therefore it is not a universal truth, and
nothing in strict philosophy being admitted as true
which is not universally true, it is not, strictly speak-
ing, a truth at all. Such is the way in which we
may suppose Xenophanes to illustrate his position
in regard to sensible existence. This form of exist-
ence has no existence in and for itself no existence
irrespective of the mind and the senses of man, no
existence at all resembling that which must be con-
ceded to the one, the permanent and the real; but an88

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

existence in all respects the opposite of this, and there-
fore an existence in all respects unreal and untrue.

13.	Finally, we may say of Xenophanes that he
seems to have approximated more nearly than had
yet been done to the realisation of what may be
called a double consciousness; a rational conscious-
ness, on the one hand, cognisant of the permanent
One, as positive existence, as the real and true in
itself; and a sensible consciousness, on the other
hand, cognisant of the changeable many, as negative
existence, as unreal and untrue in itself, and as pos-
sessing, in comparison with the genuine and absolute
reality of the unchangeable one, only a spurious and
relative reality. Keep well in mind the thorough-
going repugnancy between the one and the many,
the intelligible and the sensible, inculcated in this
school; remember that whatever predicate is applied
to one member of the antithesis, the opposite predi-
cate must be applied to the other member of it, and
you will obtain a clue to the doctrines of these phil-
osophers, and will understand, however hard you may
find it to agree with, their dogmas in regard to sen-
sible existence, and the phenomena of the material
universe.

PARMENIDES.

14.	I pass on to Parmenides. This philosopher is
the central figure in the Eleatic sect, a man of impos-
ing presence and authoritative aspect. His personalELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

89

influence on his contemporaries was powerful and ex-
tensive, and the shadow of his great name stretched
down through many generations of antiquity, inspir-
ing reverence and wonder. In the dialogue of Plato
entitled ' Thesetetus/ Socrates, speaking of Parmeni-
des, says: " This man appeared to me, if I may use
Homer's language, to be at once august and com-
manding (<ztSo609 T€ afJia heivos tc), for I have conversed
with him, and listened to his eloquent discourses
when I was very young and he very old;" and in
the dialogue entitledf Parmenides,' Socrates describes
him " as a man with white hair, beautiful to behold,
and about sixty-five years of age."

15. I have mentioned the Platonic dialogue en-
titled 'Parmenides/ I may therefore take the op-
portunity of remarking, that although Parmenides
is introduced as the principal speaker in that dia-
logue, and although it is to some extent an exposition
of Eleatic principles, it is, at the same time, so mixed
up with Plato's own dialectic, that it cannot be ac-
cepted as an exact account of the Eleatic doctrines.
On the surface it appears to be the poorest quibbling,
the merest verbal hair-splitting about the one and
the many; but to those who go into its depths, and
who observe how each member of the antithesis con-
verts itself into its opposite in the very act of being
thought, it will appear as the most wonderful and
subtle piece of metaphysic ever given to the world.
It is the very quintessence of Platonism. It is not,90

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

however, the philosophy of Parmenides himself. It
is Parmenides carried forward into a subsequent
phasis of philosophy; it is Parmenides platonising.

16. The philosophy of Parmenides, in so far as we
have it from his own hand, is contained in some
fragments of a poem entitled Tlepl </>ucre&)?, concerning
nature. The poem opens with an allegory, the lite-
ral meaning of which is, that the poet, impelled by
his passions, goes in quest of truth. At first the
senses are his guides. At length he reaches a spot
where the gates stand which open on the paths of
truth and of error. AUrj, that is, justice, or wisdom,
or understanding, is the guardian of the gates. She
receives him favourably, and points out to him which
is the road of reason and truth, and which the road
of sense and opinion, bidding him follow out the
one and avoid the other. The pathway of inquiry,
she says, is twofold: the one way is that which
affirms being and denies not-being; this is the way
of truth and reason: the other is, the way which
denies being and affirms not-being; this is the way
of error and sense. The following is a translation or
paraphrase of a few of the lines; the horses which
bear him along are the passions, the nymphs are
the senses:

" Far as the mind can reach conveyed me impetuous horses,

Speeding along God's highway, which runs through the secrets of
nature.

Nymphs directed my course, the nymphs of the sun were my
escort;ELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

91

Issuing from chambers of darkness, they threw back the veils
from their foreheads.

At length 1 came to the spot where the gates of light and of
darkness

Stood; and there stood Justice, holding the keys that unlock
them.

Blandly addressed her the nymphs, and blandly answered the
goddess,

Opening the gates with her keys, so that the chariot might enter.

Then, taking me by the hand, she spoke these words of assurance :

i O youth, borne from afar to my house by the horses that
brought thee,

Led by omens of good, thou hast come to the dwelling of
"Wisdom.

I will show thee the way it behoves thee to follow devoutly ;

^Also the road of appearance, where nought but fallacy reigneth.

Come, then, this is the true road, which says that Being alone is,

And that not-Being is not: whereas the pathway of falsehood

Teacheth that not-Being is, and that Being immutable is not.

On the first of these roads thy mind may travel securely ;

But if it enters the second, 'twill be lost in the mazes of error.' "

—Karsten, i. 2, p. 28.

17. Such, in translation, is an imperfect specimen
of a somewhat imperfect poem, a poem which, even
if it had come down to us entire, would present few
points that would be readily intelligible to our modern
apprehensions. The first part of the poem, which is
entitled Ta irpos akrjdeiav, that is, "concerning truth,"
continues to ring the changes upon truth as that
which centres in Being, Being one and immutable,
Being not apprehensible by the senses, but only by
the reason. It also describes falsehood as centring
in not-Being, as the multifarious, the particular, the
sensible, the non-existent, and the inconceivable.
The poem has a second part, not very consistent with
the first, entitled Ta irpos Sogav, that is, " concerning92

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

appearance or opinion." In this part the poet-phil-
osopher makes some attempt to describe and explain
the phenomena of the sensible universe. In addi-
tion to the tenets propounded in this poem, we
find in Plato's works, particularly in the dialogue
entitled 4 Sophista,' some notices of the speculations
of Parmenides, and the other Eleatics, respecting
Being and not-Being. But these speculations must
be worked out mainly by means of one's own reflec-
tions. We have only a few crumbling bones from
which to construct our skeleton as we best may, and
to give it, if that be possible, some semblance to tlie
remains of an organic creature.

18.	The whole philosophy of Parmenides centres,
I think, in these two points; first, the conception of
Being; and, secondly, the determination of the rela-
tion between Being and not-Being. Let us consider
each of these points separately.

19.	First, then, of the conception of Being. To
set forth Being as the universal, as that in which
all things are identical, to declare that Being is the
truth of the universe; this, to us, who live in these
latter times, may seem to be a very trivial and unin-
structive dogma. But we have to remember, for one
thing, that we, as soon as we were born, have entered
on an inheritance of thoughts and of words from
which these early thinkers were altogether cut off.
They had to think out and to devise what we findELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

93

already thought out and devised to our hand. What
we pass by as rubbish, because we are so familiar
with it, was, in its first revelation, a divine spark
which enlightened the irrational darkness of man's
original nature, and bespoke the presence of a rea-
soning and reflective mind. This consideration may
serve to explain how the conception of being should
appear to us to be at once the shallowest, and yet
should be, in itself, the most fundamental and essen-
tial of all the conceptions of reason. But there is
this also to be considered. There is this question to
be asked: How far does the philosophy which sets
up Being as the universal principle, how far does
it tally with our definition of Philosophy; the defini-
tion which declares that philosophy is the pursuit
and attainment of truth as it is for all, and not
merely as it is for some intelligence ? I conceive that
this philosophy of Parmenides corresponds, if not
adequately, at any rate largely, with our definition.
Being is not the truth of the universe for our minds,
or for any minds in "particular; but it is the truth
of the universe for all minds. Being is a necessary
conception, a conception valid for all reason. An
intelligence which had no conception of Being could
not be an intelligence at all. Attempt to explain to
an intelligence with no such senses as ours—attempt
to explain to him the sensible universe, the universe
as it appears to the senses, and he would not under-
stand you. But tell him that the universe is, that it
has Being, and to the extent of that conception he94

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

would understand you. He would understand you
because he necessarily knows and understands that
his own thought is. He would understand what you
meant by Being (remember I am supposing him to
be an intelligence, and therefore able to think,
although he has no such senses as ours); he would
understand this, because the thought of being is
itself being. Being, then, is a wider universal—that
is to say, it is more a truth for all intellect, for intel-
lect in its very essence—than any principle set forth
in the Ionic school, than water, or infinite matter, or
air. It is a wider universal even than number, the
principle of Pythagoreans. It may possibly be a ques-
tion whether an intelligence might not work without
thinking number; but it can be no question whether
an .intelligence can work without thinking Being.
Deprive it of this category, and you annihilate its
intelligent functions. It may turn out hereafter
that Being is only a half category, only half a neces-
sary thought. Meanwhile, however, we accept it as
a necessary conception of reason (without inquiring
whether it be a whole or only a half conception);
we accept it as a true universal, as that in which
all has unity, as a truth valid for all intellect. And
we regard the system of Parmenides, in which this
truth was first enunciated, as a true philosophy, inas-
much as it comes up, to some extent at least, to the
standard of our definition.

20. Secondly, of the relation of Being and not-BeingELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

95

as determined by the system of Parmenides. Here
we find the fundamental antithesis of which I have
spoken carried out by the dialectic movement of
thought into its most extreme opposition. This
antithesis has come before us as the universal and
the particular, the intelligible and the sensible, mat-
ter and form, the one and the many, the permanent
and the changeable: it now comes before us as
Being and not-Being. This is a form into which the
antithesis is inevitably forced, forced by a logical
necessity. If the one term be Being, the other must
be not-Being, otherwise it would be the same term
over again, and there would be no antithesis. What-
ever the one member of the antithesis be, the other
must be its direct opposite; otherwise the antithesis
would not be fundamental, it would have its founda-
tion in a higher unity. Bun over each pair of terms.
Here the particular is obviously the non-universal; if
it were the universal there would be no antithesis;
there is no antithesis between the universal and the
universal. The particular, then, is the non-universal,
and we may express the opposition as the universal
and the non-universal. In the same way the intelli-
gible and the sensible is equivalent to the intelligible
and the non-intelligible; matter and form is equiva-
lent to matter and not-matter; the one and the many
is equivalent to the one and the not-one; the perma-
nent and the changeable is equivalent to the perma-
nent and the not-permanent. So likewise, when we
make Being one of the terms of the antithesis, it96

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

must be faced by not-Being as the other term; no-
thing else would yield an opposition. We cannot
oppose Being to Being; and therefore not-Being is
the only counter-term to Being.

21. The antithesis, then, of the one and the many,
the intelligible and the sensible, the permanent and
the changeable, has passed in the Eleatic school into
that of Being and not-Being. The next movement of
thought in dealing with this relation is the question,
Does not-Being exist ? Is there any not-Being at all ?
It is difficult, I believe it is impossible, to state in
precise terms how the Eleatics answered this question.
In the first part of his poem Parmenides seems to
maintain that there is no not-Being; in the second
part of it he accords to not-Being a sort of spurious
existence. In fact, answer the question in either
way, and the difficulties that arise are insuperable.
Suppose, in the first place, we say that there is no
not-Being, then the whole material world, all sensible
existence, is annihilated, for this is not-Being. The
world of sense stands logically opposed to Being in
the fundamental antithesis of thought, as the par-
ticular to the universal, the sensible to the intelligible,
the many to the one. This solution, then, which abol-
ishes the one member of the antithesis, abolishes like-
wise the material world. The other member, Being,
to wit, alone is left. And what sort of universe is
this ? It is a universe in which there is no plurality,
no diversity, no difference of one thing from another,ELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

97

no motion, no change anywhere, nothing but a dead
immovable uniformity. The many is identical with
not-Being; there is no not-Being, therefore there is
no many, but only one. The changeable is identical
with not-Being; there is no not-Being, therefore there
is no changeable, but only an unvarying permanent.
The universe, according to reason, is evidently in a
quandary. Mere Being can never change, because
there is nothing to change it. But may not Being
be added to Being, and may not change be the result
of the synthesis ? No, there cannot be a synthesis of
only one element. Being added to Being is merely
a repetition of one and the same factor, and nothing
can come of that, nothing can emerge in the shape
of a new product. The universe of the Eleatics
having been reduced to one homogeneous element,
Being namely—i.e., the universal without the par-
ticular—has in it no change, no variety, no life; it
is mere stagnant undiversified unity. That is the
difficulty which the Eleatics have to face when they
maintain that there is no not-Being at all.

22. Suppose then, again, Parmenides to admit that,
in some sense or other, not-Being exists. The ques-
tion is, in what sense ? It is difficult to see that
this can be admitted in any sense without running
into a contradiction. The admission, however, if
allowable, would save the phenomena of the material
universe. So much may be conceded. For, suppose
it were urged against Parmenides that, in identify-

GGREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ing sensible existence with not-Being, he had anni-
hilated the former, his answer would be; No: I do
indeed identify sensible existence, or the material
world, with not-Being; but then I hold that not-Being
has a sort of existence (spurious enough, I grant you,
but still a sort of existence), and therefore the ma-
terial universe, which is identical with not-Being,
has a sort of spurious existence. That answer, I say,
would be sufficient to save the material world and
its phenomena from the logical extinction which
would overtake them under the other alternative.
In conceding this, however, I am not sure, on second
thoughts, that I have not conceded too much. Let
us investigate a little more closely this spurious kind
of existence which, under one interpretation of his
system, Parmenides attributes to the presentations of
sense. It will be found, I think, that this kind of
existence, instead of being merely spurious, is contra-
dictory, and is obtained in defiance of all the laws of
logical thinking. We must revert for a moment to
the fundamental antithesis of Being and not-Being.

Vjn his search after unity Parmenides found Being.
This he constituted into a world by itself, a world
apart. This is_th^_one.^ But there is also the not-
one or the many, and this is not-Being. But if the
one or Being be constituted into a world by itself?
the many or not-Being must likewise be constituted
into a world by itself; you cannot isolate one thing
from another without isolating that other from the
first. But what happens when the world of not-BeingELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

99

is isolated from the world of Being ? This happens,
that the particular is prescinded from the universal;
you are called upon to conceive particulars under
the presidency of no universal; in other words, you
are called upon to conceive a contradiction. The
spurious existence which we supposed might be attri-
buted to not-Being, and therefore to natural things,
is a mere subterfuge, which, when examined, resolves
itself into a contradiction. I don't say that such
an attribution is inconsistent with the principles of
every philosophy, but it is certainly inconsistent
with the principles of the Eleatic philosophy; for
this philosophy makes no attempt to conciliate the
two members of the antithesis of which I have so
often spoken, but, on the contrary, does all it can
to draw them asunder into their widest opposition.
And therefore it perishes beneath this twofold con-
tradiction. The world of Being (the intelligible
world of the Eleatics) is a contradiction to all rea-
son, because it is the sphere of the universal pre-
scinded absolutely from the particular; and the
world of not-Being (the sensible world of the Ele-
atics) is also a contradiction to all reason, because it
is the sphere of the particular prescinded absolutely
from the universal. In the one world there is abso-
lute unity without any diversity; in the other there
is absolute diversity without any unity, and neither
of these can be conceived.

23. In summing up the philosophy of Parmenides,100

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

I would call your attention to the distinction between
sense and reason, which appears to be more distinctly
announced in his system than in any other that had
preceded. I am not aware that he calls X0709 or rea-
son the faculty of truth for all, and 86%a or
the faculty of truth for some; but this is evidently
his meaning, this was the substance of his distinction
between \0709 and aiadrja^) the latter he did not con-
sider to be properly the organ of truth at all, but only
the former. The main points of detail in the system
are these: First, Being is the universal, the element
in which all things agree. This is apprehended by
reason. Secondly, The particular or non-universal in
things is not-Being. This is apprehended by sense.
Thirdly, No attempt is made to conciliate, but rather
to separate absolutely, the members of this antithesis.
This separation of the antithesis necessarily preceded
the conciliation of the antithesis, otherwise there
would have been no antithesis at all. Fourthly, The
consequence is that the universe of Parmenides falls
asunder into two contradictories, a world of unity
on the one hand, where there is no diversity, and a
world of diversity on the other hand, in which there
is no unity. Fifthly, His attempt to save the material
phenomena by attributing to not-Being a spurious
Being (if indeed he does make this attempt) is alto-
gether unsuccessful; for he has carried Being wholly
over into the intelligible world, and therefore the
sensible world, or the world of not-Being, cannot on
his principles have any Being at all conceded to it.ELEATICS—PARMENIDES.

101

Sixthly, The two contradictories which have been
explained break down the system of Parmenides.

24. The philosophy of Parmenides, meagre as its
principle, and unsatisfactory as its issues may seem,
is a genuine product of the speculative spirit of the
world straining towards the light. It is a true phil-
osophy ; it has its roots in the necessities of thought.
It goes forth in pursuit of the universal, the truth
for all intellect. It finds this in the conception of
Being; but it mistakes a half conception for a whole
one, so that, instead of establishing a whole, it only
establishes the half of a necessary thought: in other
words, it issues in a contradiction. Nevertheless,
this philosophy is great, great in itself, greater in
its effects on succeeding thinkers. It is no arbitrary
excogitation of an individual mind. It is a product
of the universal reason grappling with the universal
truth. It represents a speculative movement common
to the understandings of all thinking men, a move-
ment through which every mind that reflects must
inevitably pass, a catholic crisis in the development
of thought itself. It is indeed their broad catholicity,
their unindividual thinking, their speculating for the
race, or rather, I may say, for all intelligence, and not
for themselves, which gives to these old philosophers
their interest and value. In this respect Parmenides
must be ranked among the highest of those wide and
essential souls through which the universal reason
has expressed, although not adequately, its everlast-102

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ing laws, and given an articulate shape to the
thoughts that wander through eternity.

ZENO.

25. Zeno, like Parmenides, was a native of Elea.
If we may believe Plato, he was twenty-five years
younger than Parmenides. Both of them are said to
have taken an active part in the administration of
the affairs of their native city. Zeno was a resolute
opponent of tyranny, and is reported by some autho-
rities to have died a martyr in the defence of liberty.

• 26. Zeno is styled by Aristotle the father and
founder of dialectic; and if the evolution of the
issues contained in the philosophy of Parmenides
entitle a man to this appellation, he deserves it well.
Zeno was the author of those subtle and paradoxical
puzzles respecting motion, the solution of which has
for the most part baffled logicians even down to the
present day. These puzzles, which ought not to be
regarded as quibbles (although this is the light in
which they are usually looked at), are full of deep
significance as illustrative of the laws and progress
of thinking. They show how thought is absolutely at
variance with itself, and thus, by bringing the oppo-
sition fairly to the surface, they prepare the way for
its ultimate conciliation under the presidency of a
higher principle. Some of the paradoxes are ex-
pressed in the words, " Achilles can never overtakeELEATICS—ZENO.

103

a tortoise "—" the flying arrow rests." And generally
the impossibility of motion is the leading paradox
in the philosophy of Zeno. I may touch upon some
of these hereafter: meanwhile, I shall make a few
remarks on the principle on which he founds, and
on the difference between him and Parmenides.

27.	The only difference between Parmenides and
Zeno seems to be this, that the one of them argued
the affirmative and the other the negative side of the
same question. Parmenides took the affirmative
side, and argued that Being, the one alone, truly
existed. Zeno took the opposite side, and argued
that not-Being, the many, had no true existence. The
dialectical movement of thought, namely, the oppo-
sition between the one and the many, Being and not-
Being carried to an extreme, this is, of course, in
both cases the same. But if we are to make a
distinction between the procedure of Parmenides
and that of Zeno, the distinction which I have now
pointed out to you is the one which we must draw.

28.	In what I have as yet said I am not sure that
I have quite reached the ultimate foundation on
which the Eleatic philosophy rests. At least I am
not sure that I have given it sufficient prominence,
or distinguished it with sufficient clearness from the
collateral considerations that went along with it. I
shall now attempt to make these ultimate points
clear, because it is only by getting thoroughly to the104

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

root of the matter that we can understand either the
motive or the character of the Eleatic speculations.
To express their principle, then, almost in one word,
it is this: that opposite determinations cannot be
combined in the same object, that contrary predi-
cates cannot be assigned to the same thing. They
hold, for example, that what was one could not be
not-one, i.e., many; and that what was many or not-
one could not be one. They held that what was
universal could not be non-universal, i.e., particular;
and that what was particular or non-universal could
not be universal. They held that what was intelli-
gible could not be non-intelligible, i.e., sensible; and
that what was non-intelligible or sensible could not
be intelligible. The same rule was applied to their
own ultimate generalisation of Being and not-Being.
What was Being could not be not-Being, and what was
not-Being could not be Being. What was could not
not be, and what was not could not be. To Being,
the one, the universal, the intelligible—the predicate
not-Being could not be applied; and to not-Being,
the particular, the sensible, the many—the predicate
of Being could not be applied. In short, the incom-
patibility of opposite predicates or determinations
attaching to the same subject, this is the ultimate
foundation, the fundamental position, of the Eleatic
philosophy.

29. Now, the question here arises, a question, how-
ever, which I shall merely broach without discus-ELEATICS—ZENO.

105

sing; the question, Are contrary, opposite, or, as I
will call them, contradictory determinations incom-
patible in the same subject? If they are, then I
hold that the philosophy of the Eleatics must be
accepted with all its consequences. There is no
escape from the paradoxes of Zeno if this principle
be true. And, certainly, at first sight it appears not
only to be true, but to be forced upon us as true by
the very necessities of reason. It seems to be a
necessary truth of thought that a thing cannot be
one and not one, cannot be universal and not univer-
sal, cannot be infinite and finite, and, in fine, cannot
be and not be: and, accordingly, this principle has
been recognised as a necessary truth in most of the
schools of philosophy, even by those which abjure
the conclusions of Parmenides and Zeno. Reserving
this question for subsequent discussion, I may just
here remark that this principle, so far from being a
necessary truth of reason (however like one it may
look), is, on the contrary, a downright contradiction,
an absurdity to all reason; and that its opposite,
namely, the principle that opposite determinations
are not only compatible in the same subject, but are
necessary to the constitution of every subject—this
is a necessary truth of reason, is, in fact, the law of
the universe, the law of the universe of things as well
as of the universe of thought, and that its discovery
and enunciation rest with Heraclitus.

30. Reserving for a future opportunity what I106

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

have to say on Zeno's subtle paradoxes in disproof of
motion, and also his position that opposite predicates
or attributes cannot attach to the same subject, I
shall now offer a short summary of the Eleatic
philosophy. The general scope and substance of
the Eleatic philosophy may be summed up under the
following heads:—First, the Eleatic philosophers
assumed Being, and nothing but Being, as their
universal, their truth for all reason; this with them
was the to ovf or the real. Secondly, they denied or
discarded the opposite of this, to erepov or to /jltj ov, the
not-Being. Thirdly, they denied this on the ground
that the same thought or the same thing could not
contain or consist of opposite determinations or con-
trary predicates. Fourthly, the consequence was, that
there was no diversity, no plurality, no difference, no
life, no generation, and no decay; in short, no change
or movement in the universe, according to them;
nothing but a dead and unvarying uniformity, a
stagnant fixedness, more inanimate than nonentity
itself. Being, according to Parmenides, was strictly
synonymous with the permanent. Hence his con-
clusion followed at once: the world of Being is the
world of permanence. In the world of permanence
there is and can be no change, otherwise the per-
manent would not be the permanent; therefore, in the
world of Being there is and can be no change. Or it
may be put in this way, the world of Being excludes
not-Being; not-Being is essential to change; there-
fore, the world of Being excludes change. To under-ELEATICS—ZENO.

107

stand how not-Being is essential to change you have
but to consider that all change is the cessation, or
putting off, or not being of one state or determina-
tion, and the putting on or being of another state
or determination. But in the world of Being there
can be no not-Being of any state or determination,
because this is the sphere of pure unmixed Being,
and not-Being is absolutely excluded from it. And,
therefore, inasmuch as not-Being is absolutely ex-
cluded from this sphere, and inasmuch as not-Being
is essential to constitute change, it follows that all
change is necessarily excluded from this sphere. In
other words, in the world of Being there is no change,
no creation, no becoming; that is, no coming into
Being and no going out of Being; there is a mere
dead unvarying uniformity. That is the world of
reason and of truth according to Parmenides; and it
is fairly, indeed inevitably, reached upon his prin-
ciples, which are, that the world of Being and of
not-Being stand towards each other in a relation of
irreconcilable antagonism, and that opposite deter-
minations cannot belong to, and may not be predicated
of, the same subject.

31. Let us now consider shortly the position of
Zeno. In the world of change there is no Being.
This is the same thesis viewed negatively. Parmen-
ides showed that what is, cannot change; and his
ground or fulcrum of proof was, that Being excludes
not-Being, and not-Being is essential to change; for108

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

instance, the not-Being of solidity is essential to the
Being of fluidity. On the other hand, Zeno proves
that what changes, cannot be; and his fulcrum is
that not-Being excludes Being. To repeat his posi-
tion : in the world of change there is no Being. The
proof is this : if the world of change included Being,
it would include the permanent, because Being and
the permanent are identical; but the permanent is
excluded from the changeable by the very terms of
the conception, therefore Being is excluded from
the world of change ; in other words, in the world
of change there is no Being, Such is the negative
supplement by means of which Zeno reinforced the
positive argument of Parmenides- In the sphere of
Being, or the one, the universal, says Parmenides,
there can be no not-Being (and consequently no
change), because to introduce not-Being here would
be to assign opposite determinations to the same
subject. And in the sphere of not-Being, the many,
the particular, says Zeno, there can be no Being (and
consequently nothing but change), because to intro-
duce Being here would, in like manner, be to assign
opposite determinations to the same subject. The
reasonings of the Eleatics are impregnable if their
principle, namely, that contrary determinations can-
not belong to the same subject, be conceded.HEKACLITUS.

1.	It may help to keep distinctly before your minds
the chief characteristic or distinction of the various
systems we have been considering, if we designate
by one word the principle for which each of them
contends. They are all searching for the common
quality or feature, what we call the universal, in all
things, something which is true for all minds. If
they can attain to this, they conceive that they
have reached the ultimately real, the absolutely true.
According to Thales, then, water was the universal;
according to Anaximander, infinite or indefinite matter
was the universal; air was the universal of Anaxi-
menes. According to the Pythagoreans, number was
the universal principle; while, with the Eleatics, the
universal in all things was being.

2.	We now come to a philosopher who inaugurated
a new era in speculation. Heraclitus comes upon
the scene; and the universal for which he contends
is movement, change. This principle is different from
all those which have been enumerated. It is indeed110

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

more distinct from them all than they are distinct
from one another. It therefore marks a new crisis
in the development of philosophy; so that while we
may class the previous systems together under the
general title of the philosophy of Being, inasmuch as
they all deal in some way or other with Being, we
place the system of Heraclitus under a different head,
and designate it as the philosophy of Becoming.
This is the only word in our language which corre-
sponds to the <yvyv6fievov of the Greeks; but it is an
unfortunate word in being both inexpressive and am-
biguous. It often stands for the proper, the decent.
Of course that is not the sense in which it is here
used. It is used in some sort of antithetical relation
to Being, a relation which we must endeavour to de-
termine. For in these two words, earc and yiyverai,
ov and yiyvofjuevov, centres the most cardinal distinc-
tion in the Greek philosophy, a distinction corre-
sponding in some degree to our substantial and
phenomenal. This distinction was mainly due to
Heraclitus.

3. It is quite true that in previous systems we
frequently encounter the conception of change, or of
becoming, so that Heraclitus cannot be said to have
been the first who entertained the conception. He
was the first, however, who elevated change to the
rank of a principle, who made it in fact the principle,
the universal in all things. Previous philosophers
had made change derivative, and had attempted toHERACLITUS.

Ill

account for it without much success. Aristotle says,
that the Ionic philosophers had failed completely in
their attempts to explain change or motion. Nor
were the systems of other philosophers more success-
ful. Indeed, we have seen that Zeno, so far from
explaining, was compelled to deny it, and declare it
to be an impossibility. The difficulty was occasioned
by these philosophers having regarded motion as
derivative and secondary. Heraclitus made it orig-
inal and primary. They began with Being, or the
fixed. He began with Becoming, or the unfixed.
This was with him the first, the principle, the uni-
versal, the truth for all. This was, at any rate, a
new position in philosophy. We shall return to its
consideration when we have made a few remarks on
the personal history of Heraclitus.

4. This philosopher was born at Ephesus, one of the
chief Ionian cities on the coast of Asia Minor; and if
the dates usually given be correct, he rather preceded
Parmenides and Zeno. And on this account he is
frequently classed along with the other Ionic phil-
osophers, and placed immediately after Thales, An-
aximander, and Anaximenes, and one or two others
of that school. Another reason assigned for classing
him with the Ionic school is, that he is usually
regarded as having fixed on a physical element as
his principle. Just as Thales represented water, and
Anaximenes air, as the origin of all things, so Hera-
clitus is reported to have derived all things from fire.112

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

Fire, it is said, is the element which he regarded as
primary. Much stress, however, is not to be laid
on this circumstance; and it affords no good reason
for classing him with his Ionic predecessors, or for
placing him before Parmenides and Zeno. For the
fire of which Heraclitus speaks is not to be regarded
as itself his principle, but merely as a symbol of his
principle, merely as a physical emblem or illustration
of that unceasing motion or change which he holds to
be the very essence of the universe. Notwithstand-
ing these considerations, therefore, I have thought it
right to place him after the Eleatics, for the chrono-
logical difference between him and them is but slight.
The three philosophers, Parmenides, Zeno, and Hera-
clitus, were contemporaries during a part, at least,
of their lives; and therefore, although the latter may
have been rather the oldest of the three, still, as his
speculations appear to stand in the order of thought
subsequent to those of the Eleatic school, I have
thought this consideration a sufficient justification of
the arrangement which I have adopted in reference
to the philosopher of Ephesus. We hear that, al-
though sprung from a family of repute, and entitled
to aspire to the highest offices in the state, Heraclitus
refused to have anything to do with the affairs of
government. His pride or his patriotism equally
prevented him from accepting favours offered by
foreign despots. In privacy and independence,
prizing his own thoughts above all other posses-
sions, Heraclitus lived and died, the deepest, pro-HERACLITUS.

113

bably, if also the darkest of all the thinkers of
antiquity.

5.	The researches and meditations of Heraclitus
seem to have exercised a very powerful influence on
the philosophical spirit of antiquity. Like some fine
and subtle essence, his presence may be traced, and
has made itself felt, in almost every period of specu-
lation ; but corresponding to its fineness and subtlety,
has been the difficulty of laying hold of it, and of
reducing it to an intelligible form. In modern times
his fragmentary and obscure remains have been
religiously collected and amply commented on by
scholars of distinguished erudition and ability. The
chief of these are the Germans, Schleiermacher and
Lassalle. The light, however, which these inquirers
have thrown on the speculations of Heraclitus seems
scarcely proportioned to the diligence with which
they have prosecuted their labours.

6.	The following are some of the fragmentary
utterances of Heraclitus, which have been gleaned
from the writings of various ancient authors. Hera-
clitus says, all things flow (iravra pel) and nothing
stays (ovSev fjuevei). He likens the universe to a
river, the waters of which are continually passing
away; and he says that no man can bathe twice in
the same stream, because a stream is never, even for
a single second, the same. He says that a thing, in
separating itself from itself, unites itself to itself;

H114

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

that in going asunder, it goes together; and in going
together, it goes asunder; in short, that separation and
union are inseparable, and the same ; that separation is
union, and union is separation. He says that strife or
opposition is the father of all things; and that har-
mony arises only out of the union of discords. And,
finally, giving to his doctrine, which is, that every-
thing consists of antagonistic or heterogeneous ele-
ments—giving to this doctrine its highest or most
abstract expression, he declares that everything is and
is not; a formula which, in modern times, has been
adopted by Hegel, and has proved a stumbling-block
and rock of offence to all who have ventured on his
pages. Such are some of the chief expressions in
which Heraclitus is reported to have embodied the
substance of his speculations. They contain the whole
of his philosophy, in so far as it has been handed
down to us; and it is obvious that they merely repeat
the same idea with very slight variations.

7. The one idea of which these varied phrases are
the expression is the idea of change. When he says
that all things are in a continual state of flux, that
a thing agrees with itself, and yet differs from itself;
when he says that strife is the father of all things,
that everything is its own opposite, and both is and
is not, or whatever his phraseology may be; he means
that things are continually changing, or that the
whole system of the universe is a never-resting pro-
cess, a Becoming.HERACLITUS.

115

8.	We have now to ascertain what Heraclitus
precisely means by Becoming. Becoming is a differ-
ent conception from Being, yet it is not easy to see
wherein the difference consists. Let us begin with
our ordinary conception of Becoming. We say a
thing becomes different from what it was, meaning
thereby that it has undergone some change or series
of changes. Our meaning here is, if I mistake not,
that the thing is first in one definite state of Being,
that next it is in another definite state of Being, that
then it is in a third definite state of Being, and so on;
and these states, though differing from each other, are
all of them, in our estimation, states of Being. Our
conception, I repeat, is this, that the thing is first
in a particular state, and that it rests in that state
a longer or a shorter time; that when it changes it
passes into another particular state, in which it rests
during another period of time longer or shorter. Be-
coming, then, in our ordinary conception of it, is
merely a succession of states of Being, a series of
existing changes which any object undergoes, and
each of which lasts for some definite period of
time.

9.	But if this be our conception of Becoming, it
is difficult to see wherein that conception differs from
the conception of Being. It is merely the conception
of a succession of different states, each of which is—
is Being; while Being is the conception of one such
state. But this seems to be no distinction at all.116

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

We may be assured, then, that this, our ordinary con-
ception of Becoming (which, in truth, is no adequate
conception of it at all, because it confounds Being
and Becoming)—we may be assured that this was
not the conception entertained by Heraclitus and
the other philosophers of antiquity. Their idea of
Becoming was not the idea of a series of consecu-
tive states of Being.

10. To get at the conception of Becoming, as enter-
tained by Heraclitus and others, we must not iden-
tify, but we rather must contrast it, with that of Being.
I do not say that the conception of Becoming excludes
that of Being, but it is certainly to some extent op-
posed to it. What then is the principal feature in
the conception of Being ? By ascertaining this we
shall be able to declare what its opposite is, and thus
we shall reach the proper conception of Becoming.
The principal feature in the conception of Being is
rest, fixedness. Now, the opposite of this is the
principal feature in the conception of Becoming. It
is unrest, unfixedness. A thing never rests at all in
any of the changing states into which it is thrown.
It is in the state and out of it in a shorter time than
any calculus can measure. In fact, the universe and
all that it contains are undergoing a continuous
change in which there is no pause; and therefore,
since pause or rest is necessary to the conception of
Being, the universe cannot be said to be in a state
of Being or fixedness, but in a continually fluxionalHERACLITUS.

117

condition, to be a process, a becoming, that is, some-
thing always changing, and no one of its changes
enduring or stopping during any appreciable interval
of time. If the change could be arrested for a single
instant, that would yield a moment of what might
properly be called Being; but inasmuch as no change
can be so arrested, the universe is a continual crea-
tion, a continually varying process, a Becoming.

11. You will obtain, I think, a distinct conception
of Becoming as distinguished from Being, if you will
attend to the following illustration. Take the case
of a falling body, a stone dropped, let us say, at a
distance of one hundred feet from the surface of the
earth. It travels, you are aware, with a continually
accelerated velocity. Natural philosophers can tell
you how long it will take to reach the earth. By
artificial contrivances they can calculate the ratio at
which its velocity becomes increased. But no natu-
ral philosophy can calculate or can tell you what the
particular velocity of the falling body is at any given
moment, however short. The truth is, that the stone
never has any particular, that is, any definite and
constant velocity. Its velocity is always changing.
It is not as if it had a certain constant velocity for
the smallest conceivable time, the 1,000,000th part of
a second, and then an increased constant velocity for
another 1,000,000th part of a second, and so on. If
that were the nature of its velocity, it would serve to
illustrate our first and erroneous conception of Becom-118

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ing, but that is not the nature of the velocity. It
is continually changing. The velocity, therefore, of
the descending stone never is any one velocity; it
is always becoming another velocity. Its velocity,
therefore, has no Being, because Being implies some
continuance or permanence. It is properly called a
Becoming. Such is one illustration by means of
which you may be aided in familiarising your minds
to the conception of Becoming, or process as distin-
guished from that of Being.

12. The illustration I gave you in the preceding
paragraph may aid you in forming a conception of
what is signified by the word Becoming, and of what
Heraclitus meant by saying that all things are in a
state of flux. The velocity of the descending stone
is a phenomenon to which the term is cannot be pro-
perly, or at least without some qualification, applied
at any moment of its transit. Take the smallest
period of time you choose, say the one hundred mil-
lionth fraction of a second, and the changes in the
velocity of the stone within that period are utterly
incalculable, they are infinite. It is, I believe, with
matters of this kind that the differential calculus
deals. You will hear more about that elsewhere.
Here we must deal with the question rather meta-
physically than mathematically. I say then that
the velocity of the stone changes infinitely, undergoes
infinitude of changes, within any given time, however
short. And this consideration prevents us from say-HERACLITUS.

119

ing that any of its velocities are, or that they have a
Being, that is, a continuance. Each of the velocities
in the very act of being that velocity vanishes in
another velocity, so that we never can say of it that
it is that velocity. In the very act of being what
it is, it is not what it is. Such is an illustration
of what Heraclitus means when he says, iravra pel
/cat ovhev fievei.

13. Take another illustration of this conception of
Becoming. Suppose yourselves gazing on a gorgeous
sunset. The whole western heavens are glowing with
roseate hues. But you are aware that within half
an hour all these glorious tints will have faded away
into a dull ashen grey. You see them even now
melting away before your eyes, although your eyes
cannot place before you the conclusion which your
reason draws. And what conclusion is that ? That
conclusion is that you never, even for the shortest
time that can be named or conceived, see any abiding
colour, any colour which truly is. Within the mil-
lionth part of a second the whole glory of the painted
heavens has undergone an incalculable series of
mutations. One shade is supplanted by another with
a rapidity which sets all measurement at defiance,
not because our power of measurement is limited,
but because the process is one to which no measure-
ment applies. Before any one colour has had time
to be that colour, it has melted into another colour,
and that other colour has, in like manner, melted120

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

into a third before it has attained to any degree of
fixedness or duration. The eye, indeed, seems to
arrest the fleeting pageant, and to give it some con-
tinuance. But the senses, says Heraclitus, are very
indifferent witnesses of the truth. Reason refuses to
lay an arrestment on any period of the passing scene,
or to declare that it is, because in the very act of
being, it is not; it has given place to something else.
It is a series of fleeting colours, no one of which is, be-
cause each of them continually vanishes in another.

14. The sunrise furnishes another illustration. The
dawn steals gradually over the earth and sky; and
never at any moment can we say that the degree of
light is definite and fixed. It is continually changing.
It is continually becoming stronger and stronger:
and yet at no instant can we say or think, here one
degree of clearness ends, and here a higher degree of
clearness begins. In truth, none of the changes have
either any end or any beginning, so imperceptibly are
they fined away into each other. Neither here nor in
the case of the sunset, nor in that of the falling stone,
can we strike in at any point and say, here one change
terminates, and here another change commences.
The whole series is so close and continuous that the
end of one change is the beginning of another change.
The end of one change seems to be what Heraclitus
calls the 0S0? avco, the road upwards; and the begin-
ning of another change is what he calls the 6869 /carco,
the road downwards; and hence he says that theseHERACLITUS.

121

two are one and the same, inasmuch as the end of
one change is always the beginning of another, just
as the beginning of one change is always the end of
another. There can be thus no absolute beginning
and no absolute end, for every beginning is the end
of something else, and every end is the beginning of
something else. The variation in the temperature of
the day, or of the seasons, may afford another illus-
tration of the conception of Becoming. The tempera-
ture is never, I believe, even for the shortest instant,
exactly the same; and the reason why it seems to
us to be sometimes invariable is, because our feel-
ings and our instruments are not sufficiently fine to
measure its incessant and continuous changes. But
perhaps the whole phenomena of growth and decay
furnish the best examples in illustration of the Hera-
clitean conception of Becoming. Growth is a contin-
ual change. The growing creature, whether animal
or vegetable, is continually becoming different from
what it is. The process never stops—never stops in
such a way as to enable us to say, now the animal or
the vegetable is, and has ceased to become. It never
truly is, inasmuch as its state is never fixed and per-
manent. It is always passing on into another state,
in which there is no rest or pause any more than
there was to the preceding one. We might suppose
the oak, the monarch of the woods, to grow up from
an acorn into a stately tree, and to go to decay, and
all this to take place before our eyes in a few min-
utes, and the process would not truly be more transi-122

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

tional, or more difficult to arrest at any one stage,
than it now is, when it occupies a thousand years.
As is the growth of the oak-tree, so, according to
Heraclitus, is the growth of the universe. It is a
process which is for ever ending, and for ever being
renewed.

15.	These considerations lead me to call your at-
tention to some points of contrast between the phil-
osophy of Heraclitus and that of the Eleatic school.
In the opinion of the Eleatics, the truth of the uni-
verse, in so far as it is true, is Being, fixed and
abiding Being. This they say it is in the estimation
of reason. To the senses, indeed, it is ever changing.
But the report of the senses is not to be trusted.
They do not reveal to us the real truth, that is, truth
for all, but only the apparent truth, that is, the truth
for some intellect. So say the Eleatics.

16.	The position of Heraclitus is diametrically the
opposite of this. In his opinion, the truth of the
universe is not Being but Becoming. It is not a fixed
and abiding existence, but a fluxional and ever-chang-
ing process. This it is in the estimation of reason. To
the senses, indeed, it appears, or much of it appears,
to be permanent and at rest. The process of Be-
coming seems frequently to the senses to have made
a pause, and to have subsided into Being. • But the
report of the senses is not to be trusted, they are bad
evidence of the truth. They mistake for Being whatHERACLITUS.

123

is merely slow change, just as they might mistake
slow motion for rest. Reason alone reveals .to us
the truth; and this declares, as the truth for all
intellect, that the universe is a process of Becoming,
and not a system of Being.

17. From these remarks you may perceive in what
respect the Eleatics and Heraclitus differed in their
opinions as to the senses. They both held that they
were untrustworthy, that is to say, that they were
not the organs of ultimate and universal truth. So far
they agreed. But they differed in this, that whereas
the Eleatics discredited the senses because they pre-
sented the universe to us in a fluxional or ever-vary-
ing condition, and thus deceived us as to its true
character, which, according to them, was that of
fixedness, Heraclitus, on the contrary, discredited
these, because they presented the universe to us, or
at least many of its objects, in an apparently fixed
and unchanging condition, and thus deceived us as
to the true character of sublunary things, which, ac-
cording to him, was that of fluctuation. According
to the one party the senses mislead, because they
make us regard the permanent as changeable; and,
according to the other party, they mislead, because
they make us regard the changeable as permanent.
Both parties, however, agree, as I have said, in hold-
ing that they do not make known to us the absolute
truth; and therefore Mr Lewes, in his 'History of
Philosophy,' is certainly mistaken when he says,124

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

that Heraclitus " maintained that the senses are the
sources of all true knowledge, for they drink in the
universal intelligence."—P. 57, 2d ed.

18. Let us now return to the conception of Becom-
ing, which we must examine a little more closely,
and endeavour to analyse. Keeping in mind what I
have said about the universe being a process of never-
pausing series of changes, no one of which has either
a beginning or an end, so infinite are they, and so
finely woven into each other, let us ask whether,
taking this view of the universe, Being cannot be
predicated of it at all. The answer is, that Being
can and must be predicated of it, otherwise we should
have no subject whereof to speak. But not-Being
must also be predicated of it, as I shall now endeav-
our to show you. At a given instant the universe is
in a particular definite state ; it must be in this state
to have Being, because a state which is not definite is
not a state at all. Call this definite state, then, Being.
But the universe is a process, that is, it is continu-
ally varying; therefore it is out of this particular
state, in the very act and in the very instant of be-
ing in it. Call its being out of this particular state
its not-Being, just as you called its being in it its
Being, and you get the universe in Being and in not-
Being at one and the same instant. It at once is
and is not. Such is the only explanation I am able
to give of the expression of Heraclitus, in which he
says that " all things are and are not."HERACLITUS.

125

19.	This conception of the universe, as both Being
and not-Being, is indeed not easy to master. It is,
I believe, the hardest in all metaphysics. Yet the
conception is, I conceive, both true and intelligible,
if the universe be, as Heraclitus says, a Becoming-
Let me repeat the explanation. Let us begin by
agreeing that the universe is at every instant in a
definite state of Being. But at every instant it is
out of that definite state of Being, and is in another
definite state of Being, because it is continually
varying. Now, in virtue of its being always at any
given instant in a definite state of Being, we say
that it has Being; while, in virtue of its being out
of that definite state of Being in the very instant in
which it is in it, we say that it has not-Being. I
may return to this conception hereafter. Meanwhile,
I leave it to your own reflections, and shall abstain
from overlaying with a weight of words, which, in-
stead of rendering it clearer, might only have the
effect of rendering it more obscure. The result of
our analysis is, that Being and not-Being are the
two elements, the two abstract factors, into which
Becoming resolves itself when analysed.

20.	We have seen in the preceding paragraph that
Being and not-Being are the elements or moments of
Becoming. In all Becoming these two, according to
Heraclitus, are involved. Indeed, in his philosophy
he seems to have laid the main stress rather on the
negative than on the positive factor in the process.126

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

While the Eleatics exclaimed all is, Heraclitus re-
joined that it is truer to say all is not—not mean-
ing, of course, that there is absolutely no universe,
but intimating that the universe is not a definite
and completed and unchanging existence, but is an
ever-varying process, and that in considering the on-
goings of nature the negative moment, the moment
of disappearance, the moment in which each change
vanished, in short, the moment of not-Being, was
fully as important as the positive moment, the
moment of appearance, the moment in which each
change arose, in short, the moment of Being.

21. Being, then, and not-Being are, according to
Heraclitus, the elements or moments of Becoming.
To understand this, just consider once more what is
meant by Becoming. By a process or a becoming is
meant continual change, not change by what we
may call leaps and starts. In natura nihil fit per
saltum; In nature nothing is ever done by a jump.
Nature changes not by jerks, but smoothly and con-
tinuously. The changing states are so continuous,
so finely graduated into each other, so infinitely
minute, that each of them passes away in the very
instant in which it is. Each of them, in the very act
of being, is merged in its successor. Now here we
are compelled to say that each of these states is. This
our reason necessitates; but then, inasmuch as each
state is not stationary, but is ended as soon as it
is begun, we are equally compelled by our reason toHERACLITTJS.

127

say, each state is not. Each change, we may say,
dies in being born, each state is and is not. Yet
again we are under the necessity of saying, omnia
fiunt per saltum, for we are compelled to hold that
each of these states is, is a definite state, otherwise
there could be no succession. Now the conception
of Becoming is that in which these two opposite de-
terminations of Being and not-Being are conciliated
and made one; and we can now understand how the
universe, if a process, should at once be and not be.
We may not be satisfied with this doctrine, which
represents the universe as an existing fluxion, or as
a fluxionary existence, that is, as a process, the two
essential moments of which are Being and not-Being.
We may not agree with this doctrine, but I think
that we should now have made some approach to-
wards understanding it, and that we have thus over-
taken to some extent the duty incumbent on the
historian of philosophy, which is to impart insight
.rather than to produce conviction.

22. The conception of the curved line, or circle,
as generated by the moving point, affords perhaps
another good illustration of Becoming, as involving
opposite determinations, that is to say, as made up of
the two constituents Being and not-Being. The circle
is generated by the motion of a point which is con-
tinually changing its direction. That statement, I
believe, would be accepted by mathematicians. Now,
simple as this statement seems, it is utterly unintel-128

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ligible, unless we are prepared to accept the Hera-
clitean doctrine of a thing being what it is not, and
not being what it is. "We say the circle is generated
by the motion of a point which is continually chang-
ing its direction. Now let us examine this assertion
carefully. We observe the fact that the point must
have a direction, otherwise it could not continually
change it. Now what is the direction which the
point has and which it continually changes ? The
direction obviously is a straight direction, the direc-
tion is a straight line, and it is by getting out of this
direction continually that it produces the curve or
the circle. We must say, then, that when the point
first starts it moves in a straight direction. Let it
be moved just enough to enable you to conceive mo-
tion, and you will find that you must conceive it as
moving straight, as moving in a straight line. Hav-
ing then conceived this first motion in a straight line
as something infinitesimally small, you may suppose
the point to turn and make an angle, and then to
move straight through another space infinitesimally
small; you may suppose, I say, the circle to be gen-
erated in that way. But is the figure which you
have thus generated a circle ? It is not a circle: it
is a polygon, with sides innumerable and infinitesi-
mally small. If this were a circle, the circle would
admit of being squared, and that, you are aware, is
a problem which cannot be fully, but only approxi-
mately, resolved. This figure, then, I say, is not
a circle: it is a polygon, although, from the extremeHERACLITUS.	129

minuteness of its sides, it may seem to be a circle.
We have not formed our figure aright; we must try-
again. But first let us observe how we have blun-
dered in our construction. We supposed the point
to move in a straight line, the shortest that can be
conceived, and then to change its direction, and move
in another straight line, the shortest that can be con-
ceived, and then to change its direction, and move in
the direction of a third straight line, the shortest that
can be conceived, and so on; and we thus constructed
our apparent circle, which turns out to be a polygon.
What, then, is our blunder? Our blunder, in one
word, is this; that we supposed the point to be mov-
ing in a straight line, and then out of that straight
line in the direction of another straight line; in
short, we supposed the movement in the straight
direction, and the movement out of the straight di-
rection, to be successive, and not simultaneous. We
must now, then, correct our blunder, and reconstruct
our figure. The point at starting must move* in a
straight direction. There can be no doubt about
that, we cannot conceive it otherwise; but it must
in that very same movement move out of a straight
direction. It must move both in it and out of it. It
must travel continually in the direction of a straight
line, and at the same time continually out of the di-
rection of a straight line. It must move in a straight
direction and out of a straight direction at once. In-
deed this is what mathematicians themselves declare
when they say that in forming the circle the motion

I130

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of the point is continually changing its direction.
The word continually here implies that the point is
ever moving out of the direction in which it is
moving. It implies that the changes in the point's
direction are not successive but simultaneous, that
it is moving in a direction in which it is not moving,
and not moving in a direction in which it is mov-
ing ; that the motion in the straight direction both is
and is not, and that the motion out of the straight
direction both is and is not. The tangent proves that
the point's motion is everywhere straight; the circle
itself proves that the point's motion is everywhere not
straight. The point cannot move entirely in a straight
direction, making turns and angles at intervals, other-
wise we should obtain, as we have seen, and as is,
indeed, quite obvious, a polygon, and not a circle:
neither can the point move entirely out of the straight,
otherwise the direction which is continually chang-
ing would be altogether lost. The conclusion, then,
is, that the point at every limit or infinitely in all
portions of its transit is moving both in and out of a
straight direction, and that these two opposite de-
terminations, or contrary predicates, are conciliated
and made one in the movement which generates the
curve.

23. This and the other examples which I have ad-
duced have been brought forward as aids by which
you may habituate your minds to conception of con-
tinuous change, that is, of a series of changes so in-HERACLITUS.

131

finitely minute that each of them ends in beginning,
at once is and is not. Time is itself an instance of
this. The present time is, it is the limit between
the past and future; but it has no calculable dura-
tion : in being it is not. Its coming is its going. It
disappears in appearing. It for ever vanishes in a
new present. All present time, then, has Being and
not-Being. It is past in the very act of being present.
Time seems to have supplied to Heraclitus (according
to an expression of Sextus Empiricus) one of the best
exemplifications that can be adduced of a process or
a Becoming, that is, of a flux in which Being and
not-Being are one. Time is perhaps the best symbol
by which the conception of Becoming, as the unity of
Being and not-Being, can be expressed. The present
moment is, otherwise there would be no time at all;
the present moment is not, otherwise there would be
no past and no future, nothing but an everlasting
now.

24. To get some further insight into this rather
difficult speculation, and to test Being and not-Being
as the necessary moments of one indivisible concep-
tion, the conception of change; let us try whether
change can be explained when we regard these two
not as essential moments of one indivisible concep-
tion, but each of them separate conceptions. Let
us consider Being and not-Being as two separate
conceptions, and let us try whether we can explain
change on that supposition. Let us say, then, that a132

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

thing is in a fixed definite state of being. We want
it to change. Now it is obvious that it must change
either per continuum, that is, with no intervals be-
tween the changes, or per saltum, that is, with in-
tervals between the changes. If it changes jper con-
tinuum we obtain a series of vanishing states, each
of which disappears in appearing; is not, in the very
moment that it is; each of these passes at once into
another state, and forces us to say of it that in being
it ceases to be. In this case, then, we are driven to
have recourse to not-Being as an element essential to
the conception of change. And we have been forced
to regard them not as separate conceptions, but as
the necessary moments of one indivisible conception.
Suppose the changing states to be represented by the
letters A, B, C, D, the state A appears, and in ap-
pearing disappears. But A's disappearance is the
appearance of B, which in like manner disappears in
the very act of appearing; but B's disappearance is
the appearance of C, which no sooner appears than it
vanishes in D, and so on. Now here the moments
of Being and not-Being are inseparable; A's being is
A's not-being, A's not-being is B's being, B's being
is B's not-being, B's not-being is C's being, C's being
is C's not-being, C's not-being is D's being, and so
on. Each appearance is a disappearance, and each
disappearance is a new appearance, and so the changes
proceed, each vanishing in the other in such a way
that we may say of them all, they are and are not.
Such I believe to be the only true conception whichHEIiACLITUS.

133

we can form of change, the only correct explanation
of it which can be given. And such, also, I believe
to be the way in which nature works.

25. But let us try the other alternative; let us
suppose that change takes place per saltum, or with
intervals between each state. This, indeed, is the
only way in which we can suppose it to take place,
if we hold asunder Being and not-Being, regarding
them as separate conceptions, and not as the insepar-
able elements of one conception. Let us suppose,
then, that the thing is in a fixed and definite state of
being; and that its changes take place per saltum;
that is to say, that the thing is first in the state A,
in the state called the appearance of A; that secondly
it is in the state in which A disappears—in the state,
that is, of A's disappearance; that thirdly it is in the
state we call B; fourthly in the state we call B's
disappearance; fifthly in the state we call C; sixthly
in the state we call C's disappearance, and so on.
Now, here it is obvious that just as the appearance or
being of A is not the disappearance or not-being of
A, so neither is the disappearance or not-being of A
the appearance or being of C. What then happens ?
This happens, that there is an interval between the
appearance or being of A, and the appearance or
being of B, in which interval the thing is in no state
at all. This is the interval between A's disappear-
ance and B's appearance. A's being is not A's not-
being, because on this supposition Being and not-134

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

Being are held asunder as separate conceptions.
And neither is A's not-being or disappearance B's
being or appearance. Therefore, I say, there is an in-
terval between A the former state of the thing, and B
the subsequent state of the thing, an interval in which
A is ended and B not begun. In what state is the
thing during that interval ? The answer is, that it is
in no state at all. And this is the ridiculous and
contradictory conclusion to which we are driven, if
we suppose change to take place by leaps, and that
Being and not-Being, instead of being mere elements
of one indivisible conception, are themselves distinct
and completed conceptions.

26. By way of illustration, take the following
example: Let us suppose that water is undergoing
the process of freezing, and that it has reached a cer-
tain degree of solidity. Call this state of solidity A;
and let us say that this state does not disappear in
appearing, but that it lasts for some definite period,
say a minute. But if A's appearance lasts for a
definite time, A's disappearance must also last for a
definite time. Because if we suppose that A's dis-
appearance instantly ceases, and is the appearance
of a new degree or state of solidity—call it B—we
are violating the very terms of our supposition. Our
supposition is, that appearance or being, and disap-
pearance or not-being, are separate conceptions, and
therefore we must not suppose that the disappear-
ance of A is the appearance of B. We must supposeHERACLITUS.

135

that A, the first degree of solidity, has disappeared,
and that B, the second degree of solidity, has not yet
come on. In other words, we must suppose that
the water has lost one degree of solidity without
acquiring any other degree of it; we must suppose
that the water in freezing is, at intervals, in no
degree of solidity at all; in other words, we must
suppose an absurdity.

27.	Now, view the freezing process in the way in
which I think we ought to view it, and you will per-
haps perceive how inseparable Being and not-Being
are" as the elements in our conception of the process.
Let the water be in the degree of solidity A; but A
cannot maintain itself. In appearing it disappears ;
but its disappearance cannot maintain itself. Its dis-
appearance is the appearance of B, a new degree of
solidity. In like manner B cannot maintain itself;
its appearance is its disappearance; but its disappear-
ance is the appearance of C, a new degree of solidity;
and so on the process goes continually and without
breaks or intervals until a thaw sets in, and then the
process is repeated in an inverse order, fluidity being
substituted in the place of solidity.

28.	The illustrations I have given you have been
drawn from some of the more obvious truths of
mathematics, and some of the more obvious and ac-
cessible phenomena of nature. In -these examples
the changes are obtrusive and easily observed, and by136

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

meditating on these examples, I think you may bring
yourselves to understand something of the doctrine
of Being and not-Being, as inseparably united in
Becoming. You are not, however, to suppose that
in cases where the changes are not thus apparent,
no changes are taking place. The process may often
be imperceptible; yet I believe that change is con-
tinually going on everywhere, and in every particle
in the universe. If time, in a thousand years, tells
perceptibly upon the granite boulder, we may be
assured that at every instant it is telling upon it.
Every particle of it is continually undergoing some
minute change, some change so minute that it van-
ishes in the very act of being born, and seems to
be no change at all. And the whole universe, I am
inclined to think, is in this fluxional, this at once
existent and non-existent predicament. Such, at
least, is the doctrine of Heraclitus. Change is his
universal. This conception is, according to him, a
necessity of reason, a truth ; indeed, the truth for all
intellect. And the elements of this conception are
Being and not-Being in indissoluble union, not mere
Being with the Eleatics, not mere not-Being, for Be-
ing cannot be got rid of. Reason must think Being,
but in the very same thought reason must think
not-Being. The unity of these two is the law of all
life and of all nature, and this unity is expressed in
the words, a process, a becoming.

29. In connection with this description of the mainHERACLITUS.

137

doctrine of Heraclitus, I may remark that the dis-
tinction between the universal faculty and the par-
ticular faculty in man, is expressed more distinctly
in his fragments than in those of any of the philoso-
phers who preceded him. The universal faculty he
calls koivos or %vvo<; X0709, the particular he calls IBla
(jypovrjats. The koivos X070? is evidently the quality
or power common to all intelligence, the principle in
which they all agree. The tSia (frpovrjai,*; is evidently
the quality or power peculiar to different kinds of
intelligence. The one principle, the /coivos \oyos, lays
hold of absolute truth as it is for all; the other prin-
ciple, the tSia <f>povr)crL<;, lays hold of relative truth,
truth as it exists for some, that is, for man con-
sidered as a peculiar intelligence. It is through the
koivos \6yo$ that we apprehend Becoming as made
up of Being and not-Being. The understanding and
senses could never make known to us this truth,
they lead us away from its recognition. In virtue of
sense and understanding, the IBca (frpovrjo-Ls, we regard
the universe as a stationary existence, subject, no
doubt, to changes; in virtue of reason, the kolvos
X070?, we regard it as a continual alternation of Being
and not-Being, and we see that the latter no less
than the former is essential to the ongoings and con-
stitution of nature, considered as a constantly vary-
ing and never resting process.

30. Before offering a summary of the system of
Heraclitus, I may say just one word on the scope of138

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

his ethical speculations. The substance of his ethi-
cal doctrine is this, that man lives and acts rightly
in so far as he lives and acts in conformity with the
Koivos X0709, the universal reason in which he parti-
cipates, but which does not properly belong to him;
and that he lives and acts wrongly in so far as he
lives and acts in conformity with the Ihia cftpovrjcris,
or that part of his nature which is more properly his
own. The koivos X0709, when its behests are obeyed,
leads him away from his own private and personal
aims; it lifts him above the sphere of his own selfish
interests, and teaches him to think of something far
greater than himself: the Ihia fypovrjais, when it is
yielded to, binds him down within the sphere of
his own selfishness, and makes him regard his own
private advantage as the' great and sole end of his
existence. Thus viewed ethically, the /coivos X070?
may be called the great moral law, the IBca (frpovrjaii;
may be called " man's own conceit." Heraclitus thus
seems to have been the first moralist who identified
man's true moral nature with the universal faculty
in man, and man's wrong and immoral nature with
his particular faculty. This ethical doctrine comes
much more fully to light under the treatment of
subsequent moralists, and therefore I shall content
myself at present with having merely broached it for
your consideration.

31. In my summary of the philosophy of Heracli-
tus, I shall endeavour to point out the relation inHEBACLITUS.

139

which his system stands to the philosophy of the
Eleatics. First, then, the main themes with which
both he and they were engaged in their attempts to
reach and fix the absolute truth were Being and not-
Being. Both parties agreed in fixing their attention
on these two; but they differed in this respect, that
whereas the Eleatics regarded Being and not-Being
as distinct and separate conceptions, and as irrecon-
cilable opposites mutually exclusive of each other,
Heraclitus regarded them but as elements or mo-
ments of one conception, the conception, namely, of
Becoming. Such very shortly, is the fundamental
agreement and the fundamental difference between
Heraclitus and the Eleatic philosophers. What they
regarded as distinct conceptions, he regarded as the
factors of one conception.

32. This being understood, the second point to
consider is this, that with the Eleatics Being is the
truth, Being is the universal principle, Being is the
intelligible for all intellect; while, with Heraclitus,
Becoming is the truth, Becoming is the universal
principle, Becoming is the intelligible for all intel-
lect. Being, say the Eleatics, is a necessary truth, a
thought which all intellect must think. Not so, says
Heraclitus; it is Becoming which corresponds to this
description; and Becoming embraces Being merely
as one of its elements, not-Being forming the other
moment of that conception. Now, you will observe
that Heraclitus, in taking up this position against140

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the Eleatics, does not deny altogether the truth of
their principle. He does not deny that Being is a
necessary truth, a truth for all intellect. He rather
admits this. But he holds at the same time that it
is only a half thought, and not a whole thought. It
is a half conception, which requires to be supple-
mented by its other half, the factor, namely, called
not-Being. The unity of these constitutes the true
and total conception; and that true and total con-
ception is expressed by the term Becoming.

33. In the third place, to decide between these
conflicting parties, Heraclitus on the one hand, and
the Eleatics on the other; to determine the merits
of their respective principles, and to get some insight
into their systems, we must observe how these prin-
ciples work, and how far they are explanatory of the
changing phenomena of the universe. The Eleatic
principle will not work at all. This system comes
instantly to a dead-lock; or rather it cannot get
under way. for it is impossible to explain change,
if we hold asunder Being and not-Being, and regard
them as two separate conceptions. The more we
reflect on it the more are we convinced of this impos-
sibility. Consider; a thing is in a particular state,
which state is its being. Call this state A. I wish
it to change; I wish to get it into some other state,
call it B. But to get it into the state B, I must get
it out of the state A; to put on B it must put off A.
I shall suppose, then, that I get it out of the state A,HEKACLITUS.

141

that it puts off A. Is it now in the state B ? has
it put on B or any other state ? It certainly has
not; for you will observe that, just as the Being of
A is a separate conception from the not-Being of A,
so the not-Being of A is a separate conception from
the Being of B—that is, of any other state. The
thing, on the terms of this philosophy, is in no state
at all. It has ceased to be A, but it has not got
into B. It is an intermediate predicament of pure
negation or nonentity, a predicament which we can
only characterise by calling it the not-Being of A,
and the not-Being of B; B standing for any other
positive state. In short, the thing, as I said, is in
no state at all, and that is an absurd supposition,
an absolute inconceivability. Such is the perplexity
in which we are landed if we hold asunder Being and
not-Being, and fix them as two separate conceptions.
Indeed, so sensible were the Eleatics of the force of
such reasonings as that which I have placed before
you, that, instead of attempting to explain change,
they boldly denied its possibility. They saw that
it could not be explained on their principles, and
therefore they maintained that all change was mere
illusion; that, in fact, there was properly no such
thing, and that the universe, according to reason,
and in its truth, was immutable and uniform. I
have stated that the Eleatics constituted Being and
not-Being into two separate conceptions, and that
the difficulties which beset their philosophy had
their origin in this separation. This statement I142

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

conceive to be quite correct, although you ought
to bear in mind, as some slight qualification of it,
that the Eleatics, after having made the separation
referred to, put away from them as unworthy of all
consideration the conception of not-Being, and con-
fined themselves exclusively to the conception of
Being. They discarded not-Being as an overt prin-
ciple of their philosophy. But from their having
fixed Being as a conception by itself, which excluded
not-Being, we may fairly infer that they fixed not-
Being as a conception by itself, which excluded
Being. But however this may be, it is certain that
change cannot be explained, cannot even be admit-
ted, on the principles of their philosophy.

34. It is otherwise in the system of Heraclitus.
He begins, not with Being or the fixed, but with
Becoming or the fluctuating. According to him,
the principle, the beginning, the starting-point of all
things is change, and therefore he is not under the
necessity of explaining it, that is to say, of deducing
it from anything anterior. He does explain it, or at
least he throws out certain dark and brief words, by
pondering over which we are at length able to explain
it for ourselves. What, then, do we understand to
be Heraclitus's conception of change or Becoming,
a conception by means of which he avoids the per-
plexities in which the Eleatic thinkers got involved ?
His conception is, that Becoming is a unity which
involves the two moments of Being and not-Being.HERACLITUS.

143

I have already illustrated this unity at considerable
length, I must now therefore deal with it very shortly.
Stated abstractly, the conception is this: According
to Heraclitus, a state of being is itself a state of not-
being, that is, it is even in being gone as soon as
come; which state of not-Being is itself another state
of Being, which other state of Being is itself a state of
not-Being, which state of not-Being is itself another
state of Being; and so on. Viewed in this way, we
must say of the universe, that at every instant it
both is and is not; it is, there can be no doubt about
that; but then the changes in the universe are so
continuous that it also is not; that is to say, it is not
this definite universe which we conceived we had
laid hold of, but another; which other again is not—
is not this definite universe, but another; and so on.
We can never catch it. Take our former illustration.
A thing is in the state A; how is it to come out of
that state and get into the state B ? We saw that
on Eleatic principles that problem admitted of no
solution. What is Heraclitus's answer? Heracli-
tus's answer is, that the thing is already out of the
state A; that in the very act of being in that state
it is out of it. The two moments, the moment of
being in it and the moment of being out of it, are
one, and constitute one indivisible conception, the
conception of Becoming; and then, just as the being
in the state and the being out of it are one, so the
being out of it and being in another state, the state
B, is one; and so on the process goes. It is infin-144

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

itely too fine for sense to approach the apprehension
of. The changes manifest to the senses might more
properly be called catastrophes than changes. Thus,
when I place a piece of wax before the fire and it
melts, what I perceive is a change from opaque
solidity to transparent fluidity. But fluidity is the
catastrophe; it is the precipitated result of an
accumulated series of changes in the wax, wThich are
no less than infinite. Each of these changes—or
call them states, for at each change the wax was in
a particular state—each of these states no sooner is
than it is not. In appearing it disappears ; but the
disappearance is the appearance of a new state. The
whole process is a series of vanishing fluxions, each
of which in being ceases to be. But I have already
illustrated this matter in so many ways that I must
now desist. "What you have to bear in mind as the gist
of the Heraclitean solution of the problem of change
is this, that the Being of every state in which a thing
is, is the not-Being of that state; and that the not-
Being of that state is the Being of another state; for
that is what is meant by the unity of Being and
not-Being, and by these two being elements of one
conception, and not each of them a separate concep-
tion by itself. Viewed abstractly, the unity of these
two contraries, Being and not-Being, may appear a
paradox and an absurdity, but from the explanations
and illustrations I have given you, perhaps you may
/be inclined to accept the doctrine as intelligible, if
not as convincing. If you accept the doctrine asHERACLITUS.

145

intelligible, you will perceive that it carries with it
a solution of the problem of change. How does a
thing ever get out of one state into another ? Be-
cause, says Heraclitus, in being in the state in which
it is, it is already out of it. Being in it, is being out
of it; and being out of it is being in another state.
The two are identical; and therefore I am not called
upon to explain any further how the process is
brought about. The process, indeed, is its own
explanation.

35. Although the utterances of Heraclitus are ex-
ceedingly obscure and fragmentary, so fragmentary,
indeed, as scarcely to be entitled to the name of
remains, and although it is difficult or impossible to
bring out the points with all the clearness and co-
gency that might be desired, I am nevertheless con-
vinced that some great truth lies here: that here, if
anywhere, is the embryo of the solution of the enigma
of the universe. I am convinced that the unity of
contraries is the law of all things; that all life, all
nature, all thought, all reason, centres in the oneness
or conciliation of Being and not-Being. A firm grasp
of this doctrine, a clear insight into its truth, and a
vigorous enforcement of it and of its. consequences,
would lead to the construction of a truer philosophy
than that which is at present so much in vogue.
That philosophy is founded entirely on the denial
of the unity of contrary determinations in the same
subject. It takes two opposite conceptions, and hold-

K146

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ing them apart it shows that reason is baffled in its
attempts adequately to conceive either of them. It
is in this way that Sir W. Hamilton and Mr Mansel
achieved what they conceive to be a great triumph in
proclaiming, or, as they think, in proving the im-
potency of human reason. But what if the concep-
tions thus set in opposition to each other are not
conceptions at all, but are mere moments or elements
of conception ? If they are so—and I believe that
they are so—that would make a great difference.
The antagonism would no longer exist, or, if it existed,
it would be a very different kind of antagonism from,
that for which Hamilton and Mansel contend. It
would be an antagonism building up one indivisible
conception, and, therefore, an antagonism essential to
the very life and essence of reason itself, and not an
antagonism by which reason is placed at variance with
itself, and thus confounded, disabled, and paralysed.

EMPEDOCLES.

1. The next inquirer with whom we have to deal
in our survey of the history of ancient philosophy is
Empedocles of Agrigentum.

The philosophical remains of Empedocles con-
• sist of some fragments of a poem TJepl (frvaecos, or con-
cerning nature; for, like Xenophanes and Parmenides,
he recorded his opinions in verse. This didactic
poem is rather physical and physiological than phil-EMPEDOCLES.

147

osophical, and we can extract from it but little that i£
of speculative interest and value. It contains, how-
ever, some forcible expressions, and was highly
esteemed by Lucretius, who, in his own poem, ' De
Eerum Natura,' seems to have adopted it to some
extent as his model, and who speaks of it and of its
author in the following terms, which we cannot but
regard as somewhat exaggerated in their eulogy:

" Carmina quin etiam divini pectoris ejus
Vociferantur, et exponunt prseclara reperta,

Ut vix humane videatur stirpe creatus."

—Ltjcret., I. 731-733.

The fragments of this poem of Empedocles were col-
lected about twenty years ago, and published, along
with those of Xenophanes and Parmenides, by Kar-
sten, a Dutch scholar, to whom I formerly referred.

2. The three features in the philosophy, or rather
in the physics, of Empedocles by which it is best
known are: First, His enunciation of a distinction
which, although of no great scientific value, has kept
its place in the popular mind even to the present
day. I refer to his division of the constituents of the
universe into the four elements, fire, air, earth, and
water. Empedocles is said to have been the first who
enumerated these four as the roots, pi^co/juara, of all
things. Secondly, All things, he held, were formed
out of these four elements by a process of mingling and
of separation. This mingling was a mere mechanical
aggregation or agglutination of the different elements,148

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

so that all objects were, in themselves, fire, air, earth,
and water, whatever might be the appearance which
they presented to us. And, Thirdly, This process
of mingling and separating was set in motion and
governed by two principles, fyikla and velrcos;
friendship or love; and velKos, enmity or hate.

3. After all my study of Empedocles and his ex-
positors, I am unable to find in him anything better
than a confused scheme of crude and fanciful physics.
I shall therefore dismiss him, after having directed
your attention to a certain dogma which has occupied
an important place in the history of philosophy, and
which, although current before the time of Empe-
docles, was first laid down by him in distinct and
emphatic terms. The dogma to which I refer is the
saying that like can be known only by like. " Simi-
lia similibus cognoscuntur; " that is to say, the thing
which knows must be of a nature cognate or analo-
gous to that which knows it; or, as Empedocles ex-
presses it, "We perceive earth by means of earth (the
earth, that is, of which we ourselves are made), we
perceive water by means of water, and air by means
of air, fire by means of fire, love by means of love,
and strife by means of strife;" that is, it is by means
of the earth, the water, the air, the fire, the love, and
the strife of which our own nature is composed, that
we are able to apprehend the earth, the water, the
air, the fire, the love, and the strife that are exter-
nal to us. A crude enough doctrine, as thus stated,EMPEDOCLES.

149

and yet one which may not be altogether devoid of
truth, and which, at any rate, may furnish food [for
meditation.

4. But my principal reason for alluding to this
dogma is on account of the prominent place which
has been assigned to it by Sir W. Hamilton in the
history of philosophy. From this maxim, " Similia
similibus cognoscuntur," he derives the theory of a
representative perception; that theory which it was
the business of Dr Eeid's life to overturn. The
theory was, that the mind had no immediate cogni-
sance- of external objects, no cognisance of objects
themselves, but only of certain vicarious images or
representations of them. On what ground does this
opinion rest ? It rests, says Sir William, on the
dogma that like can be known only by like. Eeal
things being unlike the mind—the mind being spirit-
ual, while they are material—they cannot be known
by the mind; they cannot be its direct or immediate
objects, but their images, being incorporeal—in other
words, being of a nature analogous or like to the
mind—can be known, and are alone known, by the
mind in the intercourse which it holds with external
things. Deny this dogma, then, affirm its opposite,
that the mind can know what is altogether unlike
itself, and of a different nature from itself, and you
cut away the ground on which the doctrine of a
representative perception rests. Such is the purport
of Sir W. Hamilton's statement. You will find the150

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

point handled in his 'Discussions on Philosophy,'
p. 61, 2d edition.

5.	The philosophy of Empedocles is, for the most
part, rather physical than speculative. This prepon-
derance of physics is indeed the general character of
the pre-Socratic systems. Their metaphysical import
is rather implied than expressed; and what appears
on their surface is generally a mere farrago of crude
and fanciful, and often unintelligible, descriptions
and explanations of the phenomena of the natural
world. Of such materials the poem of Empedocles,
Uepl <f>v<r€(D<z, was mainly composed, if we may judge
from the fragments which have been handed down
to us, and therefore we may be excused for passing
over the greater part of its details without notice.
There are, however, certain general considerations in-
volved in the lucubrations of this philosopher which
are not without speculative interest, and on which
I now propose to touch, although I shall deal with
them very shortly. These points are the relation in
which the philosophy of Empedocles stands towards
antecedent systems, and the relation in which it
stands towards the Atomic theory, by which it was
immediately succeeded.

6.	Instead of supplanting the conception of Being
by the conception of Becoming, as Heraclitus did,
Empedocles adhered to the Eleatic principle, and
attempted at the same time to reconcile with it the
changes and operations of the universe. He saw thatEMPEDOCLES.

151

change was impossible, if Being was laid down as in-
vested with one uniform or homogeneous quality; out
of such uniformity no diversity could proceed. He
therefore supposed that Being was distinguished from
itself by original differences of quality; in other
words, he supposed several kinds of Being, and then
postulating two principles, one of affinity and the
other of repulsion, fyikia and velfcos, he conceived that
by the union and the repulsion of these different kinds
of matter, all the phenomena and ongoings of the uni-
verse might be explained. He thus conceived that,
while he embraced the Eleatic principle of Being as
the ground of all things, he at the same time avoided
their conclusions, by which the universe was locked
up in a state of dead, immovable stagnation.

7. This modification of the Eleatic principle seems
sufficiently obvious, and the explanation which it
affords of the phenomena of change seems sufficiently
plausible. But neither the modification of the prin-
ciple, nor the explanation arising out of it, is logically
tenable. The supposition is, that there are different
kinds of Being, that is, of matter to begin with.
Being is originally distinguished by certain qualita-
tive differences. But here the question arises, Do
these different kinds of Being consist of mere Being ?
Is matter with its qualitative diversities still mere
Being throughout ? If it be so, then we have only
one element, and from this nothing can emerge
but absolute, unvarying uniformity. If, on the other
hand, matter with its qualitative differences consists152

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of Being and some other element, that other element
can be nothing else than not-Being, for not-Being
alone can be placed in opposition to Being in the
ultimate analysis of thought. Place anything else
in opposition to it, and you will find that you are
opposing Being to Being; in other words, are laying
down no antithesis at all.

8. But without dwelling on the unsatisfactory
logic of Empedocles, we may sum up the substance
of this system under these two heads. First, he
accepts the Eleatic principle of Being; and, secondly,
by modifying this principle, in other words, by postu-
lating different kinds of Being, or of matter endowed
with inherent qualitative diversities, he endeavours
to obviate the consequences of the Eleatic position,
we think, with very indifferent success. But the two
points now referred to are those which you ought to
keep in mind in connection with the philosophy of
Empedocles; because their consideration throws light
on the origin of the Atomic philosophy, of which I
am about to speak. Empedocles, as I said, clung to
the Eleatic principle of Being, and endeavoured to
account for changes by means of certain qualitative
differences which he supposed to be originally inhe-
rent in Being. The Atomists cling to the same prin-
ciple, but, discarding all qualitative differences, they
conceived that change was explicable on the ground
of mere quantitative differences in matter.ATOMIC SCHOOL.

1.	Leucippus and Democritus were the propounders
of the Atomic theory of the universe. The Atomic
philosophy is founded on the supposition that the
ultimate elements of the universe are particles exceed-
ingly minute and absolutely least. By absolutely
least is meant small in the last degree—so small that
the particle cannot be smaller. Such a degree of
smallness is, of course, a fiction, for we cannot con-
ceive anything arrested at a stage at which its
quantity cannot be supposed to be diminished. The
Atomic philosophers, however, supposed that such an
arrestment did take place in nature. They supposed
that all things were composed of particles, so little
that they could not be less, particles which could
not be severed by any force; and these particles
they called atoms, using that word to denote their
indivisible character.

2.	The atom may be further described as that
which entirely fills the space which it occupies.
You will observe that any aggregate of atoms, any154

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

material thing which we behold, occupies consider-
ably more space than it fills. This is proved by
the consideration that everything admits of com-
pression. All sensible matter, therefore, is porous;
dense as some kinds of it may appear, the particles
even of the most compact matter are never actually
in contact, consequently all bodies occupy more
space than they fill, or perhaps we should rather
say, appear to fill more space than they actually do
fill. All matter is interspersed with vacant cavi-
ties or interstices. The atom alone has no such
interstices; it alone fills actually the same space in
which it is.

3.	The atom, then, besides being the absolutely
least, is also the absolutely full, while the interval
between atom and atom is the absolutely void, empty
space. Empty space is thus the supplementing con-
ception which the Atomic philosophers conjoin with
their conception of the atom. What Being and not-
Being were to Heraclitus, the full and the empty (to
7rXfjpe? /cal to tcevov), or atoms and the void, were to
the Atomists. These (the full and the empty) were
the principles of their system; and out of these they
conceived that the constitution of the universe, and
all the appearances which it presents to our senses,
might be explained.

4.	Another consideration to be kept particularly
in view in studying this system is, that the atomsATOMIC SCHOOL.

155

were not distinguished from each other by any differ-
ences of quality. In point of quality they were
homogeneous, or of the same kind; their differences
are quantitative merely, that is to say they differed
from each other in size, weight, figure, arrangement,
agility of motion, these being mere quantitative dif-
ferences ; but they did not differ from each other in
being hot or cold, luminous or dark, sweet or bitter,
wet or dry, for these are qualitative distinctions.
Such distinctions were held to have no reality in
rerum natura; all objective reality and objective
difference were reduced to quantity alone.

5. The atoms were thus closely analogous to the
pure Being of Parmenides and the Eleatics. They
were of one uniform quality, if, indeed, quality could
be attributed to them at all. The distinction between
the two schools, the Eleatic and the Atomic, was that
while no differences, either qualitative or quantita-
tive, had places in the pure Being of the Eleatics,
the Atomic philosophers represented their primordial
constituents as differing, as has been said, in size,
shape, arrangement, &c. In like manner the Atomic
school differed from Empedocles, who had attributed
differences of quality to his four elements, fire, air,
earth, and water. Empedocles had thought that this
postulate was necessary in order to account for the
changing phenomena of the universe. The Atomists
were of opinion that these changes might be account-
ed for without any such postulate.156

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

6.	The aim of the Atomic philosophers was to
explain the greatest number of phenomena by means
of the fewest possible principles. This striving after
unity or simplicity is indeed the great aim or charac-
teristic of all philosophy. It is what we have fre-
quently described as the pursuit of the universal in
all things; and in joining in this pursuit the Atomists
made but common cause, and had the same object in
view, with the rest of their brethren. What we have
to consider more particularly in regard to them is,
first, the effect which their principles had in simpli-
fying the theory of the universe; and, secondly, the
effect which their principles had in simplifying the
theory of human perceptions and sensations. These
are the two points in which, I think, the interest of
the Atomic philosophy centres: first, the tendency
of their doctrine to afford a simpler explanation of
the phenomena of the universe; and, secondly, a
simpler explanation of man's perceptions than any
hitherto propounded. I do not say that their ex-
planation is true or successful, but it has, at any rate,
the merit of simplicity. Let us consider separately
each of the two points adverted to.

7.	First, Before the time of the Atomic philoso-
phers things were supposed to have qualitative as
well as quantitative differences. That things differed
from each in quantity, in size, in shape, and weight,
for example, was sufficiently obvious; and it was
thought to be no less obvious that they differedATOMIC SCHOOL.

157

from each other in quality; that fire, for example,
had a different quality or qualities from water; that
sugar differed in quality from salt; that light dif-
fered in quality from sound; that wood differed
in quality from stone and from iron, and so on.
All these qualitative differences the Atomic theory
abolished, or tended to abolish. It sought to reduce
them all to the simplicity of mere quantitative differ-
ences. The atoms were held to have no qualitative
differences. They differed, as has been said, from
each merely in shape, arrangement, and position
(a^rjfia rago? /cal 0€cns), perhaps also in magnitude
and weight. And it was the different configuration
and arrangements of these exceedingly minute par-
ticles which imparted to the different objects in the
universe their apparently qualitative differences. The
atoms of fire, for example, are the same as those
which compose water, only their size, weight, shape,
and arrangement are different, and hence arises what
seems to be a qualitative difference in the objects
which result from their combination. So of sugar,
and salt, and flesh. Here the same elements are dif-
ferently combined; and hence sugar and salt appear
to differ in quality. So of light and sound. The ul-
timate particles of these two are the same; but their
configuration and arrangement are different, and hence
a qualitative difference seems to subsist between
them. So of wood, and stone, and iron. In reality
there are no qualitative differences among these
things, but only differences arising from the shape,158

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

and number, and arrangement of the insensible atoms
of which these things are composed,—in other words,
mere qualitative differences. For example, if you ask,
Why is water soft and flowing ? the answer would be,
that the minute atoms of which it consists are smooth
and round, and do not fit into each other—like small
wheels or globes, they roll over each other, hence its
yielding and fluid nature. Why, again, is iron fixed
and unyielding ? The answer is, because its minute
and insensible particles are not smooth and round,
but are jagged and uneven—have, as it were, teeth by
which they cling to each other, and', thus cohering,
form a compact and solid body. But in both cases
the atoms are in themselves of the same quality;
they are merely different in shape, size, arrangement,
and these are not qualitative but quantitative differ-
ences. In short, there are in reality no differences
in the universe, except differences of quantity. All
qualitative differences are unreal, and are merely ap-
parent. So much, then, for the way in which the
Atomic philosophy simplifies, or aims at simplifying,
whether successfully or not, the theory of the uni-
verse, by abolishing quality, and by reducing all the
diversities of natural agents to a difference of quan-
tity merely.

8. The second point of interest in the Atomic phil-
osophy is the new theory of sensation and perception
which it involved. It had hitherto been supposed
that there were certain qualities in objects corre-ATOMIC SCHOOL.

159

sponding to our sensations, and by which our sensa-
tions were induced. This was a matter on which
probably no great attention had been bestowed; and
therefore we cannot say very exactly what the pre-
vious doctrine in regard to sensation and percep-
tion may have been; but we are safe in affirming
that it had been loosely assumed that there were, as
I have said, certain qualities or agents corresponding
to our sensations, and by which our sensations were
induced. That, I think, we may say, was the general
opinion, as it is indeed the vulgar, if not the philo-
sophic, opinion to this day. When we feel the sen-
sation of heat, we suppose there is some correspond-
ing quality in the fire, or whatever the agent may be
which induces it. When we see coloured objects we
think that the colours are in the objects themselves,
or, at any rate, that there is some quality in the ob-
ject which causes our sensations of colour. When
we have the sensation in our mouths of sweet or
of bitter, we suppose that these different tastes are
excited by different qualities in the objects. The
Atomic theory corrected or modified this opinion, and
this correction followed as a consequence of the Ato-
mic doctrine in regard to the constitution of material
things. If the atoms, the ultimate constituents of all
things, are identical in point of quality, and differ
only in size, shape, position, and arrangement, it fol-
lows that there can be nothing in real nature corre-
sponding to what we call heat or cold, or sweet or
bitter, or colour. These are merely sensations in us;160

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

not only are they mere sensations in us, there are,
moreover, no qualities in things by which they are
induced. How, then, are these various sensations
induced ? They are induced by the quantitative dif-
ferences of the atoms. For instance, the atoms which
occasion the sensation of heat, the atoms which occa-
sion the sensation of smell, the atoms which occasion
the sensation of taste, of touch, the atoms which oc-
casion the sensation of sound, the atoms which occa-
sion the sensation of colour—all these atoms are the
same in themselves, only, in consequence of their
different magnitudes, and shapes, and motions, they
affect our sentient organism differently, and hence
arises the variety in our sensations. The atoms
which induce the sensation of heat are, we may sup-
pose, exceedingly fine, sharp, and agile; the atoms
which occasion our sensations of taste are perhaps
less subtle and less sharp; and so in regard to the
other atoms by which our other sensations are excit-
ed. Thus a mere quantitative difference in the atoms,
their sharpness or smoothness, their subtlety or com-
parative grossness, their slowness or velocity, is held
to be sufficient to explain all our varied sensations.
And thus, too, a mere quantitative difference in the
atoms will explain not only the different impressions
which arise in our different senses, but also the dif-
ferent impressions which arise in the same sense.
Thus the configuration of the atoms which induce
the taste of bitterness, is different from the configura-
tion of atoms which induce the sensation of sweet-ATOMIC SCHOOL.

161

ness; and thus the quality of syrup in itself is not
different from the quality of vinegar, only the atoms
of which each is composed are differently figured
and arranged, and hence affect the palate differently.
The same explanation would of course apply to the
phenomena of the other senses. Different colours
are seen because the atoms of light affect the retina
differently, some of them impinging on it with greater
force and rapidity than others. Such is the man-
ner in which the Atomic philosophers explained
the phenomena of sensation and perception. To
things themselves they allowed mere quantitative dif-
ferences, such differences as consist in number, size,
figure, motion, weight, and arrangement. These are
the only differences which truly exist, which are in
rerum natura ; because these are the only differences
which exist in the atoms of which things are com-
posed. All qualitative differences, such as heat and
cold, sweet and bitter, colour and sound—all these
they placed in the sentient subject, and regarded as
mere affections of the mind or nervous system. Thus
the world had reality only in so far as quantity was
concerned. In regard to quality, it had no reality
out of or beyond the mind of man; and thus, while
quantitative difference was real and objective, quali-
tative difference was only apparent and subjective.

9. It is obvious that this theory of sensation bears
a close resemblance to the doctrine frequently pro-
pounded in more recent times in regard to the pri-

L162

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

mary and secondary qualities of matter. The doc-
trine, as you know, is this, that the primary qualities
are extension, figure, and solidity ; that these exist
objectively in the things themselves, and that we
have a direct perception of them as they thus exist;
while again the secondary qualities, such as heat and
cold, colours and sounds, tastes and smell, are sub-
jective affections existing merely in us. These are
not properly the qualities of matter, but are rather
the names of our sensations. The difference, how-
ever, between this doctrine and that of the Atomistic
consists in this circumstance, that while the modern
propounders of the doctrine have held that there
were certain occult qualities in matter corresponding
to our sensations of heat, colour, taste, smell, and so
forth—occult qualities by which these sensations are
induced—the Atomists had recourse to no such hypo-
thesis. They conceived that the nature of the atoms,
which has been already explained as consisting in
differences of shape and arrangement—they conceived
that this was quite sufficient of itself to account for
the variety of our sensations, and accordingly the
hypothesis of occult qualities really existing in ma-
terial things, and inducing our sensations, formed no
part of their system. Our sensations were explained
on mechanical and quantitative grounds as resulting
from the different shapes and degrees of solidity in
the atoms by which our organs of sense were af-
fected. The Atomic theory of sensation and percep-
tion was thus considerably simpler than the doctrineATOMIC SCHOOL.

163

propounded by Eeid and others in regard to the
primary and secondary qualities of matter; and it
certainly was quite as philosophical.

10. I conclude this account of the Atomic doctrine
by remarking that, even in this system, we may
observe that tendency which I have said is the char-
acteristic more or less of all speculative philosophy,
the tendency, namely, to aim at truth for all rather
than at truth for some intelligence. This tendency is
not so conspicuous in the Atomic scheme as it is*in
some other systems; but even here it is unmistak-
ably manifested. What the Atomists called the full
and the empty, atoms and the void, which was their
expression for what are nowadays called the primary
qualities of matter—these are more universal in their
character than such qualities as heat and cold, sweet
and bitter, luminous and dark; these latter qualities
could not be understood except by intelligences en-
dowed with senses like ours; but the full and the
empty, in other words, atoms and the void, would,
in all probability, be intelligible to pure intellect,
and certainly approach more nearly to the character
of truths for all intellect than do any of those truths
which are known to us as the secondary qualities of
matter.ANAXAGORAS.

1.	The next Greek philosopher of whom we have
to speak is Anaxagoras. Anaxagoras was born at
Clazomenae, one of the Ionian towns in Asia Minor,
in the year 500 B.C. He was thus somewhat older
than Democritus, and even than Leucippus; but as his
system may be regarded as contemporary with that
of the Atomists, I have thought it better to treat of
them before treating of him. Though sprung from a
rich and distinguished family, Anaxagoras surren-
dered all his possessions to his relatives, and betook
himself to the study of philosophy. He settled in
Athens in his early manhood, probably between the
years 480 and 460 B.C.; and from this time Athens
began to be the centre of those emanations of phil-
osophic thought which had heretofore shown them-
selves only in the colonies.

2.	As a resident within the walls of Athens, An-
axagoras dwelt for many years, enjoying the friend-
ship of Pericles, and other distinguished citizens, to
whom he imparted freely his philosophical opinions.ANAXAGORAS.

165

Of the intercourse which subsisted between Pericles
and Anaxagoras, Plutarch speaks in the following
terms: "The philosopher with whom Pericles was
most intimately acquainted, who gave him that force
and sublimity of sentiment superior to all the arts of
the demagogues, who, in short, formed him to that
admirable dignity of manners, was Anaxagoras, the
Clazomenian. This was he whom the people of those
times called vovs, or intelligence, either in admiration
of his great understanding and knowledge of the
works of nature, or because he was the first who
clearly proved that the universe owed its formation
neither to chance nor necessity, but to a pure and
unmixed mind, who separated the homogeneous parts
from the other with which they were confounded.
Charmed with the company of this philosopher, and
instructed by him in the sublimest sciences, Pericles
acquired not only an elevation of sentiment and a
loftiness and purity of style, far removed from the
low expressions of the vulgar, but likewise a gravity
of countenance, which never relaxed into laughter, a
firm and even tone of voice, an easy deportment, and
a decency of dress, which no vehemence of speak-
ing ever put into disorder. . . . These were not
the only advantages which Pericles gained by con-
versing with Anaxagoras. From him he learnt to
overcome those terrors which the various phenomena
of the heavens raise in those who know not their
causes, and who entertain a tormenting fear of the
gods by reason of their ignorance. Nor is there any166

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

cure for it but the study of nature, which, instead of
the frightful extravagances of superstition, implants
in us a sober piety, supported by a rational hope."—
* Life of Pericles/ c. 4, 5, 6. At length some of the
doctrines of Anaxagoras gave offence to the fickle
populace. He was accused of impiety towards the
gods. Pericles defended him in vain. He was
banished to Lampsacus in Asia Minor, where he
died, in the year 428 B.C., at the age of 72. In
this place he was so highly esteemed that the inhabi-
tants raised altars to his memory, and his popularity
was kept in remembrance by the circumstance that
the schoolboys of Lampsacus were allowed at his
own request a holiday on the anniversary of his
death.

3.	The philosophy of Anaxagoras centres in the
two following points: first, his doctrine of what are
called o/ioLOfjueprj, a term of considerable obscurity, and
which, so far as I can find, has never been elucidated
satisfactorily; and, secondly, his doctrine of vovs or
intelligence as the universal in all things, and as the
designing and directing principle of the universe.
In discussing the system of Anaxagoras, I shall con-
fine myself to these two points.

4.	Anaxagoras's doctrine of ofioiofieprj or o/jLOLOfjuepeca
is discussed by Lucretius, in the first book of his
poem, De Natura Rerum, line 830, where he says—

"Nunc et Anaxagorse scrutemur djAoio/jLipsiav."ANAXAGORAS.

167

The result of his scrutiny or examination I give you
in Creech's translation of Lucretius:—

" For this it means ; that bones of minute bones,

That flesh of flesh, and stones of little stones,

That nerves take other little nerves for food,

That blood is made of little drops of blood,

That gold from parts of the same nature rose
That earths do earth, fires fire, airs air composo,

And so in all things else alike to those."

This popular or poetical version of the doctrine
of Anaxagoras does not carry us very far in the way
of understanding it. Taken literally, the word o/jloco-
fjuepi] signifies things made up of similar parts, or, per-
haps more explicitly, things made up of particles
similar to the things themselves. But the more com-
plete and exact interpretation of the doctrine seems
to be this, that in everything, and in every fraction of
everything, there is a fraction of everything; in each
there is a sample of each; in other words, all is in
all. Such, stated in a somewhat abstract form, is
Anaxagoras's doctrine of the o/juoLofjueprj, a name pro-
bably invented, not by himself, but by some sub-
sequent philosopher—I believe, by Aristotle.

5. Let me endeavour to throw some light on this
doctrine by handling it in a less abstract fashion. I
shall endeavour to make it clear by means of some
homely and familiar illustrations. Let us suppose
the world and all that it contains, the world and all
its produce, animal, vegetable, and mineral—let us
suppose this to be chopped up into the finest mince-168

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

meat that can be conceived. Let us suppose it
pounded to a pulp or powder more impalpable than
any mince-meat; let us suppose this powder to be-
come fluid, and then to be so stirred and mingled
that all its particles, even down to a degree of ten-
uity far beyond what can be conceived, shall be
mixed through and through each other; if we sup-
pose this, it is obvious that we should obtain a mass
of matter, each portion of which, however minute,
would contain samples of all the ingredients which
entered into the composition of the whole. To sup-
pose otherwise—to suppose that each particle did not
contain samples of all the ingredients—would be to
suppose the amalgamation not perfectly effected.
But we have supposed the amalgamation to be per-
fect; and, therefore, I say it is obvious that what-
ever portion, great or small, we take of this mass of
matter, that portion will necessarily contain precisely
the same ingredients, and the same number of ingre-
dients, as are contained in any other portion of this
same mass. In each particle, however great or how-
ever small, all the particles will be contained which
enter into the composition of the whole mass. Now
I conceive that any portion, big or little, of this
mass would correspond to what Anaxagoras means
by the ofjuoio/juepy]. Suppose that ten thousand dif-
ferent kinds of matter, or that matter qualified in
ten thousand different ways, went to compose our
mass, in that case, if the mixture be complete—and
we are supposing it complete—in that case each
portion of the whole would contain portions of theseANAXAGOEAS.

169

ten thousand kinds of matter, and to whatever degree
of fineness you might carry the division, that is to
say, however small you might conceive the portion
to be, it would still contain portions of these ten
thousand kinds of matter. In short, the composi-
tion of the whole and the composition of its minutest
parts would be precisely the same. The whole con-
sists, wTe are supposing, of ten thousand kinds of
matter; each particle of it (carry the division to
whatever degree of minuteness you please) also con-
sists of ten thousand kinds of matter. That, I con-
ceive, is what is meant by saying that everything
and every particle of a thing consists of particles
similar to the thing or particle itself.

6. The mass of matter which I have endeavoured
to describe to you, and the close intermingling of
whose parts I supposed to be brought about by
artificial means—this mass is, according to Anaxa-
goras, matter in its original condition. In order to
aid our conception of what Anaxagoras means by
the ofiocofieprj, I suppose the universe, the present
orderly universe, to be beaten up, with all its diver-
sities, into a sort of pulp or powder of uniform con-
sistency throughout. This pulp or powder, which,
in my description of it, is set forth as artificially
produced, was, in the estimation of our philosopher,
the natural state of the universe before an organising
intelligence went to work upon its materials, and
elicited order out of chaos. In its primitive and
chaotic state the world is a mass, every ingredient of170

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which is so intimately mixed with and through
every other ingredient, that each portion of it, how-
ever infinitesimally small, is a sample and represen-
tative of the whole; in other words, contains every-
thing which the whole contains, or, as we may other-
wise express it, is identical with the whole in quality,
though, of course, not in quantity. Thus every par-
ticle is in parvo what the whole mass is in magno.
Every particle, however small or however great, thus
understood as containing within it all that the whole
contains, is, I conceive, what Anaxagoras means by
the o/xoLofjuepi). I may here remark that when I spoke
of each of the ofioiofieprj as embracing ten thousand
different kinds of matter, or as being itself matter
with ten thousand qualities, I did so merely for pur-
poses of illustration; for Anaxagoras himself sets no
limits to the different kinds of matter, or to the num-
ber of qualities which may be embraced within each
of the ofjuotofjueprj. He seems to have regarded the
kinds or qualities of matter' as infinite, or, at any
rate, as not to be measured or limited by any assign-
able number.

7. Bearing in mind what matter is, according to
the conception of Anaxagoras, in its original charac-
ter and constitution, let us now consider how this
conception stands related to the doctrines of the
Atomical philosophers. We find that the system
of Anaxagoras stands opposed to the Atomic theory
in two essential particulars: first, it denies andANAXAGOKAS.

171

rejects the doctrine of atoms as the orignal or ulti-
mate constituents of things; and, secondly y it insists
on the existence of qualitative differences in things.
I shall say a few words on each of these points.

8. First, The ofjuoiofieprj are, in all respects, the
opposite of the atoms. The atoms are absolutely
simple, that is to say, are elements in the proper
sense of the word. The ofjuoLo/jueprj are infinitely com-
plex, that is to say, are not elements, in any sense
at all. They are not elements because each of them
contains an infinite variety of particles, and each
of these particles, again, is not elementary, because
each contains an infinite variety of particles; which
particles, again, are not elementary, because each
contains an infinite variety of particles, and so on
for ever. . Each particle of the matter, divide and
subdivide it as often as you will, still contains in
parvo all that was contained in the particle with
which you commenced your operations, so that
while the Atomists hold matter in its original condi-
tion to be absolutely simple, Anaxagoras holds that
matter in its original condition is infinitely complex.
The Atomists hold that matter in its primitive state
is simple, and that in its secondary state, when
things have been formed by the different combina-
tions of the atoms, it is complex. Anaxagoras holds
that matter in its primitive state is complex; and
that in its secondary state, when things have attained
to symmetry and order, it is simple—comparatively172

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

simple, that is to say, more simple than it was in
the original entanglement and involution of all in
all. We may therefore say, that with the Atomists
the construction of the Koapos, or ordered universe, is
a process in which matter passes from simplicity to
complexity, while with Anaxagoras it is a process in
which matter passes from complexity to simplicity.
According to the Atomists, simplicity is first in the
field, complexity supervenes; according to Anaxa-
goras, complexity is first in the field, and simplicity
supervenes. This antagonism may not perhaps be in
all points exact, but it is certainly sufficiently marked
to constitute a fundamental difference between the
two systems.

9. The other point in which the system of Anax-
agoras stands in a relation of opposition to the
Atomic theory is its doctrine of qualitative differ-
ences. The Atomic philosophers held that all dif-
ference was quantitative, not qualitative. I explained
how, according to them, all the variety observable in
the different objects of the universe might be ac-
counted for by the diversity in point of size, shape,
arrangement, and motions of the atoms of which these
things were composed. Anaxagoras, on the other
hand, was of opinion that quality held a very im-
portant place, and played a very important part, in
the original constitution of matter. He held, as I
have said, that there were innumerable kinds of
original matter; which is merely another mode ofANAXAGORAS.

173

saying, that matter is originally endowed with innu-
merable qualities. He conceived that qualities, or
inherent differences, existed in things, and that the
attempt to deduce these qualities from mere quantity
was equivalent to deducing them from nothing, was
deriving them from a source which did not contain
them and could not produce them—was, in short,
a violation of the maxim which was at that time
accepted as the canon of all right reason, Ex nihilo
nihil fit. The deduction of quality from quantity
was a deduction of something from nothing, and was
consequently an impossibility and an absurdity.
Hence Anaxagoras concluded that quality was coeval
with quantity, and was equally original with the
original matter of the universe. And he held, fur-
ther, that these qualities were innumerable or infinite,
inasmuch as new qualities might continually mani-
fest themselves, and inasmuch as (in obedience to the
canon just referred to) no one quality was capable
of being transmuted into any other. When a new
quality appears we cannot suppose it to spring from
nothing, for that would violate the maxim, Ex nihilo
nihil Jit; neither can we suppose it to spring from
another quality, for that would equally violate the
maxim; therefore, we must suppose that it was in
existence all the while, and from the very first, only
that it was latent; and further, as these new quali-
ties are or may continually present themselves, we
must conclude that they are infinite or innumerable.
Such are the two points in which I think the philo-174

GBEEK PHILOSOPHY.

sophy of Anaxagoras stands opposed to the doctrines
of the Atomists.

10.	I stated in paragraph third that the philoso-
phy of Anaxagoras centred in these two points; his
doctrine of the ofioiofiepr), and his doctrine of vovs, or
a designing and directing intelligence. In summing
up the first of the two topics, I request you to ob-
serve that all that I have hitherto said has been in
reference to Anaxagoras's conception of matter in its
original and primary condition. His doctrine of
the o/jLoiofjuepfj has special reference to matter in this
crude and primitive state. How far the doctrine
applies to matter in its secondary, that is, in the more
finished and orderly condition in which we behold it,
this is what we shall have hereafter to consider; so far
as we have gone, wre may say that we have dealt not
with the Koa/jLos, but only with the chaos of Anaxago-
ras. We have endeavoured to describe the world as he
supposes it to exist before it has been subjected to the
operations of a designing and directing intelligence.

11.	The second topic which falls to be considered
in treating of the philosophy of Anaxagoras is, as I
have said, his doctrine of vovs, or intelligence, as the
designing and arranging principle of the universe.
Eeferring to this doctrine, Aristotle remarks, that
"the man/' to wit, Anaxagoras, "who first announced
that Reason was the cause of the world and of all
orderly arrangement in nature, no less than in livingANAXAGORAS.

175

bodies, appeared like a man in his sober senses in
comparison with those who heretofore had been
speaking at random and in the dark."—Metaph. i. 3.

12. Aristotle compliments Anaxagoras thus highly
because he was tiie first to introduce into philosophy
the conception of ends or final causes. The argu-
ment founded on final causes has been largely in-
sisted on in modern times. It is known popularly
as the argument from design, the argument which,
from the contemplation of the marks of forethought
and contrivance observable in the objects and opera-
tions of nature, rises to the conception of a one all-
wise, all-powerful, and all-benevolent Artificer of
the universe. This argument, which is also called
the argument a posteriori for the being and attri-
butes of God, has been handled in modern times by
many writers of distinguished ability, among whom
may be mentioned with special commendation Dr
Paley, and our own eminent Principal, Dr Tulloch,
of St Mary's. These authors have worked out the
argument in all its bearings, and their writings
cannot be too strongly recommended to students,
whether of philosophy or theology. But the argu-
ment was broached more than two thousand years
ago by the philosopher of whom we are treating.
Anaxagoras, as I said, was the first to introduce into
philosophy the conception of ends or final causes,
a conception which implies an intelligent principle
as the upholder and designer of all things. He was176

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

thus the founder, we may say, of what is nowa-
days termed Natural Theology as distinguished from
Revelation. The doctrine of Anaxagoras will come
out more clearly if we compare it with the position
occupied by the philosophers who preceded him.

13. Previous to the time of Anaxagoras, philoso-
phers had speculated concerning the beginning or
origin of things, but not concerning their ends or
purposes. The changes and operations of nature
were too obtrusive not to compel them to have re-
course to some active principle or principles whereby
these changes might be explained. In the Ionic school
some vital force was admitted, some anima mundi, by
which the condensation or rarefaction of the primeval
element was brought about. In the Eleatic school,
in so far as they departed from the strict logic of
their system and admitted change into the universe,
some active principle or influence was laid down as
the efficient cause of the changes. By Heraclitus,
who contended that the whole universe was a contin-
ual flux or process of change—by him strife or con-
tention was set forth as the parent or producer of all
things, itoKs/jlo^ tmv 7rdvrcov iratrjp, war as the begetter
of all things. The efficient agents of Empedocles
were cfytXla and vet/cos, friendship and enmity. And
the Atomists invested their atoms with certain
principles of attraction and repulsion, by which
their combinations and separations were determined.
I mention these particulars for the purpose of show-ANAXAGOKAS.

177

ing you that before the time of Anaxagoras philoso-
phers, in forming the conception of cause, beginning,
or origin, had never risen above the conception of
power, force, energy, activity, or efficiency. They
undoubtedly conceived that the operations of the
universe were brought about by some efficient cause,
by some force competent to produce them—that an
all-powerful energy was at the bottom of the ongoings
of nature. But this power, though irresistible, was
blind and unintelligent. At least, so far as the spec-
ulations of these philosophers went, no proof had as
yet been furnished that the power in question was
intelligent as well as omnipotent; efficiency, and not
intelligence, was its characteristic.

14. Anaxagoras struck into a new direction. He
looked rather to the ends than to the beginnings of
things, rather to the purposes for which things were
designed than to the sources from which they sprang.
This at least was the tendency of his philosophy,
although we cannot say that it was more than a ten-
dency, for he did not advance far in the new path
which he had opened up. He did not turn to much
account the new conception on which he had hit; but
he did effect something. He turned the thoughts of
philosophers into an unexplored channel. He intro-
duced into philosophy a conception which, even in
its germ, was great. Looking to the ends which the
objects and operations of the universe served, and
seeing that these ends were good, he concluded that

M178

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

they were the work of a cause which was in itself
wise and good. He led philosophers to combine the
notion of intelligence with the notion of power or
efficiency, which heretofore had been the sole attri-
bute assigned to the moving principle of the universe.
Intelligence, as well as omnipotence, was set forth in
the scheme of Anaxagoras as an attribute of the first
great cause.

15. The recognition of ends or final causes in
nature is equivalent to the admission of an intelligent
principle as the orderer and director of the universe.
It would lead me away from the scope of the present
discussion were I to go into any illustrations or de-
tails of the argument from design, but I may say a
few words in explanation of the principle on which
it proceeds. In arguing from ends or final causes, in
other words, from design, we necessarily make the
idea of a thing precede its realisation; we place
thought before action, and thus we necessarily lay
down thought, intelligence, or reason as the first, the
beginning. If thought or intelligence be the first,
the beginning, by what term shall we designate the
ultimate or the end ? The most expressive and com-
prehensive term by which this can be designated, is
" the good," This term for ends in general is as old
as the days of Anaxagoras. Let us now attend to
these two conceptions, intelligence or thought con-
sidered as the beginning, and the good considered as
the end. And let us suppose an illustrative case
drawn from human nature: it may, perhaps, assist usANAXAGORAS.

179

in forming some imperfect conception of the divine
intelligence and its ends. Let us suppose that a
savage has the thought of some good, or some end.
Now he must think of this as a particular good or
particular end; no man can think of good in general
or end in general. Let his thoughts then of good
or end be the thought of a house to shelter him, a
thought which has not yet occurred to any other of
his tribe. This thought is certainly the thought of
something good, good for himself, perhaps also good
for others. He desires to compass this end. But on
consideration he sees that he cannot compass this end
without means, means in the shape of wood, stones,
and lime. These means then become a new end, an
intermediate end, which he must compass before he
can attain the ultimate end, the house. But on con-
sideration he sees that he cannot compass this new
end without means, means in the shape of tools.
These means, the tools, then become a new end,
another intermediate end which he must compass.
But he sees on consideration that he cannot compass
this new end without the aid of mechanical study
and the assistance of his fellow-men; mechanical
knowledge and human assistance thus become a new
and intermediate end. But again, on considering the
matter, he sees that he cannot overtake this new and
intermediate end, he cannot betake himself to study,
or obtain the aid of his fellows, unless he has a store of
provisions laid in to support him while he is studying
mechanics, and also to support his neighbours while
they are assisting him. The acquisition of a stock180

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

of provisions thus becomes a new intermediate end;
and this we shall say is the proximate end, the end
which he must aim at and overtake in the first in-
stance, before he can expect to accomplish any of the
other ends. From this simple case, thus roughly
drawn out, you may perceive what a succession of
ends may have to be gone through before the ulti-
mate end is overtaken, and how each means becomes
in its turn an end, until the whole series is gone
through. You may also, from this illustration, un-
derstand the difference between final cause, efficient
cause, and natural cause. In this case the final cause
of the house was the good or comfort of the savage;
the efficient cause was the active power of the savage,
which enabled him, we shall suppose, to carry through
all the operations required before the house could be
constructed; and the material cause was the provi-
sions, the mechanical knowledge, the assistance re-
ceived, together with the stones, wood, and lime of
which the house was built. From this plain (although
very rough and hasty) illustration, you may under-
stand—and this is the point I wish you to bear in
mind—how, in considering the subject of ends, thought
is necessarily regarded as preceding execution; how
intelligence and foresight necessarily go before realis-
ation. Suppose that the savage had set about hoard-
ing up provisions blindly, and without any purpose
in view; suppose that he had studied mechanics, and
got his neighbours to assist him in fabricating tools
and machines blindly and without any purpose in
view; suppose that he had set himself and them toANAXAGORAS.

181

cut wood and to hew stones blindly and without any
purpose in view; suppose that he had set them to
build a house blindly and without any purpose in
view, a house which was not purposely designed to
minister either to his own good or to the good of any
other creature; in short, that the idea of an ultimate
end or good never entered his mind, and that nothing
that had been done was done with the view of giving
satisfaction either to himself or others; then I am
sure that, however much we might admire the power
and energy of the savage, we should have a very poor
opinion of his intelligence; we should deny, indeed,
that his proceedings had been directed by any degree
of thought or intellect at all. We might consider
him a powerful, but we could not regard him as an
intelligent, agent.

16. I leave the application of this illustration
very much to yourselves. I may just suggest that
if you suppose the universe made for no good pur-
pose whatever, that is, made just as you might
suppose a house built by a man blindly, and into
whose head no notion of the comfort or utility of
a house ever entered; if that be your supposition,
then, however active and powerful you may conceive
the author of all things to be, you cannot conceive
him to be intelligent; while on the other hand, if you
suppose that the universe exists for some good pur-
pose, that it answers in all its parts and arrangements
some great and beneficent end, however dim and
limited your knowledge of that end may be; then,182

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

if that be your theory, you are compelled by the
necessities of reason to suppose that thought and in-
telligence are the attributes of Him who has ordered
all things for the best, whether He binds the sweet
influences of the Pleiades or loosens the bands of
Orion.

17. To return to Anaxagoras, and to sum up his
philosophy in a very few words. First9 there are
ends in nature, that is to say, purpose and order per-
vade the universe; purpose and order are only other
names for the good; but purpose, order, good, im-
ply forethought and intelligence; therefore, the first
cause and principle of all things is all-wise and in-
telligent ; in other words, is mind or understanding,
vovs. Secondly, this mind is not mixed up with the
ofioLofieprj. It is totally different from them. Were it
mixed up with their substance it could not be cap-
able of moving and controlling them. Another prin-
ciple would be required to account for the operations
of nature. But it is not mixed up with them; hence
it can order and direct them. Under its control,
combinations and separations take place among the
ofioiofAeprj, by which their original constitution is al-
tered. Like draws to like, and unlike separates itself
from unlike. The ofjuocofjuepi}, however, so far preserve
their original constitution, that each of them, or each
thing which an aggregate of them composes, takes
its character from the preponderance of certain kinds
of matter, without losing entirely all, or perhaps any
of the other kinds of matter which went to the com-ANAXAGORAS.

183

position of the primitive opoiofjuepri. Thus bread,
although it apparently excludes bone, and flesh, and
blood from its composition, does not really exclude
them, because a man can be nourished upon bread;
that is to say, in the human system bread is con-
verted into bone, flesh, and blood, and therefore these
existed in the bread before it was taken into the
human system. I give you this illustration, not as
physiologically or chemically correct, but for the pur-
pose of illustrating Anaxagoras's doctrine, which is,
that the properties, and indeed we may say the
contents, of the various articles in nature are very
different from what they appear to us to be. The
doctrine proceeds on the principle that no kind of
matter can be changed into any other kind, that
no quality of matter can be changed into any other
quality. Hence, when we find that bread gives rise
to bone and flesh, we must either suppose that the
bone and flesh are still bread, or else we must sup-
pose that the bread was, or at any rate contained,
bone and flesh. To argue otherwise would, in the
estimation of Anaxagoras, be equivalent to maintain-
ing that something could spring out of nothing.

18. There are two interesting questions connected
with the philosophy of Anaxagoras, which I shall
merely broach at present, without discussing them.
These are, first, the consideration of the extent to
which Anaxagoras may have been influenced in the
construction of his system by the study of his own
consciousness, and by the reflection that he himself,184

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

his own mind, was the universal in all the objects that
came before him, the rallying point in which they
were reduced to unity. That reflection generalised
would have yielded him his doctrine of vovs or intel-
ligence as the principle and foundation of all things;
and, secondly, we might ask whether Anaxagoras has
not reached a truer universal, a principle which is
more a truth for all intellect, than any philosopher
who preceded him. You will observe that with all
these philosophers it was the thought of something,
and not pure thought itself, which was the principle.
Thus, with the Pythagoreans, it was the thought of
number, that is, it was number rather than thought,
which was the principle; with the Eleatics, it was
the thought of Being, that is, it was Being rather than
the thought of Being, which was the principle.

19.	So in regard to Heraelitus, and the other phil-
osophers whom we have considered. It was always
the thought of something, rather than thought itself,
which was laid down as the principle. But Anaxa-
goras laid down thought itself—not the thought of
this or of that, but thought itself—as the universal
in all things, and this universal being intellect itself,
must necessarily be more a truth for all intellect
than any that we have yet come across.

20.	Significant and suggestive as the philosophy
of Anaxagoras is, Socrates complains that it fell
short of its promise,—'Phsedo,' p. 98.II. THE SOCRATIC PERIOD.
THE SOPHISTS.

1.	The course of Greek speculation now brings
me to speak of the Sophists, a class of teachers and
thinkers who, in general, have occupied no very high
place in the world's esteem, but in whose favour a
reaction has of late years taken place. The Sophists
came upon the scene when Athens was at the height
of her glory. Greece was now the foremost nation
in the world, and pre-eminent amid that nation stood
forth the Athenian people, with Pericles, the son of
Xanthippus, at their head. Around his name, so
great in oratory and statesmanship, are clustered a
constellation of names equally brilliant in poetry, in
science, and in art; and from him this period of
Greek history, so rich in every form of intellectual
excellence, has derived its name; it is known as the
age of Pericles.

2.	At this time the Sophists made their appear-
ance as the inaugurators of a new, or, at least, of
an extended, system of education. Greece was now
alive, to an extent unknown before, with every kind186

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of mental activity and excitement. Material pros-
perity, if it ministered to sensual indulgences, in-
spired at the same time higher cravings, and afforded
scope and leisure for the consideration of questions
affecting man's moral and intellectual interests. It
was felt that the old and simple modes of instruction
were not adequate to the requirements of the time,
and that the newly awakened spirit must work out
its purposes by means of a more complex and arti-
ficial apparatus. What suited their forefathers did
not suit the present Athenians, and still less the
rising. generation.

3.	The Sophists took advantage of this movement;
they arose out of it, they headed it, and proclaimed
themselves ready and willing, for a handsome pecu-
niary consideration, to instruct the rising generation
in all the accomplishments necessary to secure their
advancement in the world. If they did not super-
sede the elementary discipline at that time in vogue,
they undertook to engraft upon it a more complete
and advanced system of instruction. Such was the
proposed vocation of the Sophists. How they dis-
charged it is a question on which much debate has
been expended; probably not so well as they them-
selves imagined, and perhaps not so badly as their
revilers are in the habit of asserting.

4.	In considering the Sophists and their vocation,
there are two characters in which they present them-THE SOPHISTS.

187

selves to our notice: first, as teachers generally;
and, secondly, as philosophers. In his account and
defence of the Sophists, which you will find in
vol. viii. of his ' History of Greece,' Mr Grote has
stated that the Sophists were not properly a sect,
but were merely a class or profession. By a sect is
meant a society which is held together by a unan-
imity of sentiment and opinion; by a class or profes-
sion is meant a body of men who exercise a particu-
lar vocation, but who do not all practise it in the
same way, or necessarily agree in their doctrines.
For example, it cannot be said of the professors in
our universities that they are a sect. We can only
say of them that they are a class. They all teach ;
but they do not all teach the same doctrines or in
the same way. In like manner, says Mr Grote, the
Sophists were not a sect, they had no common
groundwork of opinion, they were merely teachers;
and each man taught what he pleased to the best of
his ability and in his own way. It seems to me,
however, more correct to say that, viewed merely as
general teachers, the Sophists were a class or profes-
sion ; but that, viewed as philosophers, they properly
constituted a sect. For although they may have dif-
fered a good deal in their philosophical opinions,
they all agreed, as we shall see, in assuming a com-
mon principle as the basis of their speculations.
And accordingly I have laid down these two points
of view under which I think they may be regarded:
first, their character as general teachers, in which188

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

case they may be said to belong to a profession; and,
secondly, their character as philosophers, in which
case they may be said to constitute a sect. I shall
make a few remarks on the Sophists, considered
under each of these points of view.

5. The general character of the teaching of the
Sophists may be summed up by saying that they
adapted themselves to the wants of the times. They
took their age as they found it, and they did not
attempt to improve it; at least, this was not their
professed aim. They undertook to teach their pupils
how to get on in the world, how to play a successful
part in life; and rhetorical power being one great
means, being, indeed, the one great means towards
success, they strove above all things to impart oratori-
cal accomplishments to those whom they instructed.
But in such a system of instruction there is a strong
temptation to sacrifice substance to show. Where
rhetorical skill is regarded as paramount, the higher
ends of education are apt to be overlooked, for readi-
ness and fluency of speech may proceed out of empti-
ness, no less than out of fulness of mind; hence the
questionable or equivocal character of the method
of instruction attributed to the Sophists. That they
were useful in their day and generation is not to be
doubted. That their pupils frequently derived from
them substantial knowledge, along with the flimsier
acquisition of rhetoric, may be readily admitted. But
the main stress of their teaching being based ratherTHE SOPHISTS.

189

on the attainment of the superficial than on the
attainment of the solid, their character as instructors
of youth has come down to us laden with an obloquy
which may have been exaggerated by their opponents,
but which was certainly not altogether undeserved.

6.	The second point to be considered in our estimate
of the Sophists is the character of their philosophy.
Our limits will not permit me at present to go deeply
into the details of this subject; but there may be the
less occasion for doing so, inasmuch as we are able to
present in one celebrated maxim the sum and sub-
stance of their philosophy. This dogma is the saying,
that " man is the measure of the universe; " a maxim
attributed to Protagoras, but which may be accepted
as the watchword and common principle of all the
Sophists.

7.	The meaning of this saying is, that truth, mo-
rality, and beauty are altogether relative, that there
is nothing absolute or unchangeable in their nature.
The maxim is, indeed, under one point of view, a
condensed expression for the whole philosophy of the
relative. Whatever a man holds to be true is true
for him; whatever he holds to be right and good is
right and good for him; whatever he holds to be
beautiful is beautiful for him: and thus there is no
absolute or universal standard either of truth or of
morality or of beauty. It is obvious that where this
doctrine is carried out in detail it must have the190

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

effect of exploding truth, virtue, and beauty, con-
sidered as realities. It destroys them as objective and
essential qualities. It obliterates their absolute and
immutable character. It represents them as hinging
on the precarious constitution of mankind, and as
shifting with their shifting sensibilities.

8.	It would be an interesting inquiry to trace in
detail the causes which gave rise to the philosophy
of the Sophists. I must at present be satisfied with
remarking that the two main sources from which it
emanated seem to have been Anaxagoras's doctrine
of the vovs, or mind, as the supreme principle in na-
ture, and the doctrine of the Atomic school in regard
to sensation and perception. I shall say a word or
two on each of these points.

9.	First; Before the time of Anaxagoras, nature,
in her external and objective character, had been
held to be greater than man. Lofty as the aims and
aspirations of the preceding philosophers had been,
they had scarcely risen to the conception of an intel-
ligent power superior to nature. Anaxagoras rose to
this conception, he rose to the conception of spirit as
above nature, of mind as greater than matter. Here-
tofore men, philosophers as well as others, had bowed
down before nature. Now there was a principle
found greater than nature, and before that principle
nature herself must bow down. This principle is
mind, and wherever else mind may have a place, itTHE SOPHISTS.

191

dwells certainly in man: so that man is now set up
as superior to nature. It is rather for nature to pay
homage to him, than for him to pay homage to nature.
In a word, instead of the universe being the measure
of man, that is to say, instead of the universe impos-
ing its forms and modes upon man, man is the meas-
ure of the universe, and imposes his forms and modes
upon it. Such is the deduction of the Sophistical
dogma in so far as it may be traced to Anaxagoras.
His doctrine, that mind was the supreme principle,
that there was nothing higher, was converted by an
easy transition into the maxim that man, the mind
of man, is the measure of all things; that is, the mind
of man shapes and determines the truth.

10. Secondly; The new doctrine in regard to percep-
tion, either advanced by Leucippus and Democritus,
or deducible from their speculations, afforded strong
support to the fundamental principle of the Sophists.
Heretofore it had been thought that the secondary
qualities of matter, such as heat, cold, bitter, sweet,
sound, and colour, possessed an objective existence in
things, that they had a reality in themselves; now,
it was declared and argued, on strong grounds of rea-
son, that these qualities had no objective and inde-
pendent existence, but that they depended entirely
on the sentient mind of man. There was, in short,
no such thing as heat or cold out of relation to feel-
ing, no such thing as bitter or sweet out of relation
to the sense of taste, no such thing as colour out of192

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

relation to the sense of sight, no such thing as sound
out of relation to the sense of hearing. In fact, take
away man and his senses and you take from the uni-
verse all these qualities. Hence, in so far at least
as these are concerned, it may be said emphatically
that man is the measure of the universe; his consti-
tution determines its constitution. It is his nature
which gives to things their colour, their sound, their
taste, their touch, and their smell.

11.	These observations regarding sensation sup-
plied to the Sophists a very strong ground, as they
thought, on which to build their assertion that man
is the measure of all things. They generalised this
maxim. They laid it down in utmost latitude of
signification, and their consequent conclusion was, as
I have said, that there was nothing true in itself, or
right in itself, or beautiful in itself; just as a thing
was not sweet in itself, and not red in itself, but took
that taste and that colour from the sentient nature
of man, so nothing was true in itself or good in
itself, but everything derived these qualities from the
mind of the person contemplating them.

12.	There is only one way in which these Sophisti-
cal arguments can be met and rebutted, and that is
by drawing a distinction between the essential and
true nature, and the unessential and contingent
nature of man; in other words, between his univer-
sal nature, the nature he has in common with allTHE SOPHISTS.

193

intelligence, actual or possible, and his particular
nature, the nature which is peculiar to him as a
human being. If that distinction be made out, truth,
virtue, and beauty stand secure and unshaken; for no
one would claim for truth a more absolute character
than this, that whatever is accepted as true and right
by all intelligence, that is absolute and immutable
truth and right*. To fix, then, a standard of truth, of
morals, and of beauty, we must first fix a standard
of intelligence; in other words, we must show, or at
least hold, that there is a nature common to all intel-
ligence, and that man participates in this universal
nature. If that can be shown, truth and morals are
established as immutable; if, on the contrary, it be
held that there is no standard in intelligence, no
common nature in all reason, it must at the same
time be conceded that there is no standard in truth
or in morality.

13. From these remarks, it is obvious that there is
a sense in which the principle of the Sophists may be
accepted as sound and valid. Man is the measure
of the universe, in so far as he participates in the
nature of all intellect. In so far as he has a faculty
of the universal, a universal faculty, he is cognisant
of truth absolutely; but in so far as his particular
faculty, his senses and understanding, is concerned,
he is not the measure of the universe, not the recipi-
ent of truth as it is for all, but only of truth as it is
for him; that is to say, the recipient of mere appar-

N194

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ent truth, or of that which, strictly speaking, is not
truth at all.

14.	It was, however, in the latter sense that the
Sophists gave out that man was the measure of the
universe. They did not draw the distinction, but
we may say that virtually they acknowledged no
universal faculty in man. They regarded his parti-
cular or sensational nature as his essential constitu-
tion, and this sensational nature they set up as the
measure of all things. In short, their dogma, viewed
theoretically, led to this conclusion,—whatever ap-
pears to any individual to be true, that for him is
true; and viewed practically, it led to this conclu-
sion,—whatever appears to any individual to be ad-
vantageous, that for him is right.

15.	Socrates, as you are aware, stood forward as
the opponent of the Sophists. And he did so on the
ground which I have indicated. The Sophists had
set up man as supreme. They had represented truth
and virtue as contingent on his constitution. But
then they had regarded his constitution as precarious,
variable, and particular. Here was where the error
lay. Socrates accepted their position; he conceded
that truth and virtue depended on the constitution
of man; not, however, on the variable and particular
part of his nature, but on the invariable and univer-
sal part of his nature, on that faculty which he has
in common with all intelligence. And, arguing inTHE SOPHISTS.

195

this way, Socrates revindicated for truth and morals
the absolute and immutable and real nature of which
they had been deprived by the argumentation of the
Sophists.

16. In these remarks I have given you merely a
very general sketch of the doctrines of the Sophists.
I have indeed done little more than announce the
leading principle of their philosophy, showing you
very briefly how this principle—the maxim, namely,
that man is the measure of all things—how this
principle, if carried out as the Sophists interpreted it,
must have the effect of unsettling both truth and
morality. I have also indicated very briefly the
counter-principle which Socrates opposed to theirs,
and by means of which he reasserted the claims of
absolute truth and absolute morality, this principle
being the position that man is indeed the measure of
the universe, but that he is this, not in his contingent
and individual, but in his essential and universal
character. I shall have occasion to go more fully
into the details of this subject when I come to speak
of Socrates and Plato. Meanwhile, the following
may be accepted as a short summary of their posi-
tion. The Sophists hold that man can know things
only as they are related to his faculties of know-
ledge; an undeniable truth, which, however, they
conjoined, virtually, if not expressly, with this more
questionable position, that man has no faculty of
the universal, that is, no faculty for the truth as it196

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

exists for all reason; that there is no common
nature in all intelligence; that man's reason is a
particular kind of reason. These two positions, first,
that man can know things only in relation to his
own faculties—and, secondly, that there is no com-
mon nature, no essential agreement in all intelligence;
these two positions afforded a ground for the con-
clusion that truth must vary according to the varia-
tions of the mind contemplating it; that it was
fluctuating and unstable, indeed, that in the strict
sense of the word there was no truth at all; while,
at the same time, they afforded a ground for the
conclusion that morality was altogether arbitrary
and conventional, depending on the changing hu-
mours of society, and even on the wayward caprice
of individuals.

17. I may conclude by mentioning the names of
three of the most celebrated Sophists. These were
Protagoras, Gorgias, and Prodicus; of these Protago-
ras was the most distinguished. He was a native of
Abdera in Thrace, was born 480 B.C., died about 410
B.C. Gorgias was born in Sicily; he was a contem-
porary of Protagoras, and was born about 480 B.C.
He is said to have lived more than a hundred years.
Prodicus wTas a native of the Island Ceos; he was a
good deal younger than the other two, but the dates
of his birth and death are uncertain. To this philo-
sopher, Sophist though he was, one of the finest moral
fables of antiquity is ascribed, commonly known byTHE SOPHISTS.

197

the title ' The Choice of Hercules.' It is related in
Xenophon's ' Memorabilia/ B. ii.

18.	To understand the position, and the conduct,
and the character, and the philosophy of Socrates,
it is necessary that we get all the light we possibly
can in regard to the tenets of the Sophists. I there-
fore go on with the consideration of their opinions.

19.	In order to reach still more definite results,
let us consider what their psychology, that is to say,
what their doctrine, was in regard to the nature of
man, considered as an isolated individual, or viewed in
his unsocial capacity. You will observe that man pre-
sents himself to our notice under two points of view ;
as a member of society, and as a man simply, and
irrespective of all social relations ; in other and shorter
words, as a citizen and as an individual. Now, the
question is, What are the attributes and constituents
of man considered as an individual ? What are they as
distinguished from his attributes and constituents, con-
sidered as a member of society ? Let us try to sepa-
rate between that which man receives directly from
nature, and that which he imbibes sensibly or insen-
sibly from his companionship with his fellows. This,
indeed, is the great problem which, although perhaps
never very clearly enunciated, is, and has ever been,
the business of moral philosophy to resolve. Probably
the Sophists had as clear an apprehension of it as198

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

any subsequent philosophers ; at any rate they were
the first to broach it. In their language the question
would be put thus, What is man by nature (fyvaei),
and what is he by convention and fashion (vo/jlg>) ? The
exposition of what man is by nature would constitute
the psychology of the Sophists: the exposition of what
he is by convention would constitute their ethics.
But it is not difficult to see that, arising out of their
psychology and immediately connected with it, there
would be what we may call a code of natural ethics,
as distinguished from that code of conventional or
social or artificial ethics to which the name of ethics
is more properly applied. Indeed this word ethics is
properly applied to man only when in society; still
it may be allowable to apply it to man in a pure
state of nature when we explain it as meaning those
natural commands which prompt and impel every
sentient creature to gratify its wants.

20. Before touching on any of these points, either
on the psychology or the ethics of the Sophists, let
me call your attention to an important consideration
which throws, I think, much light on their mode of
inquiry. The consideration is this, that whatever
can be shown to be imposed upon man by Nature,
must be more binding and authoritative than that
which is imposed upon him merely by society.
Nature's commands must be obeyed first, because
Nature is primary and fundamental; society's com-
mands must be obeyed only in the second instance,THE SOPHISTS.

199

because society is less real, less cogent than Nature;
and where the two commands are at variance, where
Nature pulls one way and social morality another
way, Nature must be yielded to, because nature is
weightier, and in every way more venerable, than con-
vention. That doctrine, you will observe (and it is a
doctrine which carries with it a good deal of plausi-
bility), opens a door to the inroads of every species
of licentiousness. I do not believe that the Sophists
themselves ever opened that door very wide; but
they indicated its existence, and some of them cer-
tainly left it ajar, to the perplexity and alarm of all
right-minded citizens. This consideration may serve
to show that the estimate usually formed as to the
dangerous and pernicious tendency of the Sophistical
speculators, although exaggerated, is not altogether
wrong. This remark is somewhat digressive. I
return to the psychology of the Sophists, on which
I shall say a very few words.

21. This prime question of moral philosophy, as I
have called it, is no easy one to answer, for it is no
easy matter to effect the discrimination out of which
the answer must proceed. It is a question, perhaps,
to which no complete, but only an approximate,
answer can be returned. One common mistake is to
ascribe more to the natural man than properly be-
longs to him, to ascribe to him attributes and endow-
ments which belong only to the social and artificial
man. Some writers—Hutcheson, for example, and he200	' GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

is followed by many others—are of opinion that man
naturally has a conscience or moral sense which dis-
criminates between right and wrong, just as he has
naturally a sense of taste, wThich distinguishes between
sweet and bitter, and a sense of sight, which discrimi-
nates between red and blue, or a sentient organism,
which distinguishes between pleasure and pain. That
man has by nature, and from the first, the possibility
of attaining to a conscience is not to be denied. That
he has within him by birthright something out of
which conscience is developed, I firmly believe; and
what this is I shall endeavour by-and-by to show,
when I come to speak of Socrates and his philosophy
as opposed to the doctrines of the Sophists. But that
the man is furnished by nature with a conscience
ready-made, just as he is furnished with a ready-
made sensational apparatus, this is a doctrine in
which I have no faith, and which I regard as alto-
gether erroneous. It arises out of the disposition to
attribute more to the natural man than properly be-
longs to him. The other error into which inquirers
are apt to fall in making a discrimination between
what man is by nature, and what he is by convention,
is the opposite of the one just mentioned. They
sometimes attribute to the natural man less than pro-
perly belongs to him. And this, I think, was the
error into which the Sophists were betrayed. They
fell into it inadvertently, and not with any design
of embracing or promulgating erroneous opinions.
We shall see by-and-by how Socrates availed himselfTHE SOPHISTS.

201

of this error in the psychology of the Sophists, and
how he corrected it.

22.	In answer to the question, What, and what
alone, appertains to man by nature ? the Sophists
replied in one word, sensation. It is certain that man
has by nature certain senses, and that he is naturally
sensitive to pleasure and to pain. He has also, as
part of his constitution, certain appetites, passions,
and desires. Some of these, however, exist only in
society, and are probably created only by our contact
with society. The other appetites and passions which
man brings with him into the world are so in-
timately connected with organic pleasure or pain
that they may be placed under the head of sensation,
and thus sensation, or a susceptibility and experience
of pleasure or of pain, is properly all that belongs to
man by nature. That this attribute is natural to
him is what cannot be for a moment doubted. He
comes into the world feeling, that is, alive to enjoy-
ment or suffering, at every pore. In regard to all his
other attributes, we cannot be sure that they are not
entirely due to the influences and operation of society.

23.	To what extent the Sophists admitted thought
to be an indigenous property of man seems somewhat
uncertain. It is probable that they did not admit it
as anything different from sensation. They either
slurred it over without much notice, or they regard-
ed it as the natural sequent or accompaniment of202

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

sensation, and as itself resolvable into sensation.
This latter attribute, together with certain appe-
tites and desires, these alone, in the psychology
of the Sophists, were the original furnishings of
human nature. Sensation was the foundation on
which the whole superstructure of humanity and of
society rested. The Sophists were thus the first in-
quirers who distinctly propounded a philosophy of
pure sensationalism, that is to say, a doctrine which
refers all the phenomena of thought, and all the
operations of the mind, to sensation as their ultimate
source and origin. This doctrine has had many
advocates, both in ancient and in modern times. The
English philosopher, Locke, lent it his countenance,
although not without some reservations. The French
philosophers of the eighteenth century put aside
these reservations, and proclaimed a doctrine of sen-
sationalism without any qualification; but the first
who propounded the doctrine were the Sophists.
Their psychology began and ended in sensationalism.

24. In a state of nature, then, and apart from
society and all its relations, man, according to the
Sophists, is a mere creature of sensation, includ-
ing under that term certain appetites and de-
sires, and the experience of pleasure and of pain.
This is what man is in himself; he is, as he comes
from the workshop of nature, a mere series or com-
plement or congeries of sensations. That, say the
Sophists, is what man, the individual or isolatedTHE SOPHISTS.

203

man, is, as distinguished from the social or gre-
garious man. Out of this psychology a system of
what we may call natural ethics would evolve itself.
To a creature made up of sensations the law of self-
preservation and of self-enjoyment must be the most
authoritative of all commands. Such a being must
necessarily pursue its own gratification; for pleasure
is sweet and attractive, pain is hateful and repulsive,
to all the organised creation. Hence, whatever con-
fers pleasure on the individual will be passionately
run after and approved of, whatever inflicts pain will
be anxiously shunned and condemned. "Nature,"
says Jeremy Bentham, "has placed mankind under
the governance of two sovereign masters, pleasure
and pain. It is for them alone to point out what we
ought to do, as well as to determine what we shall
do." Whether, and in what sense, pleasure and pain
may be said to be the two sovereign masters of man-
kind in a state of society, I shall not at present stop
to inquire: but it is certain that they must be the
only two governing principles of man, viewed as a
mere sensational being, and considered as he is in
himself and out of all relation to his fellows. His
ethics, in such a case, could scarcely be called self-
ish, for selfishness implies not only an exclusive
regard to one's self, but a disregard to the claims of
others. But there are no others at present in the
case, and therefore their claims cannot be disre-
garded ; but in so far as an exclusive regard to one's
self is concerned, the natural ethics which arise out204

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of the psychology of the Sophists must be pro-
nounced to be virtually of a purely selfish character.
The same law of nature which makes a man suscep-
tible of pleasure and of pain, giving no other guides,
imposes on him the duty of securing the one and of
avoiding the other to the utmost degree in which
they can be secured and avoided.

25. Thus furnished by nature, man is turned
adrift into the world. He comes upon the scene
equipped with sensations which constitute his very
existence, and with a natural code of ethics which
oblige him to preserve himself and to enjoy himself
as much as he possibly can. Thus the isolated man,
man as he comes from nature, man with his indi-
vidual interests, is the measure of the universe to
himself. Whatever his sensations bring home to
him as true and real is true and real for him, what-
ever it may be in itself. His sensations are for him
true and real, although all beyond should be illusion
or nonentity, and these sensations are for him the
universe. Then again, whatever promotes agreeable
sensations is right for him, whatever it may be in
itself; whatever promotes disagreeable sensations is
wrong for him, whatever it may be in itself Thus
man is, as the Sophists say, the measure of the uni-
verse. His individual nature measures and deter-
mines its reality. His individual nature measures
and determines what in the universe is right and
what in the universe is wrong.THE SOPHISTS.

205

26. But although man comes into the world thus
naturally equipped, he finds there much that is at
variance with these natural provisions. He finds
established in society a code of morality which is by
no means in accordance with what we have called
the ethics of nature. By the ethics of nature man is
bound to regard his own interests as paramount, and
to look after these alone; by the ethics of society
he is called upon to respect the interests of others,
as well as to abridge or sacrifice his own pleasures,
and to lay a restraint on his self-indulgent appetites.
These new regulations square but badly with the
injunctions laid upon him by nature. And the pur-
port of the Sophistical teaching was, I conceive, to
point out the inconsistency, without offering any
adequate solution. Their object was to stir up in-
quiry, and as a preliminary to this, it was necessary
to induce perplexity of mind. Doubts and difficul-
ties must present themselves before any clearness of
thought can be attained. These doubts and diffi-
culties and contradictions were evolved by the ar-
gumentative exercitations of the Sophists; and I
conceive that their exhibition was absolutely essen-
tial to the progress of philosophy, and as a step to
something better. Let us honour and not disparage
the Sophists for having been at the pains to throw
these embarrassments (what the Greeks called anrplai)
in the way of thinking men. They argued that the
morals of nature were opposed in much to the mo-
rals of convention, that the morals of nature were206

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

supremely authoritative, inasmuch as they were
grounded on nature herself. Nature herself is here
the ground of our obligation, and under her behests
we are bound to pursue to the utmost our own plea-
sure and avoid our own pain. But on what are the
morals of society grounded ? On something much
less authoritative, on mere convention or arbitrary
agreement among men. But these conventional
rules are, or at least appear to be, less obligatory
than the injunctions laid upon us by our own appe-
tites, passions, and desires. Why, then, should they
be obeyed ? what, in short, is the ground of the
moral obligation imposed upon us by society ? The
ground on which man's obligation as an individual
rests is, as I have said, obvious enough; it rests
upon nature herself. But man's obligations as a
citizen do not rest on nature, for they stand opposed
to much which nature dictates. On what, then, do
they rest ? what is the ground of social moral obli-
gation? For the raising of this question we are
mainly indebted to the Sophists, to the spirit, if not
to the letter, of their inquiries; and the question
seems to have been brought to light in some such
manner as I have described, namely, by playing off
the natural or isolated man against the social and
artificial man—the individual, taken simply and as he
is in himself, against the individual taken socially,
and as he is in company with his fellow-men.

27. I have said that the Sophists furnished noTHE SOPHISTS.

207

adequate solution to the question as to the grounds
of the moral obligation which society imposes on its
members, nor did they profess to furnish any, their
object being rather to induce perplexity and provoke
discussion. But some solution they certainly did
attempt, and some of their views were not unlike
those propounded by the Utilitarians of the present
day. I shall merely touch upon these answers.
Some of the Sophists contended that might was the
ground of moral obligation; that the strong, who
were able to enforce conformity, determined what
was right, determined this either by positive enact-
ments or by the force of public opinion, and that
hence the weaker were constrained to obedience
through fear. Another party, according to Plato,
contended that although injustice was right by na-
ture, inasmuch as nature prompted a man to grasp
at everything he could reach without giving heed to
the claims of others, still it was wrong by conven-
tion, for this reason, that the man who committed
injustice would be sure at one time or other to
suffer from injustice; and therefore, in order to
avoid this suffering, which to him would be wrong
and grievous, he would refrain from committing in-
justice, however right and agreeable he may think
it. According to this doctrine, it is good for each
man to commit acts of injustice on others, it is bad
to have acts of injustice committed on one's self; and
hence, as it is impossible to avoid the latter without
also giving up the former, men agree to abstain from208

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

acts of injustice, doing so, not because they conceive
injustice to be bad when they actively inflict it, but
because they conceive it to be bad when they pas-
sively endure it. The pain which they feel when
they suffer from injustice outweighs, for the most
part, the pleasure which they feel when they commit
it; and hence injustice comes to be stamped with
general reprobation, and its opposite with general ap-
plause. Such an explanation represents self-interest
in its most undisguised form as the ground of moral
obligation. Others, again, would argue that the ad-
vantage and wellbeing of the community, of which
each man was a member, was promoted by the ob-
servance of these moral rules; and hence the promo-
tion of this welfare was a sufficient reason why these
rules should be observed. The promotion and main-
tenance of the wellbeing of society was thus set forth
as the ground of moral obligation. This is no other
than the modern doctrine of Utilitarianism.

28. These solutions,-however, were felt to be in-
adequate and unsatisfactory. It was felt, in partic-
ular, that no true conciliation was effected by such
explanations between what we have called the nat-
ural ethics of the individual and the conventional
ethics of the citizen. The question still remained
unanswered, Why, when a man could commit injus-
tice with the certainty of impunity both in the pres-
ent and in the future, he should not commit it ? On
what ground, and for what reason, it might still beTHE SOPHISTS.

209

asked, should he, in such circumstances, not commit
injustice ? No Sophistical theory was able to answer
that question; or if they answered it at all, their
answer was, that a man in the position indicated
should just follow the bent of his natural inclinations
and commit injustice, doing what seemed to him
good in his own eyes, and not what was reckoned
good in the estimation of society. The commands
of nature carry more authority than the laws and
regulations of society; therefore, when they can be
obeyed with impunity, they ought to be, and they
will be, obeyed. Such was the spirit and tendency
of much of the Sophistical mode of argumentation.

0SOCKATES.

1. There were two ways in which the perplexities
occasioned by the argumentations of the Sophists
might be encountered and rebutted. The one way
was by abjuring all inquiry, and by falling back,
in blind faith, on the old traditional morality as a
matter too sacred to be questioned or investigated.
This was the course adopted by the orthodox or
civic or conservative party in Athens, the party of
whom Aristophanes may be taken as the mouthpiece
and representative. Looking merely to the mischief
which the agitation of the Sophists tended to pro-
duce, and had perhaps actually produced, they be-
came clamorous in their denunciations of these new
pretenders to wisdom. They set their faces against
the freedom of thought and of inquiry which these
innovators had inaugurated. Their subtlety they
regarded as empty quibbling—as a quibbling, how-
ever, which was dangerous to the institutions and
the interests of society; and their reasonings, they
held, should be put down rather by persecution than
by argument. That was their idea of the way inSOCRATES.

211

which the Sophists should be dealt with. This party
took its stand on the ancient beliefs, it clung to the
social order and to the prescriptive morals which it
had inherited from time immemorial, as a divinely
appointed system. It reverenced them all the more
on account of the obscurity in which their origin
was shrouded; and it threatened vengeance against
all who, by intellectual sophistications, would in-
fringe or imperil institutions so venerable and so
benign.

2. The other way of dealing with the Sophists
was that which Socrates followed out. Unlike the
orthodox party, he was far from being at variance
with the Sophists in regard to the fundamental posi-
tion which they had taken up; on the contrary, he
cordially agreed with them as to the,propriety, indeed
the necessity, of subjecting the institutions of society
and everything in which man was interested, or
about which man could speculate, to the ordeal of a
rigorous examination. No Sophist was ever more
keenly bent on free and searching inquiry than he:
and this is the reason why he has frequently, and not
erroneously, been identified to a large extent with
that party. If Socrates had been compelled to make
his option between the Sophists and the old stub-
born citizen party at Athens, there is little doubt
which side he would have chosen. He would have
thrown in his lot with the Sophists; for this party
was at any rate awake and flexible with intellectual212

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

life and movement, whereas the other party was stiff
and stolid, was sunk in a dogmatic slumber, was
stationary if not retrograde. But Socrates was not
compelled to choose between these two parties;
another course was open to him, and on that other
course he entered. He agreed with the Sophists in
calling for free inquiry; but he demanded, further,
that that inquiry should be thoroughgoing and com-
plete, more thoroughgoing and complete than it had
been under the management of the Sophists. This,
then, was the preliminary ground on which Socrates
opposed the Sophists; their inquiry into the nature
of man he held had been partial, inadequate, and
superficial; his professed to be more radical, more
searching, and more comprehensive.

3. We have now to consider in what respect
Socrates deemed the inquiry of the Sophists to be
partial and incomplete, and how he endeavoured to
supplement it; but, first of all, let me apprise you,
that in attempting to work out the philosophy of
Socrates, I shall be compelled, in the absence of full
and accurate historical data, to draw considerably on
my own reflections for materials, and to fill in de-
tails which, though implied and hinted at, are not
explicitly presented in any of the remains which are
extant of the Socratic doctrines. In attempting to
give a consistent and intelligible account of the
Socratic system, both as it is in itself and as it
stands opposed to the doctrines of the Sophists, ISOCRATES.

213

shall be obliged to attribute to him opinions which
even Plato does not articulately vouch for as belong-
ing to Socrates. I shall be under the necessity of
showing that he virtually, although obscurely, raised
and resolved questions which were not expressly or
definitely propounded until after his time. This,
therefore, has to be kept in view, that although all
that I shall attribute to Socrates has, I conceive, a
sufficient warrant in the general scope and spirit
of his philosophy, there will be some things in my
exposition for which no exact historical authority
can be adduced. This course will, at any rate, con-
duce to intelligibility; and it is better, I conceive, to
be intelligible by overstepping somewhat the literal
historical record, than to be unintelligible, as we
must be, if we confine ourselves slavishly within it.
It is bad to violate the truth of history, but the truth
of history is not violated, it is rather cleared up,
when we evolve out of the opinions of an ancient
philosopher, more than the philosopher himself was
conscious of these opinions containing. Such an
evolution I propose to attempt in dealing with the
philosophy of Socrates.

4. We have already seen that the psychology of
the Sophists represented the natural man as cen-
tring entirely in sensation. Sensation, with its
pleasures and its pains, was so prominent and im-
portunate, the knowledge which it imparted, or ap-
peared to impart, was so various and so assured—214

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

assured at least in so far as the individual affected by
the sensations was concerned—that it threw all the
other mental phenomena completely into the shade.
The Sophists indeed held, as I have said, that there
were no other mental phenomena, no phenomena
which were not resolvable into one form or other of
sensation, no phenomena which had not their origin
in this all - comprehensive endowment. But the
question may be raised, Is sensation thus exclusive
and all-comprehensive ? Is it the all in all of human
nature ? Is it the one and only endowment of man,
viewed even in his most elementary condition as an
isolated and unsocial individual ? That was pre-
cisely the question which Socrates raised, and he
answered it in the negative. Man is not a mere
series of sensations. Even in his most primitive
state, and as he comes from the hands of nature,
there are elements within him entirely different from
sensation. This position was equivalent to declaring,
that the analysis or inquiry of the Sophists had been
partial and incomplete. And such, I said, was the
position taken up by Socrates at the outset.

5. I remarked on a former occasion, that thought
or thinking was a phenomenon, was rather the phe-
nomenon, which the Sophists had neglected to take
into account. In prosecuting their inquiries they
had, of course, made use of thought, for they could not
have conducted their researches or their arguments
without it; but they had employed it merely as theSOCRATES.

215

instrument, and not as the object of their researches.
They did not turn a reflective eye upon the instru-
ment or medium through which their observations
were made. Just as the astronomer does not look
at his telescope, but looks through it at the stars,
so the Sophists overlooked thought itself, and at-
tended merely to what was revealed to them through
its means. But, in consequence of this oversight,
their analysis was exceedingly defective; because,
while it is quite proper that the astronomer should
overlook his instrument, the telescope, inasmuch as
some star, or whatever the object may be, is all that
he is professing to examine, it is by no means pro-
per that thought, the instrument of the philosopher,
should be overlooked in the same way. Thought is
not only the philosopher's instrument, it is also the
object or part of the object which the philosopher is
called upon to investigate and explain. He pro-
fesses to examine human nature; if, therefore, he
merely employs thought in the examination without
making it part of the thing examined, he is not faith-
ful to his calling, he is leaving out of the survey an
element which the survey ought to embrace; his
observations, accordingly, will be imperfect, and his
report false and incomplete. This was what befell
the investigations of the Sophists. Their report of
human nature was defective, because it left out of
account the element of thought, an element which,
no less than sensation, although in a much less
obtrusive degree than sensation, is a characteristic216

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

endowment even of the natural man. Thought was
the element which Socrates found fault with the
Sophists for having overlooked.

6. Here, perhaps, an objection might be raised. It
might be said that thought has no place in the econ-
omy of the purely natural man, but that it owes its
being entirely to the action and the influences of so-
ciety. It might be argued, in the language of modern
schools, that thought is a secondary and derivative,
not a primary and original formation. It is not im-
probable that this was what the Sophists actually
maintained. I said formerly that they either ignored
thought, or merged this phenomenon in the pheno-
mena of sensation. Perhaps this assertion should be
qualified by the statement that there was still another
way in which some of them disposed of the phenome-
non of thought, another point of view under which they
regarded it, and that was, its conventional character
and origin. They may have held that thought was
due to the social circumstances in the midst of which
man was placed, no less than the rules of morality
were due to these same circumstances. And if this
were the case, if this could be made out, it would
leave sensation as the sole fundamental constituent of
human nature; in which case, the contradiction be-
tween nature and convention, the opposition between
what man was in himself and what he was through
his contact with society, the discord or antagonism
between the natural ethics of sensation and desireSOCKATES.

217

and the artificial ethics of social life, would remain
unreconciled. In short, all the perplexities and
doubts and difficulties called forth and set in motion
by the speculations of the Sophists would continue
uncounteracted, and would subsist in full activity
and force. As part, therefore, of the Socratic dialec-
tic, it was quite indispensable to show that thought
was an indigenous endowment, a quality of human
nature no less than sensation, appetite, and desire.
This proof, accordingly, was the main part of the
business which Socrates was called upon to perform.
He had to prove that thought was man's by nature,
and that it was entirely different from sensation, and
its accompaniments, passion and desire. Here I shall
have to introduce, as I said, some links of specula-
tion which are not to be found in any extant record
of the Socratic doctrines; but I believe that I shall
deviate in no respect from the spirit of the Socratic
procedure, and that I shall advance nothing which
has not a basis and warrant in the principles of the
philosopher himself.

7. To determine whether thought is natural or
acquired, is primary or derivative, we must of course
ascertain first of all what thought is, what it is in
itself, and as distinguished from everything else.
This can only be effected by self-reflection, by
rigorous self-examination. Hence the maxim which
Socrates assumed as the very watchword of his sys-
tem, as the very condition on which alone any phil-218

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

osophy is possible, yva)0c aeavrov, know thyself. That
is very easily said, and to some extent, and in a
superficial way, it is perhaps very easily done. But
to do it really and effectually, to know ourselves
truly, to get to the bottom of what we are as thinking
beings; to know what thought is in itself, and as dis-
tinguished from sensation, to perceive that it is our
very essence, and to make others perceive this also;
this is indeed no easy matter, but, on the contrary,
the hardest task in which a philosopher can be en-
gaged. This precept, <yvcio0i creavrov, has usually been
employed as the text or motto of an empty and com-
monplace morality. Know thyself, and thou shalt
know how frail and fallible thou art. Thus inter-
preted, the maxim loses much of its vitality and
significance: it becomes irrelevant, and indeed mis-
leading : it turns the footsteps of inquirers off into a
wrong path. For the proper question is not, What is
the strength or the weakness, the extent or the limi-
tations, of man's capacities ? That is a subordinate
question. The true question is, What is the nature
of these capacities ? what is thought itself ? Tell us
afterwards what you please about its weakness or
its limitations; but tell us first of all what it is in
itself. When we say, then, that 71mdt, creavrov is the
first injunction of philosophy, we are not to under-
stand this precept as having any reference to the
quantity, that is, to the strength or the weakness, the
power or the impotence, of our capacities, but only
to their quality, that is, to their nature and essence.SOCEATES.

219

This is by far the more profound and important of
the two inquiries, although the maxim which incul-
cates it has been usually assumed by moral declaimers
as a text from which they might expatiate on the
other theme—the weakness, namely, and the falli-
bility of man.

8. We have, then, studiously to examine our-
selves, with the view of ascertaining what thought is,
and how it is distinguished from sensation. It is a
common saying, both in ordinary discourse and in
metaphysical disquisition, that thought is free and
active, that sensation is necessitated and passive; in
other words, that our mental freedom and activity
consist in thought, while our mental receptivity or
passivity consists in sensation. The mind is free and
active when it thinks: it is compelled and passive
when it feels. This statement is perfectly correct
and true, but it does not carry us far. These words
" free and active" throw no light whatever on the
nature of thought, until after we have discovered
what thought is; and then, but not till then, do we
see that they are proper epithets to apply to it. To
ascertain, then, what thought is, we are thrown en-
tirely upon our own reflection. I must confess that
I have found in books very little help towards
clearing up the mystery. Books, indeed, lend us
only the feeblest assistance. They tell us, as I have
said, that thought is free and active; but there they
leave us, to find out the meaning of these words for220

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ourselves. To find out this meaning, to ascertain
what that is to which these epithets apply, we are
thrown on our own resources, on our own medita-
tions; and to these accordingly I now propose to
have recourse.

9. Suppose that I am pricked or scratched with a
pin. I feel a sensation, a sensation of pain. I feel
this whether I will or not. I cannot help myself.
Here I am necessitated and passive. The sensation
is imposed upon me, is given to me, without my
having had any hand in bringing it on. Suppose,
now, that, besides feeling this sensation, I think it.
Now, can any of you tell me wherein the distinction
here stated consists, the distinction, viz., between
feeling the pain and thinking the pain ? That there
is some distinction is obvious. But what it precisely
amounts to, or wherein it lies, is not so obvious. I
know very well that you must experience great diffi-
culty in conceiving what the distinction can be be-
tween feeling a sensation—the pain, for example,
occasioned by the prick of a pin—and thinking that
sensation. The two, the feeling and the thought of
it, are so inseparably blended, that it seems as if no
analysis could divide them. The sensation of the
pain seems so closely incorporated with the thought
of the pain, the sensation, at least, seems to bring the
thought along with it so instantaneously as its neces-
sary sequent or adjunct, that the two seem to be not
two, but only one. Hence philosophers, while theySOCRATES.

221

have admitted some sort of distinction between the
two, have at the same time treated the distinction as
if it were no distinction at all. In their hands it has
evaporated in mere empty phrases, and none of them,
so far as I know, has ever told us distinctly what
sensation is as distinguished from thought, or what
thought is as distinguished from sensation. I can
assure you, however, that the difference between them
is most extreme and momentous. It is so extreme as
to justify and bear out the doctrine that man is ab-
solutely distinguished from the lower animals by the
power of thought, that thinking is, in fact, his dif-
ferentia—a doctrine frequently proclaimed, although
even the philosophers who have proclaimed it most
zealously have never themselves been able, so far as
I know, to explain distinctly wherein the distinction
consists, or to tell us precisely what thought is as
distinguished from sensation.

10. This distinction I shall now attempt to expli-
cate, tracing out what seem to me to be the lines,
although they are very faint, of the Socratic design.
But, as preparatory to my explication of the nature
of thought, let me first try to explain what sensation
precisely is. The nature of thought will be better
understood when contrasted with the nature of sen-
sation. First, then, of sensation. Each sensation,
whatever it may be, is that sensation, and not more
than that sensation. It is precisely it, and nothing
less than it, nothing more than it. For example,222

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the pain I feel from the prick or scratch of the pin
is that particular pain only. It is not another case
of pain either similar to or different from the pain
which I am actually feeling. No, it is that pain
alone, and nothing but that pain. Reflect carefully
on this matter; examine your own sensations, and I
think you will be convinced of the truth of what I
say. When you feel a pain or a pleasure you do not
feel any pain or any pleasure ; but only that pain or
that pleasure which occupies you at the time. You
do not even feel any pain or any pleasure of some
particular kind, but only that single pain or that
single pleasure. Again: when you feel the prick or
scratch of a pin, you do not feel it as my pain or as
any other person's pain, but only as your own pain.
Further, you do not feel it as taking place to-morrow
or yesterday; but only as taking place in the present
time. Further still, you do not feel it as taking place
in Edinburgh or in London, but only as taking place
in St Andrews, and only in one spot in St Andrews,
namely, in that particular part of your own body
which is impinged upon. It is the character, then,
of each sensation to be precisely the sensation which
it is. When we feel merely, we are limited, strictly
and literally limited, to the single feeling which en-
gages us, to the single time and to the single place
in which the feeling occurs. Feeling or sensation is,
in the strictest sense of the word, a singular. That
is its characteristic, and this we must suppose to be
the condition in which the lower animals are placed.SOCRATES.

223

They are limited to sensations, and each sensation
being only and exactly what it is, in other words,
being what we call an absolute singular, the lower
animals neyer rise above singulars. They are, in
truth, a mere series of sensations, which we suppose
to be united in their persons, but which they (the
animals) do not suppose to be either united or dis-
united, because such a supposition would imply the
presence of a power very different from sensation,
a power of reducing these different impressions to
the unity of one consciousness, which power the
animals have not, and of which I am now about to
speak.

11. Let us now, in the second place, consider what
the nature of thought is. Secondly, then, of thought.
The characteristic of thought is exactly the reverse
of that which I have described to you as the charac-
teristic of sensation. Thought is contradistinguished
from sensation in this, that the thought of a particular
thing is never the thought of that particular thing
only, but is always the thought of something else as
well, of something more than that particular thing.
So that we may say with truth, although the expres-
sion is somewhat paradoxical, that each thought is
never exactly what it is. It is never exactly and
literally and exclusively what it is, in the same way
as each sensation is always exactly and literally and
exclusively what it is. Perhaps it would be more
correct to say that the object of each thought is never224

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

that object exclusively; and thus that a sensation,
when it is the object of thought, is never that sensa-
tion only, but that what is thought of is always that
sensation, and something more. In explanation of
this, let us revert to our former illustration. You
should now be able to tell me what takes place in
your minds when you feel the pain occasioned by the
prick of the pin, and what takes place in your minds
when you think of that pain. You should now be
able to distinguish between thought and sensation.
Consider the matter, and you will find that the dis-
tinction is this: When you feel the pain, you feel
that pain merely, that particular pain, and no other;
but when you think that pain, you do not think that
pain merely, you think other pains as well; that
is, you think any pain of that kind, and even, to
some extent, other pain not exactly of that kind.
The present pain is merely apprehended as a sample
of what may occur again. It is thought of as an in-
stance of pain, which, of course, implies the thought
of something more than it. That is undoubtedly the
process which your mind performs in thinking, and
unless it goes through that process it does not think
the pain at all; you merely continue to feel it, but
you cannot be said to think it. In thinking the
pain, then, your mind travels out of and beyond the
particular pain which you are feeling. Your sen-
sation never travels beyond that pain. For instance,
in thinking the pain, you think it, or may think it,
as affecting me or anybody else; but you do not andSOCRATES.

225

cannot, feel it as affecting me or any one except your-
self. In thinking it you can think it as the pain of
yesterday or to-morrow; but you do not, cannot, feel
it except as the pain of the present time. Again, in
thinking, you can think it as pain in Edinburgh or in
London; but you cannot feel it except in the place
where it is, namely, in your own organism. I have
said that in thinking the pain you can think other
cases of the same or similar pains. I now say that
you not only can, but you must, do this if you really
think the pain. The very essence of thinking con-
sists in having more before the mind than the case
more ostensibly present to it. The instant you think
the pain, you do, and must, in that act, think other
cases (potential cases they may be) of the same.
Thought cannot, by any possibility, be held fast to
one singular instance of a thing, whether that thing
be a pain, a pleasure, a material object, or anything
else. If it were or could be so bound, it would not
be thought, but feeling. When you look at a chair,
so long as you have merely a sensation of it, your
sensation is a sensation of that particular chair, and
of nothing else. Such a state of mind is scarcely con-
ceivable ; but we may conceive it to be the predica-
ment in which our domestic animals are placed when
they contemplate our household furniture. Such a
state of the human mind, I say, is hardly conceiv-
able, because in looking at a chair we instantly think
it. But in thinking it what do we do ? We think
not only it, but much besides. We think it as one of

P226

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

a number of chairs, either actual or possible chairs,
it does not matter which. It is a specimen of what
may be before the mind again, and again, and again;
and not only that—those things of which the present
chair is a type or instance, and which I have denoted
by the words again, and again, and again — these
things are, in some sort, actually present to the mind
along with the chair which is before it, although it is
very difficult to say in what way they are present to
it. This at any rate is certain, that to regard the
chair as a type of other chairs, to view it as one of
a class, as a specimen of which nj.ore examples are
possible, this is to think it. This is what the mind
does, and must do, in thinking anything, whether its
object be a material thing or a sensation of pleasure
or pain, or anything else whatsoever, The mind is
always occupied with more than that particular thing,
and in this respect thinking is diametrically different
from feeling, which is never occupied with more than
the particular sensation present. To think is to have
the mind occupied with a thing and a class,

12. "We are very apt in ordinary discourse to use
the words thought and feeling as synonymous, and
thus to confound the processes which each respec-
tively expresses. For example, a man says, I feel a
pain to-day similar to one which I felt yesterday;
and in speaking thus he seems to himself to feel a
resemblance between the two pains. But in that
supposition he is completely mistaken. It is impos-SOCRATES.

227

sible for him to feel this resemblance, he can only
think it; and in thinking it he must have viewed
the pain of yesterday as one of a number of possible
cases of pain; that is to say, he must have taken into
account something over and above the mere pain it-
self, and in thinking it (viz., the resemblance) he must
also have viewed the pain of to-day as a case of which
other instances were possible, and of which another
instance had occurred yesterday; that is to say, he
must have actually taken into account something over
and above the mere present pain itself. It is thus
not the mere feeling of the two pains which enables
him to make the comparison, and to pronounce that
they resemble each other, for in neither case is it pos-
sible for the mere feeling to indicate anything beyond
itself. It is the thought of each sensation, that is,
it is the thought of each sensation, and of something
more than each sensation, which enables the man to
make the comparison, and to pronounce on the simi-
larity of the pains.

13. The preceding remarks, gathered up into a
short statement, will amount to this. In answer to
the question, What is sensation ? I answer, A sensa-
tion is always particular; it is not possible for a sen-
sation to be more than a particular sensation; and if
we suppose sensation to have an object, it is always
a sensation of a particular object, and of this merely.
In answer to the question, What is thought ? I an-
swer, A thought is never particular; it is not possible228

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

for thought to be merely particular. A thought is
never the thought merely of a particular object, but
is always the thought of something more than this.
The question, you will remember, with which we are
at present engaged, is this: What is thought ? what is
it in itself ? The answer is as I have given it to you,
Thought is always the thought of something more
than that, whatever it may be, which ostensibly oc-
cupies the mind. And further, the true and exact
distinction between sensation and thought I conceive
to be this. In feeling a sensation, what is really and
truly felt is always that sensation merely, and is
nothing more than that sensation. In thinking a
sensation (or anything else, but at present I limit
the statement to sensation), what is really and truly
thought is never that sensation merely, but is always
something more than that sensation. Such, in the
briefest and clearest expression which I can give to
it, is what I hold to be the fact in regard to the dif-
ference between sensation and thought.

14. I have said that in thinking the mind is al-
ways occupied with something more than that which
is apparently and obviously before it. For example,
in thinking a present sensation (keep, if you choose,
to the pain occasioned by the scratch of a pin), in
thinking this present sensation, the mind always
thinks, and must think, something more than this
sensation. Unless it does this, it does not think
the sensation, it merely feels it. I conceive, then,SOCKATES.

229

that after careful reflection—and to understand what
I am saying, you must reflect carefully on the opera-
tion of your own minds—after careful reflection you
will be ready to concede that in thinking, the mind
is, in point of fact, always really occupied with some-
thing more than that which is obtrusively and mani-
festly before it. Such you will admit to be the fact.
But you will naturally raise the question, What is
that " something more " by which we allege that the
mind is possessed in all cases in which it thinks ?
What precisely is this " something more " which, we
say, characterises all thought, this something which
is always present to thought, over and above the
object obviously thought of ? What is it precisely ?
Now, gentlemen, that question is not so easily an-
swered as it is asked. It is indeed the question
which has tasked to the uttermost the powers of all
great philosophers from Socrates, and more particu-
larly from Plato, downwards. Plato elaborated and
propounded his theory of ideas as a solution of that
question. We shall consider this theory more parti-
cularly hereafter. Meanwhile, without troubling our-
selves with that or any other theory or solution of
the question, what I wish you at present to have a
clear and vital apprehension of is, the fact which such
theories are designed to explain. Are you satisfied
that in thinking a thing, the scratch of a pin, or a
book, or a walking-stick, a tree or a stone, you always
think something more than that particular thing ?
Are you satisfied or not that this is the fact ? If you230

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

are not satisfied that this is the fact, then, any attempt
to explain what this something more is, would of
course be thrown away; for you do not admit there
is anything more to your thought than the object
manifestly before you. But if you are satisfied that
this is the fact, then, although you may be altogether
in the dark as to what this something more is, still,
you now know what the fact is, in the clearing up
of which every generation of philosophers has been
sedulously occupied from the days of Socrates until
now. And such knowledge, knowledge of fact, whe-
ther we can explain it or not, this is, 1 conceive, no
inconsiderable acquisition; for before we can under-
stand, or even approach, the solution of any problem,
we must know what the fact is in which that prob-
lem has originated. This you now know; you now
know what the fact is, that in all thinking there is
" something more " than the thing directly thought,
and that this fact has given rise to the problem, What
is that " something more" ? and that the Platonic
theory of ideas, and all the modifications which that
theory has undergone, are so many attempts to com-
pass a solution of that question.

15. Without going at present at all deep into the
discussion as to what this " something more " is, this
something over and above the particular which is
involved in all thought, I may just remark that this
" something more " has been designated by the names
of class, genus, general conception or concept, or uni-SOCRATES.

231

versals, terms with which your logical studies must
have rendered you more or less familiar. NoW,
these terms, according to the meaning which we
attach to them, are either very misleading, or they
throw much light on the subject, viz., the nature of
thought, which we are at present considering. These
expressions, as usually understood, are held to ex*
press merely one of the modes in which thought
manifests itself, its other mode of manifestation
being its apprehension of particular things or singu-
lars. Having apprehended these, in the first instance,
thought is then supposed to fabricate classes or gen-
eral conceptions, or universals, by means of abstrac-
tion and generalisation, that is, by separating the
qualities which things have in common from the
peculiar or differential qualities which they have,
and by giving names to these common qualities,
which names (names such as man, animal, and so
forth) are significant of the classes to which the things
belong. That doctrine I regard as exceedingly mis-
leading. It is the doctrine taught in all our logics
and psychologies. But I regard it, nevertheless, as
erroneous in the extreme; erroneous for this reason,
that it deceives us as to what thought is in itself,
blinds us as to its true nature.

16. It seems to me that thought begins absolutely
with classes, general conceptions, or universals, and
that it cannot begin otherwise. Thinking is, in its
very essence, the apprehension of something more232

GEEEK PHILOSOPHY.

than the particular; and, therefore, to represent it
as dealing, in the first instance, with the particular
merely, is to represent it as being what it is not its
nature to be. To think is precisely not to think of
any singular thing exclusively, but to think it as an
instance, of what may be again, and again, and again.
Every thought transcends the particular object
thought of; and that transcendence is not one mode
in which thought operates, it is the only mode; it is
thought itself in its very essence. To take our former
illustration. When I feel the prick of the pin, I
either do not think it at all, or, if I think it, I do not
think it only, I think as one of other possible cases of
the same. I think as one of a class, I think it under
something wider than itself, under a class, a concep-
tion, a universal. I do this, I say at once, in the very
first act and first instant of thought. I do not think
first of the pain as an absolute singular, and then
place it under a class by thinking of what it has in
common with other pains. That is not what I do,
although this is usually said to be what I do. I am
convinced that thought begins by regarding the pain
as one of a class; begins by thinking something
more than the particular pain itself, and that that
something more is a class, a genus, a conception, a
universal, or, in the language of Plato, an idea.

17. The main points contained in our discussion
from p. 197 and onwards, may be recapitulated as
follows:—1st, According to the psychology of theSOCRATES.

233

Sophists, man is by nature a .mere sensational crea-
ture. 2d, Out of such a psychology arises a code of
natural ethics which is at variance with the conven-
tional ethics of society; hence arose perplexity of
mind, if not licentiousness in conduct, and practical
embroilment in the affairs of life. 3d, Socrates main-
tained, in opposition to the Sophists, and as the
groundwork of his argument against them, that man
is not a mere sensational creature by nature, that he
is more than this, that by nature he has thought as
well as sensation. 4th, This may be redargued on the
part of the Sophists by the assertion that thought (if
it be not ultimately resolvable into sensation, which
they generally held it to be; but if it be not that,)
is at any rate not original, but acquired; is not due
to nature, but is due to our contact writh society.
5th, This, then, is the question to be discussed, Is
thought original or is it derivative, is it a primary or
is it a secondary formation ? 6th, To settle this ques-
tion we must first settle what thought is in itself \ and
what it is as distinguished from sensation. 7th, We
have settled that thought differs from sensation in
this, that sensation is always occupied with the par-
ticular only, while thought, on the contrary, is always
occupied with " something more " than the particular,
is always occupied with the universal. 8th, Now,
then, we have settled the question as to what thought
is in itself \ Thought is, in its very essence, the ap-
prehension, not of the particular or singular, but of
something more than this. 9th, What this " some-234

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

thing more" is has been a subject of intermin-
able inquiry and discussion among philosophers.
Whatever this " something more " may be explained
to be, one important point is gained in our being
made conscious of the fact, that in thought there
always is and must be something more than the par-
ticular thing which obtrusively occupies the mind.
The fact is the main thing; how it is to be explained,
and what terms are to be used in the explanation,
this is of less consequence. 10th, The terms em-
ployed to express and to explain this "something
more " are the words class, genus, general conception,
universal, idea. 11th, These terms, according as they
are understood, denote a right theory of thought or a
wrong one. If these words be understood to mean
that thought begins absolutely with classes, genus,
general conceptions, or universals, in other words,
that thought begins absolutely with "something
more " than the particular thing before us, they ex-
press a right theory of thought. If, on the other
hand, these words be understood to mean that
thought begins with singulars, and passes on to the
fabrication of classes, genus, general conceptions, or
universals, in that case they imply a wrong theory of
thought; and although it is useful to know how logic
explains the origin of these classes or genera, or
general conceptions, and although we may admit that
there is some ingenuity, and even some degree of
truth, in the explanation, and that there may be cases
in which conceptions are formed by abstraction andSOCRATES.

235

generalisation, as our common books on logic teach,
still we must be on our guard against accepting this
logical explanation of conceptions as a true theory of
what thought is in its absolute nature. The other
doctrine, which holds that thought does not construct
universals out of singulars, conceptions out of par-
ticulars, but begins absolutely and at once with uni-
versals or general conceptions, this, I conceive, is by
far the truer doctrine of the two; although, on ac-
count of its profundity, it is more difficult to drag
it into light, and present it in an intelligible form.
This may be said to be the ancient or Platonic doc-
trine in regard to the nature of thought; the other
doctrine is more modern.

18. In the present Lectures I am engaged, as you
are aware, in expounding the drift of the Socratic
speculations; and consequently I must, of course, be
of opinion that the explanation I have given you as
to the nature of thought is virtually one of the So-
cratic doctrines. Here, however, you may ask what
ground I have for this opinion. What warrant have
I for attributing to Socrates the doctrine in regard
to thought which I have laid before you ? I answer
that I have no very direct warrant for this, but that
I find in the Platonic doctrine of ideas sufficient
data to bear me out. The Platonic doctrine of ideas
has its origin, I conceive, in the opinion that thought
is of the nature which I have endeavoured to ex-236

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

pound. But if Plato entertained this opinion in re-.
gard to thought, it is in the highest degree probable
that Socrates did the same; for the philosophy of
Plato is founded, for the most part, on principles laid
down by Socrates, and is, in fact, little more than a de-
velopment of these principles. My warrant, therefore,
for holding that Socrates entertained the opinion in
question is the undoubted fact that Plato, his imme-
diate disciple and follower, entertained that opinion.

19. In entering on a further stage of our inquiry,
I may remind you that the point towards which we
are tending, the conclusion at which we are aiming,
is this, that thought is quite distinct from sensation,
is man's by nature, is original and primary, not sec-
ondary and derivative. It was either by resolving
thought into sensation, or it was by representing it
as conventional and acquired, that the Sophists had
been enabled to throw into confusion both the theory
and the practice of morals. In order to confute
them, it was therefore necessary, above all things, to
show that thought was not resolvable into sensation,
but was altogether distinct therefrom, and also to
show that it was original to man, and not due merely
to the influences of society. To establish these two
points was, I conceive, the special aim of the Socratic
inquiry, which I now proceed to carry forward. We
have now, then, to consider how far the conclusion
which we have reached as to the nature of thought
will assist us to the further conclusion which weSOCRATES.

237

wish to reach as to the originality of thought. This
further conclusion cannot be reached at once. We
must reach it through an intermediate conclusion,
through the conclusion, namely, that thought is free.
This, then, is our proximate aim. Out of the data
which we have reached as to the nature of thought
I shall endeavour to prove to you that thought is
necessarily free.

20. Facts are, in general, more intelligible than
speculations, and also, in general, more satisfactory.
I shall therefore endeavour to show you what the
facts are in virtue of which I pronounce thought to
be free. These facts will show you what we mean
by saying that thought is free. We have seen that
when a man feels a sensation, and that when, more-
over, he thinks this sensation, he thinks not only it,
but something more than it. He thinks it as one
of which there are or may be other instances. He
thinks it as one of a class of sensations. He places
it under a general notion, under a category or univer-
sal. He does this as a matter of fact. Now, what
is implied in this fact ? In that fact there is implied
this further fact, that the man's thought frees or
disengages itself from the particular sensation which
is felt, and takes into account other sensations as
well. It thinks the present impression as an in-
stance which may occur again, as an example, a
specimen, a type which may be repeated; and think-
ing it as such, it of course thinks virtually of other238

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

cases. But in thinking other cases, it necessarily
travels out of and beyond the particular case before
it. But in travelling beyond this particular case, it
of course frees itself from it. Thought is not tied
down to this or to any particular case; if it were,
there would be no thought, there would be mere
sensation. What is meant, then, by our saying that
thought is free is simply this: we thereby express
the fact that thought is not restricted and bound
down to the particular sensation felt, but frees itself
from it in the very act of taking into account some-
thing more, that is to say, other impressions which
are not felt, but which are virtually thought of, in
addition to the one which actually engages the mind.
The two facts, then, in virtue of which we pronounce
thought to be free, are, first, the fact that thought
always travels beyond the particular sensation or
impression which engages it, and takes in something
more; and, second, the fact that, in doing so, thought
is necessarily free, that is to say, it frees itself from
the particular sensation or impression referred to, it
is not engaged by it exclusively.

21. It is of the utmost consequence that you
should verify in your own consciousness the truths
in regard to thought and sensation which I have
laid before you, and which I have yet to lay before
you. You must practise the yi>S>6i aeavrov, otherwise
all that I am saying will go for nothing. There is
one thing, however, which I must impress upon youSOCRATES.

239

by way of caution; you must not expect to be able
to verify the fact of sensation and the fact of thought
apart from each other; you must not expect to be
able to study the phenomenon of sensation by itself
and prescinded from all thought. That is impos-
sible : because, in the very act of studying the sensa-
tion, you must think it; so that it is impossible to
lay hold of it by itself. The two-cannot be separated
in such a way as may enable you to report upon
sensation without taking thought into account as
well. But still, although the two must be taken
together, this need not prevent us from obtaining a
distinct conception of each, or from perceiving that
the one element is quite different from the other,
that each is, indeed, the opposite of the other.

22. Having thus put you on your guard against
encouraging an expectation which cannot possibly
be fulfilled, I go on to stimulate your own reflections
with the view of assisting you to reach a still clearer
understanding of the distinction between thought
and sensation, the bondage of the latter and the
liberty of the former. Let us consider the contrast
between the two. When a man feels a sensation
(say the scratch of a pin), the sensation never dis-
engages itself from itself in such a way as to make
the man feel other sensations. The feeling of a sen-
sation is never the feeling of that sensation and of
other sensations besides; it is the feeling of that
sensation only. Hence sensation, each sensation, is240

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

bond, not free; each of them has no range beyond
itself. It is quite otherwise with the thought of a
sensation. The thought of a sensation is not limited
to that sensation. I mean that the very first time,
and in the veiy first instant, in which a sensation
is thought, the thought is not limited to that sensa-
tion ; if it were limited to it, it would be mere sen-
sation, not thought. It takes in something more, it
has a range, it extends to other sensations as well.
Thought thus disengages itself from the particular
sensation, it puts a negative upon it, it in a manner
denies that the sensation is it, the thought; it starts
away from the sensation, and brings down upon it a
universal, a conception which embraces other pos-
sible sensations as well. Instead of saying that
thought disengages itself from the particular sensa-
tion, it would be more correct to say that this disen-
gagement is itself thought. There is not, first of all,
the thought of the sensation and then the disen-
gagement of the thought from the sensation, and its
extension to other instances of the same. No; the
process is better described by saying that the disen-
gagement, the disenthralment from the sensation, is
itself the thought of the sensation. The two are
identical. The thought does not precede the disen-
gagement, nor does the disengagement precede the
thought: but the thought is the disengagement and
the disengagement is the thought. So that we may
say of thought that it is a mental disengagement from
every particular sensation, a mental refusal to beSOCItATES.

241

limited to any particular sensation, and a liberation
from the same; while we may say of this mental
disengagement, refusal, and liberation, that it is no
other than thought. On the other hand, sensation
is no disengagement from a particular sensation, no
mental refusal to be limited to a particular sensa-
tion ; it is no liberation from a particular sensation,
but is, on the contrary, an absolute acquiescence
in the limitation and thraldom by which each sen-
sation is characterised.

23.	After what I have just said, you should have
no difficulty in perceiving that thought must be
active as well as free. These two words, indeed,
signify the same thing. If the freedom of thought
consist in its disengaging itself from the particularity
of sensation, it must, of course, be active in effecting
this disengagement. This disengagement is mani-
festly an act, and in putting forth this act the mind
is in a condition quite different from its passive state
when recipient of sensation. But I need not dwell
on this point. I may just remark that you should
now be able to attach some meaning to the words
free and active when applied to thought — a more
distinct meaning, perhaps, than you have been ac-
customed to apply to them when used in that con-
nection.

24.	We have now reached the conclusion at which
we have been aiming, and which must be made out

Q242

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

if we would plead with effect the cause which Socra-
tes advocated against the Sophists. That conclusion
is, that thought is not only quite distinct from sen-
sation, but that, in virtue of its freedom and self-
origination, it is, moreover, a primary and indigen-
ous product of the mind. The Sophists held that
sensation, appetite, and desire, that these alone, were
our primary attributes, were the only indefeasible
principles of our nature. But we have seen that
thought is more original and primary, if I may say
so, is ours by a more indefeasible title, than sensa-
tion, appetite, or desire. Thought, in fact, is ourself,
our essential self, inasmuch as it is originated by the
free activity of the mind. The other endowments
referred to are the mere accidents or accompaniments
of ourself. Thus the tables are turned upon the
Sophists. So far is it from being true that man is
originally by nature a mere sensational creature, that
it would be more correct to say that man in his true
nature is a mere thinking creature. Thought, and
not sensation, is his peculiar characteristic. Thought
is his essential property. It is that which makes him
what he is. It constitutes his being more truly than
sensation, appetite, and desire. For these are necessi-
tated, are forced upon him from without. But thought
is free and active. It is originated by the mind it-
self from within, and therefore belongs to it more
closely and essentially than any other endowment.

25. I have not yet spoken directly of self-con-SOCRATES.

243

sciousness, but in the foregoing remarks I have given
you what I conceive is the true speculative history
of the rise and manifestation of that mental act. To
complete my explanation of self-consciousness I have
still a few observations to make, and then we shall
proceed to consider what bearings the conclusions we
have established have on the doctrines of the Sophists.
Man alone is characterised by self-consciousness.
This endowment certainly does not belong, and is not
to be attributed to, the lower animals. They have
feeling, sensation, appetite, passion, desire; but they
certainly have no thought or consciousness of them-
selves, no self-consciousness, in the proper sense of
that word. There is, however, an improper sense in
which every sentient creature, as well as men, may
be said to be self-conscious. What is that sense ?
By pointing out that sense we shall be better able to
apprehend and explain what true self-consciousness
is. When a sentient being experiences a sensation,
it may be said to feel itself \ as well as the sensation.
(Observe, I do not say that it thinks itself; that is a
very different matter.) But it feels itself as that
which is experiencing the sensation. It shuns or
endeavours to get rid of painful sensations: it courts
and endeavours to procure pleasurable ones. When
a cat lies by the fire or in the sun, it enjoys an agree-
able warmth. We cannot doubt that it feels itself
doing so. When a dog is hungry, or has got his foot
hurt, we cannot doubt that he feels himself in a
painful predicament. But in neither of these cases,244

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

nor in any cases of a like kind, is any approach
made to the thought of themselves by these animals.
They have the feeling of themselves, but no con-
ception of themselves. And if we choose to call this
feeling of themselves by the name of self-conscious-
ness, we may attribute to them self-consciousness;
but if by self-consciousness we mean having a con-
ception of themselves, we must deny that animals
have any self-consciousness, for we cannot allow that
they have any conception of themselves. I think
that the term ought to be used in this latter accepta-
tion only, and that although we may speak of ani-
mals having a feeling of themselves, we should never
say that they have self-consciousness or a conception
of themselves.

26. But perhaps you may imagine that there is no
very great difference between the feeling of oneself
and of one's own pains and pleasures, on the one
hand, and self-consciousness, or the thought of one-
self and of one's own pains and pleasures, on the
other hand. The following remarks, then, may help
to convince you that the difference, both in itself
and in its consequences, is momentous and extreme.
When an animal feels itself and its own sensations,
it does not, and it cannot, feel another animal and
another animal's sensations. For example, when a
dog feels itself hungry or suffering from a sore foot,
it does not feel the hunger of another dog or the pain
in another dog's foot. It feels only its own hungerSOCKATES.

245

and its own pain. It can feel only itself and its own
sensations, whatever these may be, and no augmen-
tation of these will enable it to go beyond itself:
indeed, we might say the more it feels its own sen-
sations, the more these are intensified, the more these
occupy it, the less does it feel the sensations of any
other animal. Hence animals have no sympathy for
each other. This. want of sympathy is a necessary
consequence of their being tied down to the feeling
of themselves and of their own sensations. Under
this limitation it is impossible for them to take others
into account, and the pains and pleasures which
others may be experiencing. For, as I have said,
one sentient being can never feel the sensations of
another sentient being; and therefore, if it be limited,
as animals are, to mere feeling, it must be utterly
indifferent to others and to their pains and pleasures.
This indifference characterises all animals, many
children, and some men, in whom the sensational
element is unduly preponderant. What civilisation
and society would be without sympathy, it is diffi-
cult, or rather it is not difficult, to imagine. Neither
society nor civilisation could exist. Such would be
the consequence if people had merely the feeling of
themselves and of their own sensations, appetites,
and desires.

27. If we now turn to the consideration of self-
consciousness, or the conception of oneself and of
one's own pains and pleasures, a conception which I246

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

supposed you might be inclined to confound with the
mere feeling of oneself; if we turn to the considera-
tion of this conception of oneself, we shall perceive
how completely it is distinguished from the feeling,
both in itself and in its consequences. It has been
already explained to you that thought in all cases
embraces something more than is directly and obtru-
sively thought of; that it extends beyond the parti-
cular to the universal; that when a sensation is felt
and thought of, other sensations are thought of as
well. In the same way the thought of me extends to
other mes. When I have the conception of myself,
this conception is the conception of all mes, and not
merely of me in particular. When I feel myself and
my own sensations, I do not, cannot, feel another
man and his sensations; but when I think myself
and my own sensations, I think other men as well,
virtually all other men and their sensations. I think
myself and'my pains and pleasures as an instance of
which there are or may be myriads of other instances.
Mere feeling, the mere feeling of myself and my
sensations, would never enable me to do this. But
thought enables me, indeed thought compels me, to
do it. Thought clears the bounds of mere feeling;
thought, in the very act of being what it is, neces-
sarily overleaps the limitations of feeling. Hence
thought, the thought of oneself and of one's sensa-
tion, is the ground and the condition of sympathy.
Without this thought there can be no sympathy;
but along with this thought, sympathy more or lessSOCRATES.

247

arises. Sympathy lies at the root of civilisation and
of society. Hence all that is good in man's condition
is founded ultimately on the power of thought, in
that act in which the mind disengages itself from its
own particular self, and from its own particular sen-
sations, appetites, and desires, and takes into account
other people and the interests of other people as well.
Society, with all its beneficial institutions, thus arose
out of thought, out of self-consciousness, out of the
conception of oneself; whereas the mere feeling
of self would for ever prevent society from being
established among men, would for ever envelop the
world in the darkness of barbarism, and keep away
the dawn of civilisation.

28. The whole social edifice rests ultimately upon
the freedom of thought, and arises out of it. First,
there is freedom, that original and uncaused act by
which the mind thinks itself, its own sensations,
appetites, and desires, and in doing so frees or dis-
engages itself from them; or, stated with equal truth
in the converse way, that original and uncaused act
by which the mind disengages itself from itself, from
its own sensations, appetites, and desires, and in
doing so thinks them: for, as I formerly said, the
disengagement and the thought, the freedom and
the conception, are identical; and we cannot say
which comes first and which second; they are simul-
taneous in their operation. Secondly, there is self-
consciousness, the consciousness or conception of one-248

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

self and of one's own sensations. But inasmuch as
all thought is a disengagement from that, whatever
it may be, which more obtrusively occupies the mind,
and is thus a getting beyond and away from the par-
ticular, so, in the conception of self, I am not tied
down to my own individual self: my conception
extends beyond this, it embraces, in fact, the whole
human race. It is not possible for me to think my-
self merely. In thinking myself, I think all other
selves. Note here the very marked antithesis be-
tween feeling and thought. In feeling myself, I must
feel only my particular self, and I cannot possibly
feel others as well. In thinking myself, I cannot
think only my particular self; I must of necessity
think others as well. Thirdly, there is sympathy.
This arises out of self-consciousness. The conception
of myself being the conception of other selves as well
as of me, not only enables, but compels me to take
some interest, more or less, in them as well as in
myself. Thus sympathy has self-consciousness for
its foundation. Self-consciousness is the condition
of sympathy, and not only that; wherever self-con-
sciousness is manifested, there some degree of sym-
pathy must be put forth. In virtue of self-conscious-
ness, sympathy is not only possible, it is also actual
and imperative. Fourthly, there is society. This
arises out of sympathy. Without a fellow-feeling,
mutual goodwill, and a community of sentiment,
society could not subsist for a day, social inter-
course would be impossible; so that freedom ofSOCKATES.

249

thought is ultimately, and at bottom, the lever which
raises man up into the position in which we now find
him existing. It is the root out of which spring all
the blessings of civilisation. Take this away, and it
would resolve human society into a commonwealth,
or, I should rather say, an anarchy, of kangaroos or
ourang-outangs.

29. The doctrine which I have just propounded in
regard to the relation between self-consciousness and
sympathy may enable us to modify Adam Smith's
theory of moral sentiments, which has been already
under our review; and to render that theory, if not
impregnable, at any rate more complete than it
now is. Adam Smith, as you are aware, explains
our moral sentiments by means of the principle of
sympathy. Our faculty of moral estimation, our
power of passing moral judgments either on ourselves
or on others, is resolved by him into our power of
sympathy, and is indeed nothing but the operation
of this principle. But in working out this system
Adam Smith seems to have thought that sympathy
is a native and original affection of the human heart,
just as hunger and thirst are natural affections of the
human organism. He seems to have thought that
people felt sympathy for others just as naturally as
they felt their own pleasures and their own pains.
This opinion I regard as incorrect. I hold that we
have originally, or in the first instance, no sympathies
with other people in the way in which we have origi-250

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

nally, and from the very first, a sense of our own
weal or woe. I conceive that we become sympathetic
only after the idea of self has been called forth, and
this is an idea which does not show itself in our very
early years. But until it does declare itself, our
sympathy has no existence. In proof of this you
have only to observe how little sympathy very young
children have in the sufferings or enjoyments of each
other. In them the idea of self is either not devel-
oped at all, or it is but feebly developed; the mere
feeling of self is predominant or all-absorbing, and
hence they are wrapped up in their own sensational
and emotional world, and take little or no interest
in the happiness or misery of their companions. But
gradually as this idea unfolds itself, the emotion of
sympathy begins to dawn. In the light of this con-
ception they see that others are just themselves over
again; and, taking an interest in themselves, they
come to take an interest also in all those whom the
idea reveals to them as fashioned after the same
model with themselves. The idea of self is no ex-
clusive or egotistic principle; the feeling of self is
egotistic and exclusive; but the idea of self is uni-
versal and comprehensive. It is the true equaliser
of the human race. It is the principle which enables
us to understand and, so far as the mere individual
feeling will permit, to act according to the Divine pre-
cept of doing to others as we would that they should
do unto us. Thus self-consciousness, as was formerly
explained to you, is essential to the existence of sym-SOCKATES.

251

pathy, and sympathy is thus a passion which, unlike
our more elementary appetites and desires, has its
roots in thought, and is brought about through the
intermediation of an idea. This circumstance has, I
think, been overlooked by Adam Smith.

30. If Adam Smith erred in regarding sympathy
as an affection of as original and elementary a char-
acter as our appetites and some of our desires, Hobbes
erred, on the other side, in regarding it as forming no
part of man's original nature at all, but as a second-
ary and derivative formation springing out of fear,
which made men combine into societies for mutual
aid and protection against other societies which might
be disposed to do them harm. Hobbes denies that
man has by nature any sympathy with his fellows.
He holds that all our original passions and instincts
are unsocial, or, indeed, antisocial; and in entertain-
ing this opinion, Hobbes, I think, is so far right. He
is right thus far, that prior to the dawn of self-con-
sciousness, all our principles of action, our appetites,
affections, and desires, are unsocial; they aim merely
at the attainment of our own personal pleasure, and
at the avoidance of our own personal pain. But
after the dawn of self-consciousness, the social affec-
tions are developed, sympathy comes into existence,
and this sympathy is as truly a part of our nature as
any of our other affections are; the only difference
between it and those which are more primitive being
this, that it (sympathy, namely) exists only after252

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

self-consciousness has declared itself, whereas the
others exist before that idea has been called forth.
And hence Hobbes, although, as I said, to some ex-
tent right, is also so far wrong, inasmuch as he
scarcely seems to admit that sympathy is in any
sense natural to the human heart, or a natural attri-
bute of man. He is, however, right in his opinion
that sympathy is not so original, so natural to man,
or at least so immediately manifested, as those appe-
tites and desires which show themselves in the earli-
est period of his existence, and spring up without
the intermediation of thought, or of any idea being
required for the manifestation.

31. But these latter remarks are somewhat digres-
sive. I return to the subject with which we are more
properly engaged. You should now perceive how
directly the results which we have reached strike at
the root of Sophistical argumentation. Socrates meets
the Sophists on their own grounds, and foils them
with their own weapons. Assenting to their leading
principle, he may be supposed to address himself to
them thus, " Whatever is natural, you say, is more
authoritative than anything which is conventional;
vofjuo^ must always give way to	I grant it; but

what is <f>v<ri<; ? What is man's nature ? You say it
is sensation; and if that be true, all your deductions
follow in a sequence, the logic of which, I admit, is
irresistible. But that is not true. It is not true that
man is merely a sensational being; he is, moreover,SOCRATES.

253

a thinking being, and thought is more properly the
man himself than sensation. This is his <f>vai<;, and
this	I admit, is more authoritative than any

vofjuos, than any convention or agreement among men.
But what does this nature enjoin ? What are the
ethics of nature now when thought is taken into
account as forming the principal part of man's nature ?
They must be very different from the ethics evolved
out of a psychology which either takes no notice of
thought, or resolves it into a mere form or product of
sensation. They must enjoin something very differ-
ent from what is enjoined by the code of Sophistical
or sensational morality, and they do enjoin something
very different. The ethics of sensation say, Follow
out your sensations, gratify them to the full, and at
all hazards please your appetites and your desires to
the uttermost, for sensation and its adjuncts, appe-
tite and desire, constitute the true nature of man.
But my code of ethics (I still suppose Socrates speak-
ing), my code of ethics say no. Thought is the true
nature of man. Therefore you must follow out what
thought involves and what thought prescribes, for then
alone will you be obeying that <j>vcrn; which, on your
own showing, is the most obligatory and authoritative
of all things. But if thought be the essence of man,
the essence of thought, as has been already sufficient-
ly explained, is freedom, is a liberation from sensa-
tion, appetite, and desire. Thought is itself, as we
have seen, a disengagement from these, not that man
in thinking is ever without sensation of one kind or254

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

another; but man in thinking is always free from
their dominion. Self-preservation is the first of
duties; but the preservation of our thinking, that is
of our true, selves, can be effected only by laying a
restraint on our sensations, appetites, and desires, and
by refusing to be their slaves. Thus alone is that
self preserved which consciousness or conception re-
veals to us as our true self. It exists and maintains
itself only through an antagonism perpetually waged
against those otherwise enslaving and monopolising
forces, our sensations, passions, and desires. Our
nature is, as you say, the most authoritative of all
things, and we are under the most stringent obliga-
tion to obey its commands. But we obey these com-
mands not when we yield to the dictates of sensation,
appetite, and desire, but when we antagonise these
forces, and hold them at bay by means of that freedom
of thought which is our birthright and our essence."
So far we may suppose Socrates to speak.

32. I now remark, in my own name, that the ethics
of nature, as expounded by Socrates, are shown to be
in harmony, for the most part at least, with the ethics
of society. $vgi? and vo/jlos are reconciled. Society
merely enforces what nature has already prescribed.
Thus the contradiction between the natural man and
the conventional man, on which the Sophists were
wont to lay so much stress, is overcome and ap-
peased. The social man is merely the develop-
ment of what man is in himself. The citizen isSOCRATES.

255

merely the perfection of the individual. The state
itself is nothing but the individual in a brighter form,
and in more enlarged proportions.

33. The foregoing details may perhaps have en-
abled you to form a tolerably adequate conception
of the groundwork of the moral philosophy of Soc-
rates, both in its polemical character as a refutation
of the Sophists, and in its positive character as a
body of sound and scientific ethical doctrine. I
have gone into the controversy between Socrates and
the Sophists at considerable length, because I con-
ceive that in this controversy are to be found all
those elements of dispute which again and again
have divided the philosophical world both in ancient
and in modern times. We shall see hereafter, in
particular, that the controversy between Hobbes and
his opponents—at the head of whom stands Butler as
one of the most conspicuous, although other moral-
ists (Cudworth, for example) had entered the lists
before Butler appeared—we shall see, I say, that this
controversy bears a close resemblance in some of its
features to the polemic carried on two thousand
years before between Socrates and the Sophists.
Hobbes took up the ground of sensationalism as the
basis of his philosophy very much as the Sophists
had done before him, and he found no principle of
pacification among men, no curb for their unruly
appetites and passions, except the strong and armed
hand of a supreme and irresponsible dictator. But-256

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

ler attempted to show that principles of pacification
existed in the nature of man himself in his social
instincts and benevolent affections. In this attempt
Butler was merely treading in the footsteps of Soc-
rates, although with a feebler and less scientific step.
Socrates had, I conceive, a deeper insight into the
nature of man than Bishop Butler. Instead of re-
garding, as Butler did, our social and benevolent
affections as original parts of our nature, in the same
sense in which hunger and thirst are original parts of
our nature, Socrates regarded them as brought about
through the intervention of thought. So, at least, I
am inclined to interpret his philosophy. He re-
garded these social affections as having no place in
the economy of man until after his self-consciousness
had been called forth; and in this opinion Socrates
seems to me to be unquestionably right. Butler,
however, regards the social affections as standing on
the same footing with hunger and thirst, affections
which certainly declare themselves prior to any
manifestation of self-consciousness. So far, there-
fore, I am of opinion that the Athenian sage was
superior to the English bishop both in speculative
depth and in scientific precision. But, without in-
sisting on that point, what I wish you to observe is,
that my reason for going at such length into the
moral philosophy of Socrates is because I conceive
that by laying down thought, or, more strictly, the
free act of self-consciousness, as the groundwork of
ethics, it supplies the truest of all foundations for aSOCRATES.

257

system of absolute morality, and contains the germ
of all the ethical speculations, whether polemical
or positive, which have been unfolded since his
time.

34. I shall make no further attempt at present to
reduce the philosophy of Socrates to greater preci-
sion than has been done in the foregoing exposition.
I go on to call your attention to a few points con-
nected with Socrates and his philosophy, with which
you should be made acquainted before we dismiss this
subject. The first point is, that all rational know-
ledge must be elicited from within the mind, and
cannot be imparted to it from without. The Socratic
art of education, therefore, consists rather in a skilful
method by which the mind is made to evolve truth
out of itself, than in a method by which truth is
communicated to the mind by another person. The
second point is the somewhat paradoxical assertion,
that all virtue is knowledge and all vice ignorance.
The third point is the assertion that no man is volun-
tarily vicious. The fourth point for consideration is,
What, according to Socrates, is the supreme good, the
chief end, of man ? The fifth consideration is, What,
in the system of Socrates, is the ground of moral
obligation ? The sixth point for consideration is,
How virtue and happiness are reconciled and united
in the system of Socrates. On some of these points
it may be difficult, perhaps impossible, to come to
any very satisfactory conclusion; but I shall do what

K258

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

1 can to throw light upon them, by saying a few
words upon each.

35. First.—In several parts of the Dialogues of
Plato, Socrates announces himself, with considerable
humour, as a person devoted to the same calling as
his mother Phaenarete, who practised the obstetric
art; the only difference between them being that,
whereas she assisted women with her skill, he helped
to deliver the minds of men of the ideas of which
they were in labour. The analogy between his mo-
ther's profession and his own was referred to by
Socrates in order to show that he could no more
impart, and that it was no more his business to
impart, truth and knowledge to the minds of his
hearers, than it was her business to bear the child,
and impart it to those whom she was called upon to
deliver. In both cases it was their business to elicit
something from within, and not to communicate any-
thing from without. More particularly was this true
in regard to the birth of intellectual knowledge; for,
according to Socrates, the mind contained within it
truths which external experience or communication
with others might call forth, but which no external
experience and no communication with others could
instil or impart. The mind must originate them with-
in itself. As an example of this kind of truth, the
whole science of mathematics may be adduced. In
the dialogue of Plato entitled Meno, Socrates is repre-
sented as educing from the mind of a young slave, bySOCRATES.

259

means of judicious questioning, some of the more ele-
mentary truths of geometry. As a very simple illus-
tration, I may take a geometrical axiom, and I ask a
person quite unskilled in mathematics, whether, if
equals be added to equals, the wholes will be equal or
unequal. If he understands the question, he will at
once answer that the wholes will be equal. But I
did not teach him that truth; no one imparted it to
him. I merely put the question to him, and he
found out for himself the right answer for himself at
once. It sprang up within him; and if it had not
sprung up within him, he never could have received
it from without. If a student of geometry were to
say, My reason for assenting to the axioms is because
Euclid or my teacher has assured me that they are
true, and I take their word for it—if a student, I
say, were to speak thus, he would show that he
had no understanding of the simplest elements of
geometry. But what you have to observe is, that
the whole science of mathematics is truly of the char-
acter which Socrates describes. The just inference
is, that the entire science is properly, even in its
most complicated demonstration, called forth from
within the mind, and not communicated to the mind
from without. In Plato's hands this doctrine passed
into the assertion that all knowledge is reminiscence;
is the recollection of what the mind knows, and
actually knew in some former state of existence,
and still potentially knows. Such a doctrine must
be limited to what may be called rational knowledge,260

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the knowledge of necessary truths, as distinguished
from historical knowledge, which certainly cannot be
elicited from the mind by any process of manipu-
lation, however skilful. But it is only of rational
knowledge, knowledge which depends altogether on
thinking, that Socrates and Plato speak. In sub-
sequent times this opinion—all rational knowledge
is reminiscence—has reappeared in the doctrine of
innate ideas; a doctrine which Locke was supposed
at one time to have completely overthrown and ex-
tirpated, but which has so much vitality that it has
shown itself again and again since his time, and
flourishes even now with renovated youth and vigour.
The ultimate ground of this opinion is to be found in
the doctrine I formerly explained to you, the doc-
trine of thought as a free and self-originated act. No
external power, no force brought to bear upon him
ab extra, can make a man think; because thinking is
in fact a freedom from all external compulsion, and a
rejection thereof; therefore a man must think, if he
thinks at all, for and from himself. He cannot be
made to think at the bidding and under the com-
pulsion of others, as he may be made to feel at the
bidding and under the compulsion of others. Hence
every science, the truths of which are truths of
thought, must be called forth from within the mind
of the learner, and cannot be impressed upon him
from without.

36. The second point is the assertion that all virtueSOCRATES.

261

is knowledge, and all vice ignorance. This appar-
ently paradoxical assertion may perhaps be inter-
preted in this way: If a man only knew and kept
constantly in view what his true nature was, he
would aim only at that which conduced to the well-
being of that nature; and aiming only at this, he
would be unwavering in the practice of virtue, for it
is by virtue alone that the wellbeing of his true
nature is secured. For example, if a man knew and
never lost sight of the knowledge that thought is his
true nature, that freedom is the essence of thought,
that thought is the antagonist of sensation, passion,
and desire, that it is by thought that man is disen-
gaged from these, the enslaving forces of his being,
and established in this true personality;—if a man
knew, and kept constantly in view, that such was
his true nature, he would aim at the preservation
and wellbeing of that nature by laying a suitable
restraint on those lower impulses and propensities
which at all times threaten to invade and impair it,
and thus he would continue steadfast in the pursuit
and practice of virtue; for virtue is nothing but a
restraint laid upon the natural lusts and passions of
the soul. Hence, if man's knowledge of himself was
perfect, his virtue too would be perfect; and in pro-
portion as his knowledge approaches to perfection,
so too would his virtue approach to perfection. But
man's knowledge of himself is, for the most part, not
only imperfect, it is absolutely null. His ignorance
of his true nature is such, that he mistakes for his262

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

true nature that which is not his true nature at all.
He thinks that his true nature centres in his sen-
sations, appetites, and desires; hence he conceives
that his true wellbeing will be promoted by an in-
dulgence in these as unlimited as can be procured.
Hence he falls into vicious courses. But this hap-
pens in consequence of his ignorance; of his ignor-
ance of what constitutes his true nature, and of his
consequent ignorance as to the means by which the
wellbeing of that nature should be promoted. Thus,
as all virtue has its origin in knowledge, in a know-
ledge of what our true nature is, so all vice has its
origin in ignorance, in an ignorance of what the nature
of ourselves really and truly is. This farther may
be said: whatever man pursues, he pursues in the
idea that it is good for him. When he pursues evil,
therefore, he does so because he mistakes it for good;
in other words, he does so in ignorance of its true
nature. Had he distinctly known what this, its true
nature, was, he would have avoided the evil after
which he is running. More shortly stated, no man
runs after evil viewed as evil, but viewed as good:
he embraces evil under the disguise of good; that is
to say, he embraces it unwillingly. This doctrine is
in keeping with the Socratic position, that all vice is
a sort of madness, and that the perfection of virtue
is the perfection of sanity, or reason, or wisdom.
Aristotle has objected to Socrates, that, in reduc-
ing virtue to knowledge, he has emptied our vir-
tuous affections of that warmth and heartiness bySOCEATES.

263

which they are characterised. His objection is
not without force, and it shows that the Socratic
doctrine is not altogether complete. So far as it
goes, however—and I think it goes a long way in
rendering virtue intelligible—it seems to me to be
a sound and rational speculation.

37.	The third point is, that no man is voluntarily
vicious. This conclusion follows as an immediate
corollary from what was said in the preceding para-
graph. No man wills to do that which is adverse to
his true interests. But a man may mistake his false
for his true interests; hence he may enter on a course
of action which is at variance with his true interests,
and thus he may fall into vice. But he cannot be
said to will this vice; for all the while he is willing
to promote his own true interests, only, through ig-
norance as to what these are, he has fallen on a course
of conduct which secures only his false interests and
promotes only his false happiness; and this is the
way of vice, and not the way of virtue. Hence it is
only through ignorance of his own true interests that
a man is vicious, and not because he wills to be so,
for a man wills only his true interests; and if he
always knew what these were, he would continue in
the practice of virtue, for virtue alone can secure
them.

38.	The fourth point for consideration is, what,
according to Socrates, is the supreme good, the chief264

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

end of man ? I conceive that Socrates agreed with
all the ancient moralists in holding that his own
happiness is the supreme good, the chief end of man.
But then this happiness must be his true, and not
his apparent or illusory, happiness; but man's true
happiness must centre in his obedience to the law
of his true Being, and not in his obedience to the
dictates of his unessential Being. But the law of
man's true being is freedom; freedom from the yoke
of sensation, passion, and desire. Therefore man's
proper happiness, his supreme good or chief end, is
to be found in a due subjugation of our appetites
and desires, and not in their unqualified indulgence,
as is inculcated by those moralists who, not knowing
themselves, do not know what the true and essential
nature of man is.

39. The fifth point for consideration is, what, in the
system of Socrates, is the ground of moral obliga-
tion ? T conceive that, in the system of Socrates, the
ground of man's moral obligation is to be found,
where we have already found his happiness or chief
end; is to be found, that is, in his true nature itself.
Freedom from the dominion of his lower affections,
his sensations, appetites, and desires, is the true
nature of man. He is, therefore, under an obliga-
tion to maintain this nature, for self-preservation is
the most indefeasible law of the universe; but he
can only maintain it by keeping up that disengage-SOCRATES.

265

ment from sensation, appetite, and desire which
thought, his true Being, had already effected even
in bringing itself into existence. In his own nature,
therefore, there is a law, the law of freedom, which
calls upon him to restrain his lower impulses, his
greed and his injustice, when these threaten to be-
come inordinate; and this law of freedom is no
other than the law of moral obligation, and it has
its ground in the true nature of man.

40. These points having been explained, it is not
difficult to see how happiness and virtue, the sixth
point under consideration, are reconciled and united
in the system of Socrates. The true nature of man
consists in thought, but the essence of thought is
freedom; freedom, or disengagement from the bond-
age of his lower principles and propensities, such
as sensation, appetite, and desire. Thus the law of
man's true nature is freedom, freedom from thraldom
of his lower propensities. But the happiness of
every creature is promoted when it obeys the law of
its true nature; its happiness is thwarted when it
disobeys that law, therefore man's happiness is pro-
moted when he keeps himself disengaged from the
sensational affections of his nature, and does not
allow them to overmaster him. But this resistance
to the promptings of our passions is itself virtue.
Therefore the same law, the law of freedom, which
determines a man to happiness, to his true and solid266

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

happiness, through the subjugation of his animal
propensities,—this same law determines him also to
virtue, for virtue is nothing but the subjugation of
these same animal propensities; and thus happiness
and virtue are shown to be coincident.THE CYRENAIC, CYNIC, AND MEGARIC
SCHOOLS.

1. The impression which Socrates made on the
minds of his countrymen generally, and even on
men who differed widely in their genius, their char-
acter, and their sentiments, was deep and powerful;
and his influence was not diminished, it was rather
increased and rendered more intense and lasting, by
his heroic and signally impressive, although unos-
tentatious, death. Socrates having left behind him
no written memorials, all that his friends could do
would be to record and publish his opinions as they
had gathered them from his own lips. And these
opinions would be coloured and modified more or
less by the peculiar mental constitution of each
reporter; or, at any rate, each would fasten on that
side of the Socratic philosophy which he understood
best, and which was most in harmony with his own
convictions. Accordingly, we find that some of the
disciples of Socrates expounded his philosophy, in
its more popular aspect, as a useful guide in the
practical affairs of life; among these the most dis-268

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

tinguished were Xenophon, who in his ' Memorabilia'
has recorded the sayings and doings of Socrates
in their bearings on the business of mankind, and
Cebes, to whom a work is questionably attributed
entitled IIiva%, or the Table, which sketches, on So-
cratic principles, an allegorical picture of human life.
Its moral is to show that virtue alone can make us
truly happy, and that pleasure is a snare and a delu-
sion, whose charm lasts only for a time. Others,
again, or I should rather say one other of his imme-
diate followers, comprehended the whole scope and
design of his philosophy; and this disciple was
Plato. Plato alone fathomed the depths, both moral
and metaphysical, of the Socratic speculations. He
has interfused them with the splendours of his
own genius, and has given them to the world in a
style, the eloquence of which has never been sur-
passed, if indeed it has ever been equalled. Plato
stands out as the only adequate exponent and repre-
sentative of the Socratic philosophy in all its phases.
But, intermediate between Plato on the one hand,
and the popular expositors just referred to on the
other hand, there are presented to us three schools
of Socraticists, who, being more scientific in their
treatment of the philosophy than Xenophon or
Cebes, are at the same time much less complete and
comprehensive than Plato. These three Socratic
sects are the Cyrenaic, the Cynic, and Megaric.
They are frequently termed the imperfect or one-
sided Socraticists.CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

269

2. How these schools arose, and how they acquired
the title of imperfect Socraticists, may perhaps be
understood from the following consideration: The
conception of "the good" was a conception which
had been largely insisted on in the philosophy of
Socrates; but it was, at the same time, one which
he had left indefinite and unexplained. Nowhere,
and at no time, does he seem to have explained ex-
actly what " the good " was, or what he precisely and
consistently meant by that term. That Socrates
regarded happiness as the good, is tolerably plain;
but then it is equally plain that he regarded virtue
as the good. Hence arose ambiguity, and hence
arose confusion and discord among his disciples. It
is no answer to the question, What is the good ? to
say the good is both happiness and virtue; for by the
good is meant the ultimate, the supreme, or highest
good; and two goods cannot, both of them, be the
highest, at least their conciliation requires to be
explained; in all cases the supreme can be only
one. If, indeed, the identity of the two had been
established in some such way as I endeavoured to
establish it above (p. 265), following out what I
conceive to be the drift of the Socratic speculations
—if their identity had been established, then perhaps
the question as to the supreme good or chief end of
man might be admitted to have been sufficiently
answered. It might have been said, the good is the
identity or conciliation of happiness and virtue; and
that answer would have been unambiguous. But this270

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

conciliation had not been effected, or effected but ob-
scurely and ijnperfectly, in the course of the Socratic
disputations. Hence the question still remained
unresolved, and still recurred, What is this good
which is so frequently and earnestly insisted on ? is
it happiness or is it virtue ? Which of these is the
summum bonum, the chief end, of man ? Their re-
duction to unity had not been clearly shown, so that
the one or the other of these alternatives had to be
chosen. The Cyrenaics chose the alternative which
placed the good or chief end of man in happiness.
The Cynics chose the alternative which placed the
good or chief end of man in virtue. I believe that
the Socratic philosophy contained, as I have said, a
principle by which these two, happiness and virtue,
were conciliated and made one; but this principle
had not been fully developed; and these two sects,
the Cyrenaic and the Cynic, did nothing to develop
it. The one of them dwelt on happiness as the
ultimate good of man, almost to the exclusion of
virtue; the other dwelt on virtue as his ultimate
good, making happiness altogether subordinate.

3. The question in regard to happiness has been
much debated in almost every school of moral phil-
osophy—in those of ancient, no less than in those
of modern, times. It is, indeed, the cardinal ques-
tion of ethics; for although some systems endeavour
to shelve this question, and to bring conscience andCYKENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

271

virtue and duty more prominently into the fore-
ground as the proper topics of ethical investigation,
still I believe that these latter can receive an ade-
quate and intelligible explanation only when con-
sidered in subordination to the more comprehen-
sive discussion which has happiness for its theme.
Schemes of morality may err in two ways—either
by representing duty and virtue as ultimate ends, to
the exclusion of happiness, or by representing happi-
ness as the ultimate end, to the exclusion of duty and
virtue. In either case we obtain a system which is
incomplete, one which is neither sound in itself, nor
likely to meet with any general acceptance. Pure
Eudaimonism, which teaches that happiness is all in
all, however acceptable it may be practically, is a
doctrine which cannot be theoretically approved of;
while Asceticism, which contends for the abnegation
of happiness in the pursuit of duty and virtue, is a
scheme which will never enlist many practical ad-
herents, however numerous its theoretical advocates
may be. The only way of avoiding the errors inci-
dent to either extreme, and of effecting a rational
compromise, is by instituting an inquiry into the
nature of human happiness, with the view of ascer-
taining the relation in which it stands towards con-
science and virtue and duty; and accordingly it is
to this question that we now deliberately address
ourselves.

4. The inquiry concerning happiness resolves it-272

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

self into two questions—First, Is happiness the chief
end of man ? and, secondly, Ought happiness to be the
chief end of man ? The one of these questions is a
question of fact, Is the fact so ? The other of them
is a question of propriety, Ought the fact to be so ?
Although our answers to these questions may ulti-
mately coincide, and we may find that what is, is
what ought to be—in other words, that happiness
both is and ought to be the chief end of man—it
may still be well to keep the two questions separate
at the outset, and to treat of each in succession.

5. The philosophy of the Cyrenaic school, founded
by Aristippus, proceeds on the assumption that hap-
piness is, in point of fact, the good, the supreme good,
or chief end of man; and this assumption, so far from
being discountenanced by the philosophy of Socrates,
is involved in that philosophy as one of its most vital
principles. Viewed as a matter of fact, we must
admit that his own happiness, whatever it may con-
sist in, or whatever may be the means to be employ-
ed in the attainment, is the end which each indivi-
dual has most at heart, and at which he ultimately
aims. This is the end after which all men most
eagerly strive. Happiness is the goal which, con-
sciously or unconsciously, we are all struggling to
reach. Milton has written two epic poems in which
he commemorates our fallen and our restored condi-
tion. He has written ' Paradise Lost' and ' Paradise
Regained/ But the true epic of humanity—the epicCYKENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

273

which is in a constant course of evolution from the
beginning until the end of time, the epic which is
daily poured forth from the heart of the whole human
race, sometimes in rejoicing pseans, but oftener amid
woeful lamentation, tears, and disappointed hopes—
what is it but Paradise sought for ?

6.	Hence there has been a tendency in the minds
of all men, whether rude or civilised, both in ancient
and in modern times, to accept this fact as they found
it; to set forth happiness as the summum bonum,
the supreme good, the ultimate end of all human en-
deavour, the magnet whose power of attraction no
human being could successfully resist. The gen-
eral tendency of opinion, I say, has been to acknow-
ledge the universal dominion exercised over man by
the desire of happiness, and to accept this principle
as his supreme rule of action, and as the basis of all
ethical disquisition, whether practical or theoretical.
To have denied that happiness was man's chief good
and his ultimate aim, would have appeared to be fly-
ing in the face of truth, and setting nature herself
at defiance.

7.	But although philosophers, as well as mankind
at large, have generally agreed that happiness is the
greatest good, or the chief end of man, philosophers
have differed as to what happiness itself is—as to
what it consists in. By an easy transition, some
people come to regard happiness as convertible with

s274

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

self-indulgence, or as centring in mere sensual plea-
sure. This was the most palpable, most vivid, and
most intelligible sort of happiness with which they
were acquainted ; while physical pain, on the other
hand, was the only misery which they could readily
understand: and accordingly, in the early and rude
periods of society, sensational pleasures were eagerly
pursued, as the only true and distinct constituents
of happiness, while sensational pains were carefully
avoided, as the only true and distinct constituents of
misery; and these are regarded as the true elements
of happiness or of misery. Of course, instances
would occur, even during such times, in which indi-
viduals, and even multitudes, would encounter dan-
ger and death under the excitement of some strong
passion. But I speak of man in his ordinary state,
and when left to the guidance of his natural and
normal inclinations. These would prompt him to
court sensational pleasure, and to shun sensational
pain, whenever it was in his power to do so.

8. This, accordingly, was the opinion entertained
by Aristippus in regard to happiness. He viewed it
as convertible with pleasure; and in this respect he
differed widely from the sentiments of Socrates, who,
whatever his opinion as to happiness may have been,
certainly did not regard it as centring in the plea-
sures and enjoyments of sense. Thus Aristippus,
dissenting from the opinions of his master, although
he may have supposed that he was reducing theseCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

275

opinions to greater clearness and precision, and con-
ceiving happiness in its most obvious and palpable
and intelligible form, in the form in which it was
viewed by thfe vulgar, advocated a system of hedon-
ism, as it has been called, from the Greek word rj^ovrj,
in which mere sensual pleasure is set forth as the
great good and ultimate end of man.

9. It is evident that the sensational ethics of Aris-
tippus had their roots in the sensational psychology,
of which I have already spoken at sufficient length
in expounding the opinions of the Sophists. They
arose, not out of the comprehensive and profound
7vS)6l aeavrov of Socrates, which resulted in the dis-
covery that the true nature and essence of man was
thought, but out of the superficial and contracted
<yv&0L creavrov of the Sophists, which had issued in
the conclusion that sensation was the staple and
the essence of humanity. If sensation be the true
and proper nature of man, the pursuit of sensational
enjoyment must be his true and proper duty, and in
attaining sensational enjoyment he must attain his
true and proper end. If sensation be man's true na-
ture, the pleasures of sensation must be man's true
good. The ethics of Aristippus are thus in perfect
logical consistency with the psychology on which
they were founded. The only way in which such
ethics can be overruled, is by combating the psycho-
logy which is their groundwork; in other words,
their refutation must be founded on the proof that276

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

tlie true nature of man does not centre in sensation,
but in something very different; namely, in the free
and self-originated activity of thought. But this
part of the Socratic philosophy Aristippus had over-
looked or misunderstood.

10. But although Aristippus represented pleasure
as the chief end of man, we are not to suppose that
he broached his system, or advocated this doctrine of
hedonism, for the purpose of exciting man's desires,
or of stimulating him to the pursuit of mere sensual
indulgences. That, in his opinion, would have been
a very unnecessary task, a work of supererogation.
He must have held that man required no philosophy
to urge him forward in the path along which he was
already so vehemently propelled by his nature. But
although man requires no stimulus to urge him for-
ward in the pursuit of pleasure, he may require, and
he does require, a monitor to direct him in the pur-
suit, and even at times to hold him back; and this
monitor appears in the moral philosophy of Aristip-
pus. It is true that the hedonism which he incul-
cates chimes in with the ordinary sentiments of
mankind, in so far as it holds that sensational enjoy-
ment is the chief end of man: it admits that, by the
very law of life, pleasure is to be pursued, that pain is
to be shunned; but it differs from the ordinary sen-
timents of mankind in this respect, that while they
would impose no restraint on our pursuit of pleasure,
or in our avoidance of pain, the philosophy of Aris-CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

277

tippus teaches that these are to be pursued and
shunned only under certain restraints; that is, only
on the terms which prudence dictates. The philoso-
phic position of Aristippus was this: he accepted as
an undeniable truth the fact that pleasure was fixed
by nature as man's ultimate aim ; but seeing that this
end would be defeated by reckless and inordinate
indulgence, it exhorted to moderation and self-re-
straint ; exhortations which were much needed, inas-
much as nature, although she speaks to man in very
distinct and decided terms when she summons him
to enjoyment, delivers herself in terms by no means
so articulate when she warns him to refrain.

11. The class of systems to which the hedonism of
Aristippus belongs have existed during every period,
the earliest as well as the latest, in the history of ethi-
cal philosophy. They are known under the names of
Hedonism, or the philosophy of pleasure, from rj^ovrj;
of Epicureanism, or the philosophy of ease and en-
joyment, from Epicurus, its founder; of Eudaimon-
ism, or the philosophy of happiness, from evhaifjuovia;
and in modern times they pass generally under the
name of Utilitarianism. All these schemes, in what-
ever minor respects they may differ, agree in this
respect, that they accept as a fact not to be gain-
said the truth that the summum bonum, the supreme
good for man, is his own felicity; and that this feli-
city is for the most part, or principally, of a sensa-
tional character. The systems thus characterised278

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

stand, as yon are aware, in no very good repute;
they are usually represented as inimical to virtue,
preaching maxims of immorality, as inculcating a life
of enjoyment and self-indulgence; but it is truer to
say of them that the scope and tendency of their ex-
hortations rather is to impose a check on the vehe-
mence of man's passions, to curb his appetites, and
to set limits to his irregular inclinations. Even the
lowest of these systems, even mere hedonism, goes as
far as this; it does not inculcate the pursuit of plea-
sure ; it assumes that that requires no teaching, hav-
ing been already sufficiently taught by nature; but
it holds that, in connection with this pursuit, there
is something which does require to be taught, some-
thing in respect to which nature affords us no lessons;
and that is, prudence and moderation in the indul-
gence of our appetites and desires. Indulge your
appetites and inclinations, say these systems, speak-
ing with the voice of nature; but indulge them wisely
and with moderation, they add, speaking with the
voice of philosophy, otherwise the very happiness
which is your aim will be dashed to pieces in the
moment of enjoyment. It is a mistake, therefore, to
suppose that these systems are essentially of an im-
moral character. Their standard of morality may
not be high, but it rises above the standard of mere
nature. Nature's dictate is, Pursue pleasure. These
systems add, But let your pursuit be guided and con-
trolled by prudential considerations. And in so far
as this advice was attended to in the primitive agesCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

279

of mankind, we may surely believe that something
was thereby reclaimed to the moral world from the
waste regions of rude and undisciplined nature.

12.	I proceed to give you a short account of the
moral philosophy of the Cynics. If it was the ten-
dency of the Cyrenaic school to push to an extreme
the doctrine that man's good or happiness consisted
in his attainment of mere sensational enjoyment, so
the tendency of the Cynics was to go into the op-
posite extreme, and to maintain that man's good or
happiness consisted in his freedom from pleasures of
sensation. The Cyrenaics inculcated, as man's chief
good, an indulgence, in so far as prudence permitted,
in sensual gratifications; the Cynics, on the other
hand, inculcated, as man's chief good, an abnegation,
in so far as nature allowed, of all such gratifications.
These counter-opinions came out more fully after-
wards in the systems of the Epicureans and the
Stoics, of which I shall have occasion to speak here-
after. Meanwhile, you have to bear in mind that
the precursors of these later and more celebrated
sects were the Cyrenaics and the Cynics.

13.	The Cynical philosophy, of which Antisthenes
is regarded as the founder, contended that man's true
good was virtue, and not pleasure; and that virtue
consisted in a freedom from all sensational indul-
gences. This freedom, too, might be said to be man's
true happiness. Not pleasure, but the negation and280

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

rejection of pleasure, was the ultimate good, the
chief end of man. This philosophy taught that
man's wants and desires should be reduced to the
smallest possible amount; that all sensational en-
joyments must be as much as possible forsworn, as
being of an enslaving tendency, and as at variance
with the true nature of man.

14. I remark, in conclusion, that this doctrine
obviously has its roots in the Socratic psychology,
which I formerly endeavoured to expound to you;
in the doctrine, namely, that thought, and not sensa-
tion, is that which constitutes the true nature of man;
that thought, the opposite of sense, is itself an act
in which man frees himself from sensation, appetite,
and desire; and that, therefore, this act or thought
itself testifies in its very origin what the duty of man
is, what the obligation is under which he lies; tes-
tifies, namely, that he is bound to rise superior to the
lower promptings of his nature, and to refuse to be
the slave of the passive modifications of his soul.
Such is the groundwork of the Cynical ethics. They
were built upon a right foundation. They incul-
cated self-restraint, not on mere prudential grounds,
as the Cyrenaics did, but on deeper grounds, lying
in the very constitution of man himself; for they
held that it was only through self-restraint, or a lib-
eration from his sensational condition, that man was
truly man. Their error lay in their pushing this
doctrine to an extreme, and in preaching and prac-CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

281

tising it in a form too abstract for human nature to
endure; for in a right and complete ethical system
allowance must be made for the unessential as well
as for the essential elements of human nature; the
sensational no less than the higher and antagonist
elements of his being must be taken into account.
All that is necessary is that the lower principles
should not be allowed to predominate: it is neither
necessary nor possible that they should be altogether
extirpated or suppressed. Such extirpation or sup-
pression was what the Cynical philosophy inculcated,
and therefore it erred in being abstract and extreme;
and in being abstract and extreme it became partial
and one-sided; in a word, it became a form of im-
perfect Socraticism.

15. The founder of the Megaric sect was Euclid,
a philosopher whom you must not confound with
the mathematician of that name. On the death of
Socrates, in the year 399 B.C., Euclid retired to his
birthplace, Megara, a town distant about twenty-six
miles from Athens; and here he established the Me-
garic school of philosophy. The chief characteristic
of this school was, that it set forth " the good " as the
main category, the leading universal in all things.
Whatever was real was good. The Megaric philoso-
phers derived their doctrines from the Eleatics no less
than from Socrates. What the Eleatics called Being,
that, namely, which must be thought of in all that is
thought, the Megarics called the good. Everything282

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

is good in so far as it is. Evil is mere defect, want, or
privation. Evil is a mere negation; the good alone
is positive. Whatever truly exists, or is thought of
as truly existing, must exist as good, and must be
thought of as good. The good, then, is the common
quality, the element of agreement in all things which
exist; it is the supreme category of the universe.
The Megaric school was likewise famous for the logi-
cal puzzles with which it perplexed itself and its
neighbours. One of these was called the Sorites, or
the heap. Is one grain of corn a heap ? it is asked.
No. Are two grains ? No. Three grains ? No. And
so on, until the person interrogated either says now
there is a heap, in which case one grain will have
made the difference between a heap and no heap,
which seems to be absurd; or else he will say that no
number of grains make up a heap, which seems still
more absurd. Another puzzle was called Cornutus,
or the horned. You have that which you have not
lost, have you not ? Yes. Then you have horns, for
you have not lost horns.

16. In the novel of ' Don Quixote,' a Megaric puzzle,
or a case which may be regarded as such, is brought
under our notice. Sancho Panza, having been ap-
pointed governor of the island of Baratria, has to deal
with many perplexing law cases when seated on the
bench, and among others with the following: There
was a bridge over a river in the neighbourhood, which
a certain rich man had built for the benefit of travellers,CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

283

and close by it there stood a gallows. The condition
on which people were allowed to cross the bridge was,
that they should speak the truth in regard to whither
they were going. If they lied, they were to be tied
up to the gibbet. Now on one occasion a traveller
came to the bridge, and on being asked whither he
was going, he replied that he was going to be hanged
on that gallows. This answer threw the toll-keepers
into great perplexity. For supposing that they hanged
the man, in that case he had spoken the truth, and it
was their duty to have let him pass. But again, sup-
posing that they let him pass, in that case he had
told a lie, and it was their duty to have hanged him.
In these perplexing circumstances they appealed to
the wisdom of the governor Sancho, and he pro-
nounced the judicious verdict, that in so doubtful
and difficult a case it was better to lean to the side
of mercy, and allow the traveller to go free, even at
the expense of logical consistency.

17. To say a word in conclusion, and by way of
summing up these three systems. I remarked at the
outset that Socrates had left the conception of the
good very vague and indeterminate. He had strong
utilitarian, even eudaimonistic, tendencies. But it
is equally true that he strove to promulgate a pro-
founder morality than that of mere utility or eudai-
monism. He wavered, however, between the two;
at one time he appears as a mere utilitarian, who
makes happiness all in all; at another time he incul-284

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

cates a higher morality, the aim of which is rather
the perfection than the happiness of our nature.
Hence two paths of moral inquiry were opened up to
his disciples. The Cyrenaics, led by Aristippus, en-
tered on the one of these paths, and proclaimed hap-
piness, in the sense of mere pleasure, as the summum
bonum, or ultimate good, for man; while the Cynics,
led by Antisthenes, maintained that virtue, or the
perfecting of his nature, was man's true end, and that
this end was to be attained only by repressing his
desires and curtailing his wants within the smallest
possible limits. ^ The Megarics, again, left the Socra-
tic conception of the good in its original indetermi-
nation; or, at any rate, the only explanation of it
which they suggested was, that the good in itself
and true Being in itself were identical—a proposition
not without value and significance, when we consider
that man, in fostering his true being is promoting his
true good, and that he attains to what is truly his
good just in proportion as he attains to what is truly
his being. So much, then, in regard to the imperfect
Socraticists, the Cyrenaic, the Cynic, and the Mega-
ric schools of philosophy.

18. Before going on with the history of philosophy,
I shall introduce at this place an ethical discussion
of a somewhat digressive character, attempting to
explain a subject on which I touched in the preced-
ing paragraph: I mean the obscurity in which Socra-
tes left his conception of the good, and his vacillatingCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

285

attitude in regard to the question whether is happi-
ness or virtue the summum bonum, the great end, of
man. No particular blame attaches to Socrates on
this score, for I think it may be said with truth, that
in no ethical work whatsoever is any satisfactory
and conclusive answer to be found to this question,
no answer which settles the problem on scientific
principles. In the remarks which I have now to
make, I shall perhaps be no more successful than
others have been before me. I shall not indeed at-
tempt a complete solution of the question; I shall
merely indicate the direction in which I think the
solution is to be found.

19. The question, then, is this : Is happiness or util-
ity, or wellbeing of one kind or another, the great and
sole end of man—the goal at which all his efforts
point, and towards which they tend ? or is something
else, something different from happiness, the proper
end and object of his pursuit ? This is the question
which still divides and perplexes the philosophical
world, as it perplexed them in the days of Socrates.
On the side of utility, as its strongest champion,
stands Mr J. S. Mill; on the other side stands
Dr Whewell, who contends for the right as some-
thing distinct from the useful, and who holds that a
man must aim at doing right, however disastrous the
consequences may be to himself and to the world.
This, I say, is the great moral question of the day. I
put aside at present the theory of the selfish moralists,286

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

who maintain that a man's own personal happiness
is what he always aims at. I enlarge the question,
and take it up as the most enlightened utilitarians
state it; and I ask, Is the happiness of ourselves and
others the proper end of our exertions, or is some-
thing different from this the proper end of our exer-
tions ? That, I again say, is the question, and it
divides moral philosophers into two opposite camps.

20. As preliminary to the settlement of this ques-
tion, I remark that man may be viewed in two dif-
ferent characters—first, as man simply; and secondly,
as man susceptible of pleasure and pain, enjoyment
and suffering, happiness and misery. Now, I con-
ceive that one scheme of morality will be applicable
to him when viewed under the first of these relations,
and that another scheme of morality will be applic-
able to him when under the second of these relations.
First, let me explain what I mean by man considered
as a man simply. By man simply I mean man as
a mere being or existence, and not as a happy or
miserable being. We can abstract happiness and
misery from man, and yet leave him in existence as
a man. But there are some qualities which we can-
not abstract in thought from man, and leave him
in existence as a man; and these qualities are
thought, reason, self - consciousness. Take away
these qualities, and man ceases to be man, he be-
comes an animal; but take away enjoyment or take
away suffering from a man, and he does not ceaseCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

287

to be a man; he does not become an animal. Man,
then, considered as man simply, is man endowed
with thought, reason, self-consciousness. These can-
not be disunited, for these are his very essence.
Such is the character and constitution of man, con-
sidered as man simply. Secondly, of man considered
as susceptible of pleasure and of pain. This point
requires no explanation. Pleasure and pain, I may
merely say, are not essential to man, as thought
and intelligence and self-consciousness are. Man
can be man without them. You can readily under-
stand that happiness and misery are something which
are superinduced upon man; at least, are not so
intimately his as those other qualities which have
been specified—viz., thought, reason, and self-con-
sciousness.

21. We have now to ask, What kind of moral
scheme will be applicable to man, considered simply
as man ? The answer is, that the scheme of morals
which will suit him will be such as the anti-Utilita-
rians contend for. Happiness cannot be his summum
bonum, nor can misery be his summum malum, for,
considered as man simply, he has no sense either
of happiness or of misery. Something else, therefore,
must be his chief good and his chief evil; something
different from happiness must be what he pursues;
something different from misery must be what he
shuns. What must these be ? They can be no other
than the maintenance or the perfection of his being288

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

on the one hand, and its impairment or imperfection
on the other hand. The obligatory law, the duty
which binds him, will be to do everything to maintain
and strengthen his power of thought, of reason, of
self-consciousness, and to avoid everything by which
these may be weakened or overpowered. In short,
his morality will consist in his doing all that he can
to maintain and preserve and strengthen himself as
a man simply—that is, as a rational and thinking
being—and in his avoiding all that may imperil his
rational existence. He will maintain himself as a
moral being in maintaining himself as an intelligent
and self-conscious being; and if we suppose, as we
very well may, that virtue consists in the perfecting
of our nature, the end of this being will be virtue,
and there will be no happiness, none, at least, dif-
ferent from virtue itself, to distract him from this
end. Such then, I think, is the morality applicable
to man considered simply as man. It consists in
the pursuit of virtue, in the perfecting of our rational
nature, and not in the pursuit of happiness. Here
then we have a morality which would please the
anti-Utilitarians. I may add that, on such a condi-
tion, it would be a man's duty to strive not only
after his own natural perfection, but to assist others
in striving after theirs.

22. But this condition is only a part of our condi-
tion as human beings. Man is man simply, but he
is also more than this; in his actual state, he is incyrenaic, etc., schools.

289

man susceptible of pleasure and pain, of happiness
and the reverse. We have now to ask what is the
moral scheme applicable to man in this more com-
plicated state. A new element has been introduced
into his condition; that, namely, of happiness and
misery, and the moral code by which he is to be
directed must be accommodated so as to suit and
take into account this new element. The modifica-
tion or addition which the moral code must receive
will be understood if we consider the nature of
happiness or pleasure, and the nature of misery or
pain. The former of these has attractions almost ir-
resistible ; the latter has a power of repulsion which
naturally drives us back as far as it is possible for us
to recoil. Here then we have something which sets
itself up as a new summum bonum and as a new
summum malum, as a summum bonum and summum
malum different from those which attracted and re-
pelled man considered simply as man. Then, the
proper end of man's pursuit was the perfection of
his rational existence. Now, the proper end of man's
pursuit seems to be, indeed I may say is> something
different from this; it is happiness, the happiness of
himself and others; in a word, his conduct is now
tested by its utility, that is, by its tendency to pro-
mote or to obstruct the interests and wellbeing of
himself and of mankind.

23. It now then appears as if we had two chief
ends set up as the proper objects of human pursuit.

t290

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

The one end comes before us when we put happiness
and misery aside, and look at man simply as man.
In this case the proper end of all his actions and
aspirations will be to maintain and strengthen his
true being; that is to say, his rational nature. The
other end comes before us when we take happiness
and misery into account, and view man as suscepti-
ble of these qualities. In this case, the proper end
and aim of man's existence will be the attainment
and the diffusion of happiness. Both should be
treated and adjusted in a complete system of moral
philosophy.

24. Now it may often happen that there will be
no discrepancy between these two ends. We may
admit that they are usually in harmony with one
another, and that in attaining the one end we attain
the other as well. But cases must, and do, occur in
which both of these cannot be attained; cases may
occur in which a man, in attaining what he conceives
to be, and what indeed is, his happiness, must sac-
rifice the perfection of his rational being; or again,
cases may occur in which a man, in maintaining the
perfection of his rational being, must sacrifice what
he feels to be his happiness. In these cases, which
end must he cling to, and which end must he give
up ? I answer that he must cling to that end which
consists in the preservation and perfecting of his
rational nature, and must give up that end which
consists in happiness or pleasure, whether that hap-CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.	291

piness be his own or that of others; and I give this
answer for this reason, that it is of more importance
that man should be a man, truly a man, than that
he should be a happy man. To be happy, we must
first of all be men, and to be men we must first of
all be rational. Whatever, therefore, strikes at the
root of reason or thought is to be avoided, however
much it may promote our happiness, for our reason
is our existence. But it does not follow that what-
ever strikes at the root of our happiness is to be
avoided, however much it may promote our rational
perfection, for our happiness is not our existence.
On these grounds I conceive that when the two ends
come into conflict, the preference is to be given to
that end which is regarded by man considered as
man simply; for this end, its preservation and at-
tainment, is his very essence and existence: and that
the preference is not to be given to that end which
is set in view before man considered as susceptible
of happiness and misery, for in this end his essence
and his existence do not centre, happiness and misery
being merely accessories to human nature, and not
human nature itself.

25. In the latter part of yesterday's lecture XI was
led into a discussion of a somewhat digressive char-
acter. It arose out of the ambiguity in which Soc-
rates had left the conception of the good, meaning
by that word the great and proper object of all
human pursuit. Is happiness the chief end of man?292

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

Is this the object which he is designed unremittingly
to pursue on his own account, and to the utmost of
his ability to diffuse on account of others ? Or is
virtue his chief end ? Is the right as distinct from
the useful, the just as distinct from the expedient,
the object which it is his duty to strive after ?
Socrates does not seem to have returned any very
explicit answer to this question; and hence he has
not settled definitely what the good for man is, inas-
much as he has not declared categorically whether it
is happiness or virtue. From the spirit of the Socra-
tic teaching we may infer that he regarded virtue
as the supreme good; but the scientific grounds on
which he rested this conclusion are not apparent.
Nor are they apparent in the writings of any subse-
quent moralists. Many moralists have declared that
we must do what is right at all hazards, that we
must act rightly irrespective of all considerations of
utility. And when we ask why ? why must we act
rightly ? the only answer we get from them is, that
we must act aright because it is right to do what is
right. This mode of reasoning—and I believe it is a
fair representation of the reasoning of Dr Whewell
and the other anti-utilitarians—is not very satis-
factory. The anti-utilitarian moralists may, however,
be regarded as returning an articulate answer to the
question, What is summum, bonum, the chief end of
man ? They declare that it is virtue.

26. On the other hand, the utilitarians or Eudai-CYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

293

monists define the good as centring in happiness. To
act aright is to act in such a way as will promote
either our own happiness or the happiness of those
around us, or the happiness of the world at large.
Whatever conduct has this effect is right conduct;
whatever conduct has a contrary effect is wrong con-
duct. In answer, then, to the question, Why must I
do what is right ? the utilitarian answer is, Because
by so doing you will contribute something to the well-
being of the world. It is your duty to act in a par-
ticular way, in the way which we call right, because
by acting in this way you will promote the happiness
of yourself and others, and will thus attain the end
which all human beings are born to strive after. Here,
also, we have a categorical answer to the question,
What is the summum bonum, the chief end of man ?
The utilitarians declare that happiness is the good.

27. This theory of the good which makes it con-
vertible with happiness seems to labour under a
defect precisely the opposite of that which we charged
against the anti-utilitarian scheme. There we were
disposed to accept the conclusion, but to find fault
with the premises as insufficient or null. Here we
are indisposed to embrace the conclusion, although
the premises seem reasonable and strong. That a
particular action should redound to the advantage of
myself or others seems a very sufficient reason why
it should be performed. The advantage expected to
arise from it seems to make the performance of it a294

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

duty. That is an intelligible position, more so than
the ground occupied by the anti-utilitarians. We
feel, nevertheless, that there is something defective in
the scheme which sets aside virtue as the good, and
enthrones happiness in its place. So far as we can
see, there is a flaw somewhere in the system of the
utilitarians, and also in the system of their opponents.
We are not willing to throw virtue overboard, and
join the utilitarians in setting up happiness alone as
the supreme good for man; nor are we willing to
join their opponents in throwing happiness over-
board, and in setting up virtue alone as the ultimate
object of his pursuit. We must try whether we can-
not fall on some method by which the two, virtue
and happiness, may be conciliated, conciliated on
scientific grounds.

28. It was as a step towards this conciliation that
I drew your attention, in my last lecture, to a dis-
tinction which may be of service to us in our attempt
to adjust and to resolve this difficult moral question
as to the supreme good: I mean the distinction be-
tween man considered as man simply, and man con-
sidered as susceptible of happiness and of misery.
I stated what was meant by man simply, and what
his qualities were, and also what man was in his
more complex condition as the subject of happiness
or the reverse. I stated that a different system of
morals would apply to him in the simple state from
what would apply to him in the complex state; inCYKENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

295

other words, that the good or ultimate end would be
different in the case of man simply, from what it
would be in the case of man as capable of happiness
and of misery. In the former case, it would be the
preserving and the perfecting of his rational nature;
in the latter case, the end would, to a large extent, be
happiness or pleasure—that is, something less inti-
mately connected with himself than the perfection of
his intelligent nature. I also stated, that these two
ends might frequently coincide, in which case no
collision would arise; but they also might come into
conflict, and when this happened, I stated that the
end called happiness must be sacrificed in favour of
the other end, which we may very well call virtue.
I also gave you my reason for this conclusion, and it
is one which, though then briefly stated, appears to
me to be more scientific, logical, or reasonable than
any which I have yet fallen in with. Stated again,
very shortly and simply, the reason why we should
sacrifice our happiness to our virtue is this, that in
sacrificing happiness to virtue we do not cease to be
men, we only cease to be happy men; but in sacri-
ficing virtue to happiness, we do cease to be men,
because virtue is the preservation and perfecting of
our rational nature, and therefore whatever is at
variance with virtue is at variance with the preser-
vation of our true being, and is pro tanto a curtail-
ment or destruction of our moral and intelligent life.

29. Let me illustrate this subject somewhat further.296

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

Suppose that a man had no pleasure in eating, but
that the food he took merely served to keep him in
health and strength, without ministering any further
than this to his enjoyment. His palate, we suppose,
has no sense of taste. His food keeps him alive and
in vigour, and that is all. He has no relish, neither
has he any repugnance, to any kind of food: all is
equally indifferent. Now, in so far as eating is con-
cerned, what would this person's end or object or
supreme good be ? It would be to keep himself in
life, and, moreover, in bodily soundness and activity.
That would be his proper end or aim; and what
would his duty be ? His duty would consist in eat-
ing those meats which conduced most effectually to
that end, and to escheW the viands which impaired
his powers of life and diminished his activity and
strength. In abstaining from the latter, and in pur-
suing the former, he would be walking in the path
of duty, because he would be in the way of attaining
to his proper end, the preservation of his life and
the maintenance and perfecting of his health and
strength. This individual, his end, and his duty,
illustrate in a lower matter the analogous case in the
moral world of which I spoke, and which I called
man simply.

30. Let us continue our observation of this indivi-
dual. Suppose that after a time his food no longer
merely keeps him alive and well, but affords a posi-
tive and no inconsiderable pleasure to his palate.CYKENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

297

And let us further suppose that some of those dishes
which minister most to his enjoyment are exceedingly-
prejudicial to his health, while some of those which
are rather bitter in the mouth make amends for their
repulsiveness by filling him with redundant life,
activity, and strength. Now he is in a condition
analogous to the position of man considered as
susceptible of happiness and misery. But let us ask
what change in the end at which he aims, and what
change in the duty which guides him in the pursuit,
are likely to be brought about by this altered state of
things ? The following change, I apprehend, is very
likely to ensue. He will be very apt to set up the
personal pleasure derived from eating and drinking
as his end, instead of the old end, a vigorous and
active life: and, aiming at this new end, he will be
inclined to devour those meats which contribute
most to his enjoyment, without caring how injurious
they are to his life and health, while, heedless of its
sanitary properties, he will avoid that food which
offers no great temptation to his palate. This change
in the end will be very apt to bring along with it a
change in his conception of duty. Enjoyment being
now fixed as his end, he will be very apt to suppose
that his duty must consist in attaining to that end at
all hazards; and thus he will be led, as I said, to
indulge his gluttonous propensities, not keeping his
eye on that other end, his health, which the new
object of his desire, the new summum bomtm, has
thrown into the shade.298

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

31. To carry on the illustration. Here, then, we
have two ends soliciting this individual,—the old
end, life, health, and strength; and the new end, the
enjoyment arising from eating and drinking. These
two ends are also frequently incompatible with each
other. In cases where enjoyment is pursued, health
must frequently be sacrificed; while health again is
sometimes to be purchased only by the relinquish-
ment of pleasure. In these circumstances, the ques-
tion is, Which is the end to be pursued ? Is health to
be postponed to enjoyment, or is enjoyment to be post-
poned to health ? or is there any way in which the
two ends can be reconciled ? Three answers may be
returned to this question. First, it may be said that
health is to be postponed to enjoyment; that enjoy-
ment is the chief, and health only the subordinate
end. Thik position may illustrate the scheme of
such utilitarians or Eudaimonists as set up happiness
(with little or no regard to virtue) as the end. Or,
secondly, it may be said that enjoyment is to be
postponed to health; that health is the chief, and
enjoyment only the subordinate end, not properly an
end at all. This position may illustrate the scheme
of those moralists who set up virtue (with little or
no regard to happiness) as the end. Or, thirdly, it
may be said that both health and enjoyment may be
set up as the chief end; that they admit of con-
ciliation, and that rules may be laid down for their
extrication when they come into conflict. This posi-
tion will illustrate the scheme which, though oftenCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

299

attempted, is still a desideratum in the science of
morals.

32. I continue the illustration. I go on to show
you what the rules are by which the extrication
just referred to may be effected. In the matter of
eating and drinking, the first rule is, that life and
health and strength are above all things to be at-
tended to. These are the paramount considerations ;
for these are in fact our very existence as physical
beings. This rule is so fundamental and elementary,
that it may be said to precede or underlie any gas-
tronomical code, any code, that is, that may be formed
on the subject of eating and drinking, and the ac-
companying pleasures. This rule being understood
and taken for granted, the next rule is, that every
enjoyment which eating and drinking can procure
may be freely indulged in, so far as they do not
violate the aforesaid rule. I am considering man
at present as a purely physical being, and I say
that, health and strength being taken for granted as
endowments which must on no account be impaired,
pleasure may very well be set up as the great and
chief end of eating and drinking, and in so far as
duty may be alluded to in connection with so insig-
nificant a matter, we may say that it is our duty to
get all the enjoyment that we can out of the occupa-
tions of the table, subject to the restriction referred
to. We thus perceive that, although life and health
and strength must never be violated by any excess300

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

in eating or drinking, it is nevertheless quite reason-
able to set forth enjoyment as the end, and even as
the chief end, which we have in view in taking food.
The other end—life, namely, and health—having been
laid down as an end to be taken for granted, as an
end which must be attained in the very preservation
of our existence, our attention will now be very pro-
perly fixed on enjoyment as our great and ultimate
aim; it will be our duty to apply ourselves to the
food for which we have the greatest liking, and to
shun that for which we have the greatest loathing;
subject, I again say, to the restriction already spoken
of, but subject to no other limitation.

33. Still to continue the illustration. We see that
the individual, whom we are supposing to have now
two ends set before him, has two standards to direct
him. He has the old standard, his life, namely, and
health and strength. This was his standard when
he was supposed to derive no enjoyment from eating
and drinking; and he has the new standard, the en-
joyment, namely, which after a time we supposed
him to acquire. The old standard still retains its
force, but so long as it is not violated, so long as
life and health are preserved entire, it remains quies-
cent, and allows the new standard to prevail. This
new standard rules the day, it directs the man, it
carries everything before it; and it properly does so,
provided the fundamental law of his life and health
be preserved inviolate. Thus I conceive the twoCYRENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

301

ends, which we also called standards, are reconciled.
In the matter of eating and drinking, health permits
enjoyment to put herself forward as the ultimate aim,
provided her claims be not compromised, while en-
joyment finds her advantage in conciliating health
by never being inordinate in her excesses.

34. The application of this somewhat lengthened
illustration is this, that just as the preservation of
life and health, and the attainment of enjoyment in
regard to our body, are two ends quite compatible
with each other in the humble and perhaps rather
ignoble occupation of eating and drinking; so the
maintenance of our rational life, and of the health of
the soul, is an end quite consistent with that other,
and generally more eagerly pursued end, which goes
by the name of happiness. It ^also sometimes hap-
pens that the pursuit of what we regard as happiness
is not consistent with the rational life and health of
the soul, in which case happiness must be foregone
in favour of the soul's preservation, just as in analo-
gous cases pleasure must be surrendered out of con-
sideration for the health of the body. But this being
understood, it being understood that man, in the
affections which he harbours, and in the actions
which he performs, is bound not to do violence to
his true and rational nature, this being taken for
granted, the other end, his own happiness, namely,
and that of others, may now be set full in his view
as the proper and only object of his pursuit; and to302

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the eager pursuit and active diffusion of this happi-
ness, he may be exhorted as a duty which cannot be
too abundantly fulfilled.

35.	We thus see that a complete body of ethics
should embrace two codes, two systems of rules, the
one of which we may call the fundamental or ante-
cedent, or under-ground ethics, as underlying the
other; and the other of which we may call the upper
or subsequent, or above-ground ethics, as resting
on, and modified by the former. The under-ground
ethics would inculcate on man the necessity of being
what he truly is, namely, a creature of reason and
of thought; in short, the necessity of being a man,
and of preserving to himself this status. Here the
end is virtue, that is, the life and health of the soul,
and nothing but this. The above-ground ethics
would inculcate on man the necessity of being a
happy man. It is not enough for man to be ; he must,
moreover, if possible, be happy. The fundamental
ethics look merely to his being, i. e.9 his being
rational; the upper ethics look principally to his
being happy, but they are bound to take care that
in all his happiness he does nothing to violate his
rationality, the health and virtue of the soul.

36.	We now see more clearly than we have yet
done the error into which the anti-utilitarians fall.
They make the under-ground ethics all in all. They
allow no end but virtue. They shut off happinessCYKENAIC, ETC., SCHOOLS.

303

from being the ultimate aim, the proper object of our
pursuit. They deal with the one half of morals to
the exclusion of the other. On the other hand,
the utilitarians fall into the opposite error. They
deal only with the upper or above-ground ethics;
they overlook the groundwork. They do not see
that, before a man can be a happy man, he must
first of all be a man, that is, a rational being. In
their scheme no provision is made for his being
man, but only for his being happy. Happiness,
in short, is laid down as the end or chief good of
man, without any guarantee being given that this
position holds true only in so far as man's rational
and fundamental nature is not compromised by its
acceptance. Such a guarantee is provided in what
we have called the under or fundamental ethics of
his condition.PLATO.

1. We now enter on the study of a philosophy which
has attracted more notice and excited a deeper in-
terest than any other within the whole compass of
antiquity—I mean the philosophy of Plato. The
best way to attain to a distinct understanding of the
general scope and character of this, and indeed of
every other philosophy, is by attending to the errors
and oversights which it was designed to correct and
supplement. Upheld by the ability of the Sophists,
sensationalism was the dominant system, as it was the
prevailing error, of the time, and accordingly it was
against sensationalism and its conclusions that the
philosophy of Plato was directed. Sensationalism is
supported by the natural sentiments of mankind; it is
the scheme which suggests itself most readily to the
untutored understanding; it is a product of ordinary
thinking. When left to ourselves, we are naturally
of opinion that all our knowledge comes to us through
the senses, that the senses are the main, indeed the
sole means and instruments of cognition, and this
opinion is nothing but the doctrine of sensationalism.PLATO.

305

So that the system against which the philosophy
of Plato was directed, presented itself in a twofold
character : it was a vulgar error, an inadvertency in-
cident to our natural and unreflective thinking ; and
it was, moreover, an error supported and ratified and
reduced to system by the exertions of the Sophis-
tical philosophers. And corresponding to the two-
fold character of this sensational scheme, the philo-
sophy of Plato had a twofold aim : it had to correct
sensationalism considered as a product of ordinary
thinking, as the creed of the unreflective mind; and
also considered as a philosophical and systematised
speculation. Platonism, therefore, in its general
character, is to be regarded as at once a rectification
of the inadvertencies incident to natural or ordinary
thinking, and of the aberrations into which the
popular philosophy of the day (the system, namely,
of the Sophists) had run. To correct these inadver-
tencies and errors, it advocated the claims of thought
against those of sensation. It showed how impotent
the senses are without the aid of the intellect. It
put forward its great theory of ideas and idealism in
opposition to the current theory of sensations and
sensationalism. Such was the general character,
both negative and positive, both combative and
constructive, of the Platonic philosophy, as gathered
from the general consideration of the system of doc-
trine to which it stood opposed.

2. This philosophy has exercised a very deep and
u306

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

extensive influence on the thoughts and interests of
mankind, more so, probably, than any other, either
in ancient or in modern times. Aristotle is the only
other name that can be put in comparison with that
of Plato. The ascendancy of Aristotle may for some
centuries have been more despotic, but I am inclined
to think that the genius of Plato has from first to last
ruled the minds of thinking men with a more living
and penetrating sway. Not to speak of his immedi-
ate followers, the rise of Neo-platonism, principally
in Alexandria, in the centuries immediately subse-
quent to the Christian era, attests the depth and
extent of Plato's influence. His writings, moreover,
were much admired, and closely studied by many of
the early Christian fathers. Justin Martyr, Clemens
Alexandrinus, Origen, Eusebius, and St Augustin,
these founders of the Church regarded Plato as ac-
tually inspired, so profoundly were they impressed
by the divine character of his instructions; while
others were of opinion that he had derived his wisdom
from an acquaintance with the Hebrew Scriptures,
an opinion, I need scarcely say, which rests on very
insufficient evidence. Throughout the dark ages, that
is to say, from the sixth to the tenth or eleventh
century, an eclipse passed over the light of Plato,
as it did over every other light in the firmament of
philosophy and literature. From the tenth until the
fourteenth century, Aristotle, and not Plato, was in
the ascendant. This is the period usually called the
middle ages. During its continuance, the only phil-PLATO.

307

osophy in vogue consisted of portions of Aristotle
(chiefly his logical treatises), served up in crude
Latin translations. At this time the knowledge of
the Greek language had died out, or very nearly so,
in Europe, and was not recovered until the downfall
of Constantinople which was captured by the Turks
in 1453. This event had a most auspicious effect on
the interests of learning in the West. The downfall
of Constantinople dispersed over Europe a multi-
tude of learned men who possessed Greek MSS., and
who were skilled in the Greek tongue. The study of
Greek literature began to be vigorously prosecuted
in Europe. Plato attracted a large share of attention.
This happened in the fifteenth century of our era;
and Italy was the country over which the light of
the renovated learning first broke. Here Plato was
enthusiastically studied. Marsilius Ficinus trans-
lated and commented on his works. Under the
auspices of this learned Florentine, Platonism enjoyed
a second revival. The enthusiasm spread to other
countries, and from that day down to the present the
authority of the Platonic writings has never ceased to
influence the course of speculation, and to tell even
on the general literature of all civilised communities,
although it has operated more powerfully and been
felt more vividly at one time than it has at another.
During the eighteenth century, for example, the in-
fluence of Plato had declined. But in the present
age the close study of his writings has again revived
in our own country, in France, and in Germany.308

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

3.	The philosophy of Plato is so multifarious and
unsystematic, that it would be difficult, or rather
impossible, to reduce its contents to any very exact
classification. It may .be sufficient at present to
mention the ordinary scheme which divides it into
the three branches, ethics, physics, and dialectics.
These are the three sciences which are treated of in
the writings of Plato. His ethics are a carrying out
and enforcement of the ethical opinions of his great
master Socrates. His physics are for the most part
crude and fanciful, although marked here and there
by very profound and luminous observations. The
science of dialectic is supposed to belong more pecu-
liarly to Plato, and his philosophy centres in it more
essentially than in either of the other two depart-
ments ; it therefore behoves us to inquire more par-
ticularly into the meaning or purport of the Platonic
dialectic.

4.	We ask, then, what is dialectic the science of ?
The answer is, that it is the science of ideas. Ideas,
as all the world knows, play a most important part
in the philosophy of Plato. He was indeed the first
philosopher who treated expressly of these myste-
rious entities, endeavouring to explain their nature,
to establish them as the true constituents of the
universe, and to displace by their means the sensible
phenomena from the hold which they have on the
opinions of mankind generally as the only realities
which exist. Ideas are the Alpha and Omega in thePLATO.

309

philosophy of Plato. It is not surprising, therefore,
that a special name should have been awarded by
their expositor to the science which treats of them.
That special name is called by him dialectic, a word
which, looking to its derivation, has no connection
with ideas, but which is derived from $ia\eyecr0ai, to
discourse or discuss in the way of dialogue; so that
the name of the science seems to have been sug-
gested by the conversational way in which the ideas
were discussed, rather than by anything connected
with the nature of the ideas themselves; or the word
dialectic may signify that silent dialogue which the
mind carries on within itself whenever it is engaged
in meditation. We shall have occasion hereafter to
go more deeply into this science of ideas. Mean-
while I am dealing with little more than the nomen-
clature of the Platonic speculations.

5. I may here mention some of the principal Dia-
logues which deal respectively with the three sciences,
dialectic, ethics, and physics. Dialectic shows itself
in the Meno, the Theaetetus, the Sophista, the Par-
menides, the Philebus, the Phaedrus, the Phaedo, and
the Eepublic. Ethics are treated of principally in
the Philebus and the Eepublic, to which may be
added the Euthyphro. The physics are contained for
the most part in the Timaeus. Erom this enumera-
tion you will perceive that ethics and dialectic are
sometimes treated of in the same Dialogue. The
classification, however, is, I think, sufficiently accu-310

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

rate to let you know generally which of Plato's Dia-
logues are dialectical, which ethical, and which physi-
cal. I have mentioned only the principal Dialogues
on the three branches of science.

6. Much controversy has prevailed in regard to
the genuineness of the Platonic writings. Some in-
quirers, actuated by a spirit of extreme scepticism,
have admitted as genuine a very meagre proportion
of his Dialogues, while others, influenced by a con-
trary spirit of extreme credulity, have accepted as
his everything which has come down to us in his
name. The truth seems to be, that while several of
the compositions which are incorporated with all the
editions of Plato's works must be pronounced spuri-
ous, all the more important Dialogues are genuine.
The following is a list of the writings which have
been generally regarded as spurious by those who
are most competent to judge on this question. The
Platonic Epistles (although these, I believe, are de-
fended as genuine by so high an authority as Mr
Grote*). The Upinomis, the second Alcibiades, the
Theages, Anterastce, or the rivals in love, Hipparchus,
Minos, and ClitophonA With the exception of these
few and comparatively insignificant pieces, the entire
body of the Platonic writings may be relied on as
genuine, as the authentic utterances of the great dis-
ciple of Socrates. They are compositions which,
whether we look to their style or their substance, far

* Thompson on Butler's 'Ancient Phil.' ii. 16.	+Ib. 48.PLATO.

311

surpassed in beauty and in depth everything which
had preceded them in philosophy, and they have been
followed by very few works which will bear any
comparison with their excellence. In the Platonic
writings the form of dialogue was used probably for
the first time as the vehicle of philosophical thought,
and it started at once into perfection. In grace and
ease, in poetical beauty and dramatic spirit, these
Dialogues have never been equalled. In modern times
they have frequently been imitated; and in our own
country, the two philosophers who have imitated
them most successfully, although they fall far short
of their great original, are Berkeley and Shaftesbury.

7. The dialectic is the first part of the Platonic
philosophy which must engage our attention. Dia-
lectic, as I have said, is the science of ideas. We
shall therefore have to inquire and ascertain as
clearly as we can what ideas are in the Platonic
sense of the term. This is an inquiry in which, from
first to last, much labour has been expended. I am
of opinion that, although the exertions of those who
have explored this field are far from having been
fruitless, much research and reflection are still re-
quired in order to set forth the nature of ideas in a
perfectly distinct light, and in order to appreciate,
at its true value, the Platonic theory which deals
with them. But, before entering on this research,
I shall call your attention to a few preliminaries
which come before us at the threshold.312

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

8.	One point for preliminary consideration is this:
By ideas, two things may be meant. Ideas may
either be a name for thought or knowledge in its
simplest, lowest, easiest, or most elementary form; in
that form in which knowledge is possessed by all
human beings, even the most uninstructed; or ideas
may be a name for that higher and more complex
kind of knowledge called science, which is the pos-
session of comparatively few. In which of these
acceptations, then, does Plato employ the term ? Do
his ideas mean knowledge of the simplest character,
knowledge which no man can open his eyes with-
out receiving ? or do they mean knowledge of a
loftier order, and which it requires some exertion to
attain to ?

9.	The true answer, I believe, is, that by ideas
Plato intends to designate both kinds of knowledge,
the lower and the higher. But as he employs the
word more frequently, and with greater emphasis,
in reference to our higher than to our lower know-
ledge, one is apt to think that this theory of ideas is
rather a theory of science in its loftiest pretensions,
than a theory of thought and knowledge simply, and
in their humblest and commonest manifestations.
The consequence has been, that his expositors have
usually expounded the ideas as more peculiarly the
property of the scientific mind, and as acquisitions
which it required a large amount of philosophic
culture to get possession of.PLATO.

313

10. This explanation of the Platonic ideas, though
not positively false, is exceedingly misleading. It
is not positively false, because ideas are in truth the
truth, the light of all science. But it is exceedingly
misleading, because it conveys the impression that
they are not equally essential to our simplest acts of
thought and knowledge, and that there may be a
lower species of knowledge into which ideas do not
enter. The truth, however, is, that ideas are just as
essential to our ordinary and most familiar cogni-
tions, as they are to our most recondite and elaborate
sciences, and it is in their relation to common think-
ing that they ought to be studied much more than
in their relation to scientific cognition. We shall
perceive their necessity, we shall understand them
as part and parcel of ourselves, much more clearly
when we view them as conditions without which no
thought or knowledge of any kind is possible, than
we should do if we viewed them merely as certain
requisites which contributed to the construction of
science. Plato speaks of them, as I have said, very
frequently under the latter relation. But there is suf-
ficient evidence that he regarded them under the for-
mer as well, under that relation which I venture to
think is much the more important of the two. Leaving
his expositors, then, to interpret the ideas as essential
to the constitution of science, I shall explain them
principally, if not exclusively, as necessary to the ex-
istence of our simplest knowledge, and as that without
which no thinking of any kind could take place.314

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

11. I have said that Plato dwells principally on
ideas in their higher function as instrumental in the
construction of science, and that he seems to insist
with less emphasis on the necessity with which they
are present in all, even in our humblest cognitions.
I have also said that the importance of ideas, and
the value of the theory which expounds them, are
much more conspicuous when we look at them in the
latter, than when we look at them in the former
character. When we regard them as the light of all
thought and all knowledge, the theory is admirable
(as I hope to show you); when we regard them
merely as the light of science, and as the property
merely of scientific men, the theory is shorn of its
significance. The following remark may perhaps
help to clear up or remove the ambiguity which
Plato has himself thrown around the theory. Every
human being in the simplest act of knowledge makes
use of ideas; ideas are present to his mind; but he
is not cognisant of their nature and character; he
is not aware even of their existence. They are in
possession of him, rather than he of them; he is un-
conscious of their necessary and unfailing presence.
To make him conscious of this presence, to make
him aware of the necessity and the nature of ideas,
a special and difficult science is required, the science
of Dialectic. Now, in broaching his theory of ideas,
I conceive that what Plato means to inculcate is not
that it is difficult for the mind to get hold of ideas,
or that any science is required to put us in possessionPLATO.

315

of them, or that they are the property only of the
favoured few who have been highly gifted and highly
educated. That, I say, is not what he means to incul-
cate, but rather this, that the mind being already
in possession of ideas, it is the hardest of all tasks,
and requires the most persevering meditation for the
mind to make itself cognisant of these possessions,
and to understand the nature of these ideas. From
the manner, however, in which he frequently ex-
presses himself, one might readily mistake his drift,
and might suppose that he was pressing on his
readers the necessity of their acquiring ideas, if they
wished to be men of science or philosophers; where-
as the truth is that he is merely pressing on them
the necessity of their acquiring a knowledge of the
ideas which they already possess, and which are at
once the enlightening principle of their own minds,
and the staple of the universe. The difference be-
tween the mind which is informed by dialectic, and
the mind which is not so informed, is simply this:
that the ordinary or uninformed mind has ideas, while
the dialectic mind knows that it has them, and
understands what they are. The other interpreta-
tion, that usually adopted by the Platonic expositors,
seems rather to be this: that the ordinary mind has
no ideas at all, but is informed by a lower species of
knowledge, into which ideas do not enter, while the
dialectic mind alone both has ideas and is cognisant
of their presence and nature. This interpretation is,
I conceive, quite wrong.316

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

12. Another preliminary point requiring some
notice, is the consideration of those sciences which
draw away the mind from the contemplation of sen-
sible objects, and turn it to the study of universal
truth. Among these are to be reckoned arithmetic
and geometry; sciences which, according to Plato,
are the best preparation by which the mind can be
trained to the higher study of dialectic. Speaking
of geometry, he says (the words are put into the
mouth of Socrates): "You also know," says Socrates,
"that the geometricians summon to their aid visi-
ble forms and discourse about them, though their
thoughts are busy, not with these forms, but with
their originals, and though they discourse not with a
view to the particular square and diameter which
they draw, but with a view to the absolute square
and the absolute diameter, and so on. For while
they employ by way of images those figures and
diagrams aforesaid (which again have their shadows
and images in water), they are really endeavouring
to behold those things * which a person can only see
with the eye of thought," that is to say, not this or
that circle, or this or that square, but square and circle
viewed universally, which they cannot be by sense
or imagination, but only by the intellect (htavoia).
Again, speaking of geometry, the Platonic Socrates
says: " It is indeed no easy matter to believe that,
in the midst of these mathematical studies, an organ

* Not "abstractions," as wrongly rendered by the Cambridge
translation.—Rep. vi. 510.PLATO.

317

of our soul is being purged from the blindness, and
quickened from the deadness, occasioned by other
pursuits—an organ whose preservation is of more
importance than a thousand eyes, because only by it
can truth be seen. Consequently, those who think
with us will bestow unqualified approbation on these
studies." * These extracts may be sufficient to show
the importance which Plato attached to mathemati-
cal science as a training of the mind for the study
and reception of the purer and loftier truth revealed
to it by dialectic. The words, however, which Plato
is said to have inscribed over the gate of the aca-
demy where his discussions were held, " Let no one
who is not a geometrician enter these walls "—fjuySeU
ayeay/jLerprjTos elatrco, are erroneously attributed to the
philosopher, although they are quite in accordance
with the tone and spirit of his instructions.

13. The following passage from the 7th Book of
the Bepublic, contains the celebrated similitude in
which Plato allegorises the conversion of the mind
from the world of sense to the world of ideas. I read
it to you as preparatory to our discussion of his
theory of ideas, t

" Suppose," says Socrates, " a set of men in a sub-
terraneous cavern, which opens to the day by a long
straight wide passage, and that they have been kept
in this cavern from childhood, fettered so that they

* Rep. vii. 527.

t Rep. vii. 514; Wliewell's Translation, iii. 297.318

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

cannot turn even their necks, but with their heads
fixed so that they can look only towards the lower
end of the cave. Suppose, further, that there is a
great fire lit opposite to the mouth of the cavern (so
as to throw the shadows of objects on the lower end
of the cave), and that there is a road which runs
past the cavern between the fire and the captives.
Suppose, too, that along this road runs a low wall,
like the partition over which puppet-showmen ex-
hibit their figures. And now suppose that along this
wall, and so as to be shown above it, pass men and
other figures, some silent, some speaking. You think
this is a strange imagination. Yet these captives
exactly represent the condition of us men who see
nothing but the shadows of realities. And these
captives, in talking with one, would give names to
the shadows as if they were realities. And if, further,
this prison-house had an echo opposite to it, so that
when the passers-by spoke the sound was reflected
(from the same wall on which the shadows were seen),
they would, of course, think that the shadows spoke.
And, in short, in every way they would be led to
think there were no realities except these shadows.

"Now consider how these captives might be
freed from these illusions. If one of them were
loosed from his bonds, and made to turn round and
to walk towards the light and look at it; at first he
would be pained and dazzled by the glare, and un-
able to see clearly. He would be perplexed if hePLATO.

319

were told that what he saw before were nonentities,
and that now, being brought nearer to the reality
and turned towards it, he saw better than before;
and even if any of the passers-by were pointed out
to him and made to answer questions, and to say
what he is, he would still think that what he saw
before was more true than what was shown to him
now. He would shun the excessive light, and turn
away to that which he could see, and think it more
visible than the objects which had been shown
him.

" But if he were dragged to the light, up the
steep and rough passage which opens to the cave,
and fairly brought out into the light of the sun, he
would be still more pained and more angry, and be
at first so blinded that he would not be able to see
real objects. It would require time and use to en-
able him to see things in daylight. At first he would
be able to see shadows, then the reflected images of
objects, and then objects themselves; and afterwards
he might be able to look at the heavens by night,
and see the heavenly bodies, the stars and the moon;
and finally be able to look at the sun; not merely at
a reflection of him in water, but at the sun himself
in his own place. And then he might be led to rea-
son about the sun, and see that he regulates seasons
and years, and governs everything in this visible
world, and is in a certain sense the cause of all the
things which they in their captivity saw.320

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

"And then when he recollected his first abode,
and the illusions of that place, and of his fellow-
captives, he would naturally congratulate himself
upon the change, and pity those he had left there.
And if there were among them any honours and
rewards given to him who was most sharp-sighted in
scanning the passing shadows, and readiest in recol-
lecting which of them habitually went before, and
which after, and which together, and who hence was
most skilful in predicting what could happen in
future, he would not be likely to covet these honours
and rewards. He would rather say with the shade
of Achilles in Homer, that it is better to be a day-
labourer in the region of life and day, than the
greatest monarch in the realm of shadows. He
would rather suffer anything than live as he did
before.

" And consider this further. If such a one
should redescend into the cavern, and resume his
former seat, his eyes would be purblind, coming out
of sunshine into darkness. And while his eyes
are still dark, and before they have recovered their
power, if he had to discuss those shadows with those
who had always remained there captive (a state of
things which might last a considerable time), he
would be utterly laughed at, and they would say
that his eyesight was ruined, and that it was not
worth anybody's while to go up out of the cave.
And if any one tried to set them at liberty, and toPLATO.

321

lead them to the light, they would, if they could get
him into their power, kill him.

" Now this image, my dear Glaucon, is to be ap-
plied to the case we were speaking of before. We
must liken the visible world to the dark cavern, and
the fire which makes objects visible to the sun. The
ascent upwards, and the vision of the objects there,
is the advance of the mind into the intelligible
world; at least such is my faith and hope, and of
these you wished me to give an account. God
knows if my faith is well founded. And, according
to my view, the idea of the Supreme Good is seen
last of all, and with the greatest difficulty; and when
seen, is apprehended as the cause of all that is right
and excellent. This idea produces in the visible
world light, and the sun the cause of light; in the
intellectual world it is the cause (source) of truth,
and of the intuition of truth. And this idea he who
is to act wisely either in private or in public matters
must get possession of.

"And now, as you agree with me in this view,
you will agree with me further, that it is not to be
wondered at that those who have advanced into that
higher region are not willing to be involved in the
affairs of men; their souls wish to dwell for ever in
that upper region. Nor is it wonderful if any one
coming down from divine contemplations to the
wretched concerns of men blunders and is laughed
at; while he is still purblind, and before his eyes

x322

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

are accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is
compelled, it may be, to fight in courts of justice, or
elsewhere, the battle, not about justice, but about
the shadows of justice, or the images which make
the shadows; he is compelled to wrangle about the
way in which these shadows are apprehended by
those who never had a view of justice herself. If
any one has any sense, he will recollect that there
are two kinds of confused vision arising from two
opposite sources; that which happens when men go
out of light into darkness, and that which happens
when they go out of darkness into light; and the
case is exactly the same with the mind. And when
such a one sees a mind confused and unable to dis-
cern anything clearly, he will not laugh without
consideration; he will consider whether in that case
the mind is darkened by coming out of a clearer
light into unaccustomed darkness, or, going from
ignorance to clearer knowledge, is struck with con-
fusion by the brightened splendour. And in the
latter case he would think that mind happy in its
constitution and condition, and pity the other; and
if he were disposed to laugh at it, his laughter would
be far less in a temper of ridicule than his laughter
at him who comes from above below, from the light
into the dark."

14. In the following quotation from the 10th
Book of the Republic, the ideas are explained and
illustrated by Plato himself. Here he representsPLATO.

323

them as the models or archetypes according to which
the Deity fabricates all things. The speakers are
discoursing on the subject of imitation.*

"What is imitation? We are accustomed to say
that all the things which have the same name
belong to one kind. Take anything for an example.
There are many chairs and many tables; but there
is only one idea of a chair and one idea of a table.
And the artificer who makes each of these pieces
of furniture looks to his idea of a chair or a table,
and so makes the chairs and the tables which we
use. The man does not make the idea, he only
copies it.

" But now, what do you call an artificer who makes
all the things which any of the (kinds of) handi-
craftsmen make, and not only all articles of furniture,
but all the plants which grow out of the earth, all
animals, and himself; and moreover the earth, the
heavens, the gods, and all that is in heaven, and all
that is in Hades under the earth ? You think this
must be a wonderful artist ? There may be a work-
man who can make all these things in a certain
sense, and in a certain sense cannot. You yourself
might make all these things in a certain sense; for
instance, if you take a looking-glass, and turn it on
all sides, you may forthwith make the sun and the
sky, and the earth, and yourself, and animals, and
plants, and articles of furniture, such as we have
been speaking of. You say that you make their
* Rep. X. 596 ; Whewell, iii. 327.324

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

appearances only, not the things themselves. That
is just the point I wish to come to.

" And so the painter can make things in the same
way; he does not make the real thing. He makes
an apparent table, not a real table.

" But the carpenter—does he make a real table ?
We have just agreed that he does not make that
which is essentially a table, but only a kind of table.
He does not make the thing that is, but only some-
thing that is like it. If any one says that the thing
produced by any handicraftsman really is, he makes
a mistake. The things which are thus produced are
dim shadows of the truth.

"Now, let us see what is meant by imitation.
There are, for instance, three kinds of tables. The
first the essential ideal one, which God himself
makes; then the one which the carpenter makes;
and then the one which the painter makes. The
painter, the carpenter, God; these are the three
makers of the three kinds of tables. The one made
by God is single, unique; there are not and will not
be more than one. There cannot be two or more.
If He had made two or more ideas of kinds of tables
there would be a third—the idea of table in general,
and this would be the real idea of table. And thus
God is the real author of the real table, but not of
any particular table, so as to be a table-maker.

" But the carpenter also makes a table; what is
he ? He is a table-maker.

"And the painter; does he made a table? No;PLATO.

325

he imitates a table. And so the man who makes the
third copy of the original is an imitator "

15. I shall conclude the preliminaries and prepara-
tions for the closer study of the Platonic dialectic by
reading you an extract from the lectures of the late
Professor Butler of Dublin, in which he explains his
conception of the Platonic theory of ideas. He ex-
plains ideas as the laws according to which God
regulates the universe; a view not erroneous, but
only rather vague, and conveying the impression
that ideas do not enter into all our knowledge, but
are the animating principle of our higher cogni-
tions only.

"You can now enter easily into the aim of the
theory of Ideas. That man's soul is made to contain
not merely a consistent scheme of its own notions, but
a direct apprehension of real and eternal laws beyond
it, is not too absurd to be maintained. That these
real and eternal laws are things intelligible, and not
things sensible, is not very extravagant either. That
these laws, impressed upon creation by its Creator,
and apprehended by man, are something different
equally from the Creator and from man, and that
the whole mass of them may be fairly termed the
world of things purely intelligible, is surely allow-
able. Nay, further, that there are qualities in the
supreme and ultimate Cause of all, which are mani-
fested in His creation, and not merely manifested, but,
in a manner—after being brought out of His super-326

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

essential nature into the stage of being below Him, but
next to Him—are then, by the causative act of crea-
tion, deposited in things, differencing them one from
the other, so that the things participate of them (/xer-
kyovcrC), communicate with them (/coivcovovcrt); this
likewise seems to present no incredible account of the
relation of the world to its Author. That the intel-
ligence of man, excited to reflection by the impres-
sions of these objects, thus (though themselves transi-
tory) participant of a divine quality, should rise to
higher conceptions of the perfections thus faintly
exhibited; and inasmuch as these perfections are
unquestionably real existences, and known to be
such in the very act of contemplation—that this
should be regarded as a direct intellectual appercep-
tion of them, a union of the reason with the ideas
in that sphere of being which is common to both—
this is certainly no preposterous notion in substance,
and by those who deeply study it, will perhaps be
deemed no unwarrantable form of phrase. Finally,
that the reason, in proportion as it learns to contem-
plate the perfect and eternal, desires the enjoyment
of such contemplations in a more consummate de-
gree, and cannot be fully satisfied except in the per-
fect fruition of the perfect itself, this seems not to
contradict any received principle of psychology, or
any known law of human nature. Yet these sup-
positions, taken together, constitute the famous
' Theory of Ideas;' and thus stated, may surely be
pronounced to form no very appropriate object forPLATO.

327

the contempt of even the most accomplished of our
modern 'physiologists of mind/"—(Butler's 'Lec-
tures on Philosophy,' vol. ii. pp. 117-18-19.)

16. Before entering on the exposition of Plato's
dialectic or theory of ideas, I thought it right to
call your attention to certain preliminary considera-
tions. These were the settlement of the question,
Are the Platonic ideas the necessary constituents of
all knowledge, or only of scientific knowledge ? My
conclusion is that they are, according to Plato, the
necessary constituents of all knowledge, although it
must be confessed that he has left this point some-
what ambiguous, and has thereby misled his exposi-
tors, who frequently regard the ideas as belonging
more properly to scientific than to ordinary cogni-
tion. The true interpretation is, that while all minds
have ideas, the instructed mind both has and knows
that it has them. I then mentioned the sciences
which, in the opinion of Plato, were the best prepara-
tion for dialectic; these were arithmetic and the
mathematical sciences, particularly geometry. These,
when rightly cultivated, lead the mind to look at
truth, not in the particular, but in the universal, and
thus furnish a proper training for the higher study
of ideas. As a further introduction to dialectic, and
in order to familiarise you with the main object of
Plato's philosophy, which is to turn the mind from
the comparative unrealities of sense to the realities
of reason, which ideas are, I read to you his cele-328

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

brated similitude of the Cave, in which this conver-
sion is allegorised. I then read to you an extract
from Plato, the purport of which was to show that,
just as an existing sensible object has a higher degree
of reality than a mere painting of it, so the divine
and eternal idea of that object has a higher degree of
reality than the object itself, and that, just as we may
very well consider the painting unreal when com-
pared with the object, so we may very properly re-
gard the object as unreal when compared with its
eternal idea. And, finally, my object in reading to
you a few extracts from Professor Butler was to make
you acquainted with the somewhat vague and un-
satisfactory interpretation of the Platonic ideas which
is generally current.

17. Having disposed of these introductory matters,
I now enter on the dialectic of Plato. And as this
science is the science of ideas, we have first of all to
consider what ideas are in themselves. We must try
to fathom their nature as much by our own reflec-
tions as by means of the light which Plato has con-
tributed to the research. It is not so much by read-
ing Plato as by studying our own minds that we can
find out what ideas are, and perceive the significance
of the theory which expounds them. It is, as I
formerly said, only by verifying in our own conscious-
ness the discoveries of antecedent philosophers that
we can hope rightly to understand their doctrines or
appreciate the value and importance of their specu-PLATO.

329

lations. We must endeavour to apply this rule to
the present case.

18.	In dealing with the philosophy of Socrates, I
touched on several truths which carry us a consider-
able way, I think, towards a right understanding of
the Platonic ideas; these were the universality of
ideas as contrasted with the particularity of sensa-
tions, the activity and freedom of the mind, its
emancipation from the bondage of sensation, evinced
in its rising into the region of ideas even in its
lowest and most ordinary cognitions. I am not sure
that I have very much to add to the explanation of
ideas there given, but I shall endeavour to present it
in a somewhat new light, and under a somewhat
different point of view.

19.	Let me dwell, first of all, on the necessity of
ideas, the necessary truth which is their main char-
acteristic. You have all heard of necessary truth,
and understand, I daresay, something of its nature.
Necessary truth is truth which the mind cannot help
acquiescing in; it is truth for all minds, and not
truth merely for this or that particular kind or order
of minds. Such truths are the axioms of geometry,
and indeed all mathematical truth. Necessary truths
are those of which the opposites are absurd, incon-
ceivable, contradictory. In explaining, then, the
necessity of ideas, what I wish to show you is, that
ideas are essential, are absolutely indispensable to330

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the operations of thought, and to the very existence
of intelligence. No thinking can possibly go on with-
out them; to suppose that it can is to suppose an
absurdity and a contradiction. The necessity that
characterises ideas is of the highest and most strin-
gent order. And, accordingly, the theory which ex-
pounds them must be accepted, not as a doctrine
which may possibly be erroneous, but as a system of
truth which cannot possibly be mistaken. In its
expression, this theory may probably be defective;
indeed it may be impossible to express it in terms
which are not more or less imperfect, but in itself,
and substantially, it cannot be fallacious.

20. The necessity, the necessary truth, which is
the main characteristic of ideas, and which marks
this theory, will become conspicuous if we make the
attempt to carry on thinking without the instrumen-
tality of ideas, that is, of universals. This attempt
will show how essential ideas are to the operations
of thought, and how impossible it is for thought to
be performed without them. Let us, then, make the
attempt; let us try whether we can think without
anything more than sensation coming into play. I
have a sensation of light, and a bright object, say a
gas-lamp, is before my eyes. Now, so long as I am
merely in a state of feeling, I am tied down to this
particular sensation; my sensation does not overstep
one hair's-breadth the sensation which I experience.
The sensation is exactly that sensation, and nothingPLATO.

331

else, nothing either more or less. The problem is
to make me not only feel but think this sensation,
and to think it without getting out of sensation, i.e.,
without getting into the region of ideas; for I wish
to show that it is impossible for me to do this, and
thus by a reductio ad absurdum to prove the neces-
sity of ideas. I think the sensation then, the sensa-
tion of light and the bright object before me. Now
what has taken place here different from mere feel-
ing ? This has taken place: in thinking the sensa-
tion, I think that it is, and that the bright object is.
Perhaps I think of more than this, but this, at least,
is what I think. I repeat it: I think that the sen-
sation is, and that the object is. In thinking them
at all, I must think that they are. But you will
very likely say, What is there here more than mere
feeling ? When a man feels a pain, does he not feel
that it is ? I answer that it may do very well in
ordinary language, to say of a man in pain that he
feels that it is, but such a statement (viewed philoso-
phically) is exceedingly incorrect. The precise state-
ment is this, that the man merely feels the pain; he
thinks or knows that it is (you will understand this
more clearly immediately). I again affirm that in
thinking the sensation (as an act distinct from
merely feeling it), I think that it is. That is my
first step in thinking it; that is the least which I
do. We have now to ask what is involved in think-
ing that the sensation is. There is this involved in
it, that I transcend or go beyond the sensation, and332

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

bring down a category or universal upon it, the cate-
gory or universal called Being. But Being is an
idea. Being is not identical or commensurate with
my sensation, it embraces infinitely more. Being is
not my sensation, but something different from it;
and being something different from sensation, it pro-
perly obtains a different name; it is called an idea.
We thus see that in the simplest and earliest opera-
tion of thinking, we are forced, whether we will or
no, into the region of ideas, and that thinking is im-
possible without them. Thinking is, in fact, nothing
else than the application of ideas or universals to the
sensible phenomena of the universe. And the theory
which declares this to be the case (as Plato's theory
does) is not so much a theory as a fact; a fact which
it is impossible to dispute or deny, without falling
into the grossest absurdities and contradictions.

21. To this argument proving the necessity of
ideas, the objection may perhaps be raised that it is
a mere truism, equivalent to the assertion that it is
impossible to think without having thoughts, a pro-
position which no one would ever dream of denying,
but which does not advance us far in our pursuit of
truth. I answer that the argument does amount to
that proposition, but it also amounts to a great deal
more. It not only shows that we cannot think with-
out having thoughts or ideas, but it moreover ex-
plains what ideas are; it sets them forth as univer-
sals, and thus essentially distinguishes them fromPLATO.

333

sensations, which are of necessity particular. A man
certainly learns nothing from being told that he can-
not think without ideas, but he may learn something,
or rather (to take the Socratic view of education) he
may teach himself something from being told that
he cannot think without passing from the particular
to the universal. What was proved in the preced-
ing paragraph was not merely that a man cannot
think without having ideas, but that he cannot think
without going beyond the particular and passing
into the universal, a profound truth. The one of
these statements is a mere truism, but the other, I
venture to maintain, is one of the profoundest truths
that ever addressed itself to the capacities of think-
ing men, and summoned them to put forth their
utmost capacities to unravel it. Let us endeavour to
get somewhat deeper into the purport of this truth—
this truth which is expressed in the proposition, that
to think is to pass from the singular or particular to
the idea or the universal.

22. It is an accredited maxim in the Lockian or
sensational schools of philosophy, that we can think
only of that of which we have had experience. And
this dogma seems to recommend itself at once to the
common sense of mankind, for where, it may be
asked, can we get the materials of our thinking
except from experience, either external or internal ?
Now, irresistible as this dogma appears, I venture to
set up in opposition to it this counter-proposition,334

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

that it is impossible for us to think only of that
of which we have had experience. This is merely
another form of the assertion just made, that all
thinking is necessarily a passing from the singular
to the universal. I shall endeavour, by means of a
very simple illustration, to explicate what this pro-
position involves. I wish to show you more parti-
cularly what is meant by the universality of ideas.
A man sees an object for the first time, let us say a
chair. Now so long as he merely sees it, his state
is purely sensational, he is limited to the particular,
he is shut up in the region of the singular. Let us
now suppose that he thinks it. "What is the exact
nature of the mental operation here performed ? I
conceive it to be this: In thinking the chair, the
man views it as an instance of which there may be,
or are, other instances. Suppose that the man had
never seen anything except this chair, in thinking it,
he would still think it as something; that is (even
although he had no language to express his thoughts),
he would nevertheless place it under the category
of thing; in other words, he would think other pos-
sible chairs (and other possible things) as well. If
he thinks the chair, I affirm that he cannot think
merely it, but must think something more. Here
then is a marvellous consideration: The man has
had experience only of one chair, of one thing; but
in thinking it, he has thought other chairs, other
things; in short, he has thought something of which
he has had no experience. This is an astonishingPLATO.

335

position, and looks very paradoxical; but it is never-
theless the fact, and we must accept it as we find it.
It utterly overthrows the Lockian school of philoso-
phy, for it proves that there is something in the
mind which neither entered by the way of outward
experience, nor was generated by internal experience,
or by what Locke calls reflection on our own mental
operations. That on the presentation of one object I
should be able, indeed, that I should be necessitated,
to think of another object as well, this is a fact which
discredits altogether the philosophy of sensational
experience. If this philosophy would make good its
ground, it must prove that we cannot think of more
than we have actually experienced, and that if, in
the course of our experience, we had only seen twelve
men, it would be impossible for us to think of a
thirteenth; but such a proof is manifestly impossible,
and such a conclusion would be absurd. My posi-
tion is, that supposing we had never seen more than
one man, we must, in thinking him, view him as an
instance, and viewing him thus, we must virtually
think an indefinite number of men. This is so far
an explanation of what is meant by all thought being
a passing from the singular to the universal.

23. In attempting to expound the nature of ideas,
with the special view of throwing light on what
Plato understood by them, I touched, in the conclud-
ing paragraphs of my last lecture, on two of their
chief characteristics; these were, their necessity and336

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

their universality. Ideas are necessary, because no
thinking can take place without them. They are
universal, inasmuch as they are completely divested
of the particularity which characterises all the phe-
nomena of mere sensation. To grasp the nature of
this universality is not easy. Perhaps the best
means by which this end may be compassed is by
contrasting it with the particular. It is not difficult
to understand that a sensation, a phenomenon of
sense, is never more than the particular phenomenon
which it is. As such, that is, in its strict particu-
larity, it is absolutely unthinkable. In the very act
of being thought something more than it emerges,
and this something more cannot be again the parti-
cular, for in that case something more would again
emerge, and so on for ever. For example, suppose
that in thinking a particular object, the additional
something which I thought of were one other parti-
cular object or ten other particular objects; in that
case I maintain that no thinking would have taken
place, for I would still be confined to the particular;
ten particulars, per se, cannot be thought of any more
than one particular can be thought of. When ten
particulars, or ten hundred particulars, are thought of,
there always emerges in thought an additional some-
thing, which is the possibility of other particulars to
an indefinite extent. In the operation of thinking,
any given number of particulars are always reduced
to so many instances, and the indefinite outstanding
something which they are instances of is a universal.PLATO.

337

There is thus a contrast in thought between two ele-
ments, the universal and the particular, and both of
these are essential, I conceive, to the process of think-
ing. The particular element is usually a sensation,
or sensible thing. The universal element is called
by Plato an idea.

24. We may perhaps get still further light on the
nature of ideas if we view the matter in this way.
Every object that we behold is an instance, that is,
it is looked upon as not the only case of the kind ;
other instances are either actual or possible. But all
instances must be instances of something. What is
that something? That something is an idea. We
require a different term from the word instance to
mark that of which the instance is, and for this pur-
pose we employ the term idea. The particular thing
before us (suppose it is a tree) is an instance; an
instance of what ? It is an instance of a tree; but
is the tree before us of which this is an instance ?
Certainly it is not. The particular tree is before us;
but that of which it is an instance is not before us,
not before us as a particular, is not visible to our
sense of sight, although present to the mind as an
idea or universal. We thus make a distinction be-
tween an instance and that of which it is an instance.
In fact, here again we find the two elements which
are essential to all thought, the particular and the
universal. The terms by which we have just desig-
nated them are, the instance, and that of which the

Y338

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

instance is. A thing cannot be an instance without
being an instance of something; in so far as it is an
instance, it is particular. The something of which
it is an instance is a universal, an idea. Plato calls
it also irapaheiyiia.

25. I must put you on your guard against suppos-
ing that it is possible for you to form any sort of
representation of the idea or universal, or paradeigma.
This cannot be done. The idea or universal cannot
by any possibility be pictured in the imagination,
for this would at once reduce it to the particular;
this would destroy it as an idea, and convert it into
an instance, which instance being of course an in-
stance of something, would again require to be sup-
plemented in thought by that of which it was an
instance, namely, by an idea or universal. Much
confusion is caused when we attempt to construe the
idea to our mind as any sort of imaginary object.
"We must be satisfied, therefore, with thinking the
idea or universal as a fact of intellect which is neces-
sary as a foil or offset or complement to the other
element of our cognition, the particular instance,
namely; but which cannot be apprehended either by
the senses or by the imagination, which derives all
its data from the senses, and copies their impres-
sions. This inability to form any sort of picture or
representation of an idea does not proceed from any
imperfection or limitation of our faculties, but is a
quality inherent in the very nature of intelligence.PLATO.

339

A contradiction is involved in the supposition that
an idea or universal can become the object either of
sense or of the imagination. An idea is thus diamet-
rically opposed to an image, although in ordinary,
and even in philosophical language, the two terms
are frequently confounded, and regarded as synony-
mous with each other.

26. I have hitherto spoken of necessity and uni-
versality as two main characteristics of our ideas. I
have now to remark that ideas are essential to the
unity of our cognitions. They are not merely inde-
finite possibilities which no given number of in-
stances can exhaust, but they are principles by which
the variety and multifariousness of our sensible
impressions are reduced to unity and order. Resem-
blance, for example, is the great principle of arrange-
ment and classification. We class things together
under genera and species according to their resem-
blance. But resemblance does not come to us
through the senses, or by the way of sensation; it is
no sensible impression,, it is a pure idea. When two
trees are before us, we see the trees, but we do not see
their resemblance. This is a thought, not an object
of sense. Eesemblance is a relation, and, as such, it
cannot be seen, or touched, or apprehended by any
of the senses. These apprehend only the things.
Their relations of resemblance and difference are ap-
prehended only by the intellect. If the mind had no
idea of resemblance, and no idea of difference, if we340

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

had not these principles to guide us in the arrange-
ment and classification of our knowledge, it is mani-
fest that our cognitions would have no unity, order,
or coherence; our mental state would be no better
than a chaotic dream. So essential are ideas to the
existence of knowledge, so impotent are sensations,
without ideas, to instruct us even in the most ele-
mentary truths.

27.	This may further serve to illustrate a subject
on which Plato has bestowed a good deal of elaborate
treatment, the conversion, namely, of the human soul
from ignorance to true knowledge. The ignorant
and unconverted soul supposes that its knowledge of
sensible objects is due to the impressions which it
receives; the converted soul is aware that this know-
ledge is due, not to these impressions, but to the
ideas of resemblance and difference (and some other
ideas) by which these impressions are accompanied,
but with which they are not by any means identical;
in fact, that our whole knowledge of outward things
is based entirely upon ideas, and is effected solely by
their mediation.

28.	From what has been already said in regard to
the distinction and opposition between the particu-
larity of sensation, and the universality of intellect,
it is obvious that ideas cannot be the products of
our sensible experience. Hence they must be re-
ferred to some other origin; they must be pronouncedPLATO.

341

innate; innate inasmuch as we do not derive them
from without, but from some source which is either
the mind itself, or intimately allied to the mind.
We find, accordingly, that Plato held ideas to be
innate; that they were not imparted to the mind
from without, although they were elicited into con-
sciousness on the occasion of some outward impres-
sion. Plato thus stands forth in the history of
philosophy as the first and principal philosopher by
whom the doctrine of innate ideas was expressly
advocated. He followed Socrates in the opinion
that the seeds of all rational knowledge pre-existed
in the mind, that they might be drawn forth into
full growth and development from within, but could
not be imparted to us from without. He held, more-
over, with Socrates, that the true art of education
consisted in educing from the pupil's own mind its
own native treasures, by stimulating his reflective
capacities. The Sophists, on the contrary, regarded
the mind as a tabula rasa, on which no original
characters were inscribed; and their boast was, that
they could communicate to the minds of their pupils
any amount or any kind of knowledge that was
required.

29. That the doctrine of innate ideas is true in
some sense, and to some extent, is undeniable; and
therefore Locke's repudiation of the docrine, as one
which could not be accepted on any terms, must be
set aside as shortsighted and injudicious. It is still,342

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

however, a question in what sense and to what extent
is this doctrine to be accepted. It may be asked, for
example, in what sense are the conceptions expressed
by the word animal, man, tree, to be regarded as
innate? I answer, that these conceptions are not
innate, if we suppose them to denote, as most people
do, some faint or vague representation of animal,
man, or tree; nothing which is representable as an
object is in any degree innate, and therefore these
conceptions, if they are innate, must not express
anything which can be represented as an object.
What, then, do these terms denote? They denote
the fact that, on the occasion of an animal, a man, or
a tree being presented to the mind, the mind thinks
not merely of the one man, the one animal, or the
one tree, but of something wider; in short, of a
class, which class is to be construed to the mind not
as an object, but as a fact or law; a fact or law by
means of which unity is given to a number of our
resembling impressions. Viewed in this way, the
conception man may be said, with perfect truth, to
be innate. When a man is placed before me, and
when I think him (as distinguished from merely see-
ing him), I place him under a class, that is, under an
idea wider than himself. And this idea or class I
do not construe to my mind as made up of a number
of individuals, for these again, however numerous, I
should be again compelled by the necessity of thought
to place under a class, and so on for ever. When I
think a man, I think him as an instance of some-PLATO.

343

thing of which there are or may be other instances
to an indefinite extent. This something is innate;
it is the principle, the presiding fact or law of the
arrangement by which men, and other things, are
placed under classes. But it cannot, as I said, be
represented or placed before the mind as an object.
When viewed as an object, its innate character is
destroyed.

30. From what has been said in regard to the
Platonic ideas being innate, it might be inferred that
they were also subjective, or the proper and peculiar
endowments of the human mind. This, however, is
not the doctrine which Plato maintains. Ideas are
not subjective in the sense of belonging peculiarly to
the mind of man; they are rather objective, inas-
much as they are the light of all intellect, the prin-
ciples of universal reason. No intelligence can ope-
rate without ideas, that is, without a capacity of
apprehending resemblances and differences, and
without obeying those laws of unity and arrange-
ment which declare themselves in genera and spe-
cies. All intellect must think under the conditions
of resemblance and difference, genus and species.
These laws, therefore, are objective and not subjec-
tive ; they are the laws of things as well as the laws
of thought. For the universe and all that it con-
tains are constructed in conformity with these ideas,
they are constructed under the laws of resemblance
and difference, genus and species, and could not344

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

have been fabricated on any other principles. You
must not suppose that when we say that ideas are
objective, we mean to assign to them any sort of
outward existence. Objective in the sense of out-
ward, is certainly not to be applied to them.

31.	That these laws and ideas have a reality, a
binding and irresistible authority, need scarcely be
insisted on as part of the Platonic theory. This
follows necessarily from all that has been said in
regard to their nature. They are, in fact, the most
real existences in the universe, for without them
there would either be no universe at all, or that
universe would be without form and void, an abso-
lute chaos. To repeat, then, in a very few words,
the chief characteristics of the Platonic ideas, they
are these: first, their necessity; secondly, their uni-
versality; thirdly, their power of giving unity to
our multifarious cognitions; fourthly, their innate-
ness; fifthly, their objectivity; and, sixthly, their
reality.

32.	It has been a disputed point among philoso-
phers, whether, according to Plato, ideas were depen-
dent on the will of the Deity, whether they were, in
fact, portions of the Divine reason, or whether they
were antecedent to and independent of the will
and existence of the Deity. Some have held that
Plato regarded them as constituents of the Divine
reason, others that he viewed them as independentPLATO.

345

entities. The latter seems, on the whole, when
rightly explained, to be the truer interpretation, and
it may be explained by saying that the ideas are laws
to which even the will and reason of the Deity con-
forms ; for example, there is a law, i.e., idea, of good
and right according to which the will even of the
Deity shapes itself, and this doctrine would make
the law or idea of right to be in some sense antece-
dent to and independent of the Deity. In the dia-
logue called Euthyphro, the principal question dis-
cussed is this: Is an action good and holy because
the gods approve of it, or do the gods approve of it
because it is good and holy ? If we say an action is
good and holy because the gods approve of it, that
would be equivalent to saying that good and evil
depend on the arbitrary will of the gods: in this case
their will would determine what was right and what
was wrong. But if we say that an action is approved
of by the gods because it is good and holy, this
makes the idea of good and holy to be prior to the
will of the gods; to be independent of their arbitra-
tion ; to be rather that which determines their will,
than that which their will determines. This, rather
than the other, is the doctrine to which Plato and
Socrates incline. Ideas may, in the Platonic theory,
be perhaps coeval with the Divine will and reason;
but if there be in either case a priority, the ideas are
to be regarded as existing antecedent even to the
mind of the Deity. But all that is really meant by
this assertion is, that God approves of what is right346

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

because it is right in itself, and not because He by
His arbitrary decree has made it right.

33.	I shall conclude this sketch of the Platonic
dialectic with the remark, that in answer to the
question, What is the absolute and universal truth,
the truth for all intellect ?—for this, you will remem-
ber, is the question which philosophy raises and en-
deavours to resolve—in reply to this question, Plato's
answer would be: Ideas are the absolute and uni-
versal truth, the groundwork of all things; they are
apprehended by all intellect, and, therefore, if that
which addresses itself to all intellect, if that which
all intellect apprehends, be the truest and most real,
ideas must be the truest and most real of all things,
for no intelligence can be intelligent except by par-
ticipating in their light; they are the grounds of all
conceivability, and of all intelligible or cognisable
existence; the necessary laws or principles on which
all Being and all Knowing are dependent. Such is
the realism of Plato, a doctrine much truer and more
profound than either the nominalism or conceptual-
ism by which it has been succeeded.

34.	The physics of Plato may be passed over as
presenting few points of interest or intelligibility.
His ethics have a much stronger claim on our atten-
tion. I shall in this paragraph give you a short
summary of their scope and purport, and shall thenPLATO.

347

go into their details. Plato's moral philosophy will
be best understood by being confronted with that of
the Sophists, against which it was specially directed,
just as his theory of ideas was designed to refute
their theory of knowledge. If man be nothing but
an aggregate of sensations, he can have no other end
than sensational enjoyment, and no other principle
of action than selfishness. Such, accordingly, was
the general purport of the Sophistical morality,
although some of its expounders recoiled from the
extreme conclusions to which their principles led.
Others, however, were less scrupulous. They ex-
plained the origin of justice in this curious fashion.
The best condition, they said, in which a man can be
placed is that in which he can injure others with im-
punity; the worst is that in which he can be injured
without the power of defence or retaliation. But men
cannot always assure themselves of the best condi-
tion, or guard against falling into the worst. This
consideration leads them to a compromise, in which
they consent to abandon the former condition in order
to escape the latter, the evils of which outweigh the
advantages of the other state. This compromise is
itself justice, and such are the circumstances in
which that virtue originates. From this it follows
that the semblance of justice is better than the
reality; because the semblance will prevent others
from injuring us, while it will yet enable us to
injure them to our heart's content.—(Eepublic, ii.
pp. 358-9.)348

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

35. In answer to this Sophistical deduction, Plato
argues that justice is not (as this doctrine assumes)
an unessential attribute, but is itself the health and
organisation of the soul. The semblance of justice,
he says, without the reality, is no more a good thing
for its possessor than the semblance of order is a
good thing in a nation, when all its ranks are in a
condition of anarchy and rebellion, or than the ap-
pearance of health is a good thing in the human
body, when all its organs are really in a state of
disease. It is principally for the purpose of showing
that virtue must be a reality, and not a sham, that
Plato, in his Republic, has drawn a parallel between
the soul of man and the political constitution of a
state. Just as a state cannot exist unless it is sus-
tained by political justice—that is to say, unless the
rightful rulers rule, and are aided by the military,
and unless the inferior orders obey—so the individual
soul does not truly and healthfully exist unless it is
the embodiment of private or personal justice, that is
to say, unless reason rules the lower appetites, and is
aided in its government by the more heroic passions
of our nature. In short, just as a state without
justice, that is, without the due subjection of the
governed to the governing powers, is a state disorgan-
ised, so a soul without justice, that is, without the
proper subordination of the inferior to the superior
principles of our constitution, is a soul undone. A
character which wears the mask without having the
substance of virtue is no better, indeed is worse, offPLATO.

349

than a sick body which presents the mere appear-
ance of health.

36.	Such is the scope (in so far as a few sentences
can give it) of the moral philosophy of Plato, in its
more popular aspect, as presented to us in the Kepub-
lic. He treats the subject more metaphysically in
the Philebus. But the result reached is in both
cases the same. The maintenance of that organisa-
tion of the soul in which reason rules and passion
obeys, this is the end to be aimed at by man, rather
than happiness or pleasure.

37.	But more important than any results, either
moral or metaphysical, which have been brought to
maturity by Plato, are the inexhaustible germs of
latent wealth which his writings contain. Every
time his pages are turned they throw forth new seeds
of wisdom, new scintillations of thought, so teem-
ing is the fertility, so irrepressible the fulness of his
genius. All philosophy, speculative and practical,
has been foreshadowed by his prophetic intelligence;
often dimly, but always so attractively as to whet
the curiosity and stimulate the ardour of those who
have chosen him for their guide.

38.	Plato's ethical doctrines are presented in their
clearest and most detailed form in his great work,
entitled the 4 Kepublic.' * In this treatise his main

* The ' Republic' has been translated with remarkable fidelity350

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

object is to show what justice is, and the result of
his inquiry is, that justice is in fact the true nature,
the true constitution of the soul. It is not something
which appertains to the soul as an accidental quality,
or as a property which can be assumed or laid aside
at pleasure without affecting the innermost life of our
intelligent nature. It is, on the contrary, the very
essence of the soul. It denotes the equipoise which
must be preserved among the different principles of
our nature, if that nature is to remain true to itself,
and fulfil the functions for which it was designed.
And hence, inasmuch as justice is merely another
word for the true nature of the soul, and inasmuch
as the true nature of a thing is merely another word
for the virtue of that thing, justice is to be regarded
as emphatically the virtue of the soul.

39. Plato says that this doctrine of justice will be
best understood, and that its truth will become more
apparent, when we consider it upon a great scale.
He says, that by knowing what justice is when
we see it as the virtue of a state, we shall more
clearly understand what it is when represented as
the virtue of an individual. We can readily under-
stand how a state or society of men must go to ruin

and spirit by Messrs Vaughan and Davies of Cambridge. And Dr
Whewell has done good service to the cause of Platonic literature
by abridging (with explanations) the more important dialogues,
and clothing them in a garb of masculine and idiomatic English,
which cannot fail to introduce them to many readers to whom they
might otherwise have been uninteresting or inaccessible.PLATO.

351

which is not governed according to the principles of
justice ; and we ought just as readily to understand
how the soul of an individual man must go equally
to ruin when his disposition is not regulated and his
conduct guided by the principles of justice. At the
outset of the inquiry, Plato had found himself beset
with difficulties when he attempted to explain justice
as it appears in the individual man; but by looking
at it as manifested on a great scale in the organisa-
tion of the state, and then by holding that man is
but a miniature of society, he is enabled to clear
away the obstacles which had obstructed his course,
and to carry through his argument in a very masterly
and convincing fashion.

40. To explain, then, the nature of individual vir-
tue, individual justice, Plato asks what is political
virtue, political justice. Find out this, and then you
will know what justice is, considered as the virtue
of the soul. Understand the virtue of the state as
shown in the true constitution of the state, and then
you will understand the virtue of the soul as shown
in the true constitution of the soul. Now, political
justice, the virtue of the state, distributes to every
member of the community his proper province of
action, and seeks to prevent one citizen from en-
croaching upon another. That is the business of the
state, and when it is rightly executed a true system
or. organisation of society is the result. There are
three orders in the state. First, the working order,352

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the artisans, or, as they are nowadays termed, the
operatives; secondly, the military or auxiliary order;
and, thirdly, the legislative order. In regard to the
first of these classes, their object is gain ; they minis-
ter to wants and enjoyments of themselves and the
community generally; this, the working order, may
also be termed the qucestuary class, from qucestus, the
Latin for gain, or the chrematistic class, from xptf/jLara,
the Greek for money or wealth, this being the end
which they aim at. In regard to the second of these
classes, the military order, this is superior to the
artisans. It exists for the purpose of preserving
internal tranquillity and of repelling foreign agres-
sion. It is called the auxiliary class, because its
principal function is to aid the legislative order in
repressing all such insubordination on the part of
the working class as would imperil the existence, or
compromise the safety, of the state. Then in regard
to the legislative order, its business is to govern the
other classes; and it consists of those members of
the community who, by their wisdom and probity,
are the best qualified to discharge that office. When
each of these orders fulfils its proper function, and
when none of them attempts to usurp or encroach on
the province of the others—when neither the artisans
nor the military strive to displace the governing or
legislative power, and when the legislative power
does not succumb to either of these—the state is
duly organised, its true constitution is preserved. It
is, in fact, a state; and it possesses and presents thePLATO.

353

virtue of a state. Political justice is embodied and
shown forth.

41.	Now, answering to these three orders in the
state, there are in the soul of man three distinct
faculties. 1. Appetite or desire, i.e., the concupis-
cible faculty; 2. Spirit or indignation, i.e., the iras-
cible faculty; 3. Eeason or the rational faculty. The
first of these, the concupiscible faculty, in Greek,
imOvfiLa, corresponds to the operative or quaestuary
or chrematistic class in the state. Just as this class
aims at the attainment of wealth, so does that faculty
pursue pleasure as its end. The second of these,
the irascible faculty, in Greek, Ovfios, a term which,
perhaps, might be tolerably well translated by our
common word jpluck—this faculty comprises the
more heroic principles and impulses of our nature;
and it corresponds to the military or auxiliary order
in the state. Just as the military are called in to
aid the legislative authority in putting down mob
insurrections, so the irascible faculty, that is, the
nobler passions, and the reason, unite in resist-
ing the solicitations of the lower appetites. The
third of these is the rational faculty, in Greek, vovs.
This is the governing principle in the mind, to rjye/io-
vtfcov, just as the legislative is the governing power in
the state.

42.	Such is the way in which Plato works out the
analogy between the soul of man and the constitution

z354

GftEEK PHILOSOPHY.

of a civil community. By nature the concupiscible is
designed to obey the rational, just as in the state the
working classes are designed to obey the legislative
power; and the irascible is created to assist the rational,
just as the military exist to aid and support the legis-
lative. Thus, as there are three orders in the state,
so are there three faculties in the soul, each answer-
ing to each—the concupiscible to the working order,
the irascible to the military, and the rational to the
legislative. The virtue of the concupiscible is tem-
perance ; in other words, the submission of the con-
cupiscible to the rational is the virtue of temperance.
The virtue of the irascible is fortitude; the virtue of
the rational is wisdom or prudence. When consent
and harmony prevail among the three, then that
complete virtue which Plato calls justice arises.
And this virtue is higher than either temperance
taken by itself, or than fortitude taken by itself, or
than wisdom taken by itself, for it is the comple-
ment of the whole three, and is the result of the
harmonious and properly balanced operation of the
three faculties of the soul. Just as justice pervades
the state, and the wellbeing of the community is the
result when each order keeps its own place, and
executes its appointed function, so justice pervades
the soul, and health and strength of mind are the
result when each of the faculties preserves the re-
lation towards the other faculties in which nature
placed it, and in which nature intended it to stand.
When this relation is preserved, the outward life andPLATO.

355

conduct of the individual will not fail to correspond
with his internal condition. You thus perceive that
Plato makes individual justice, or the highest virtue
of the soul, to be itself the very constitution of the
soul, just as political justice, or the subordination
of the mass to certain governing powers, is itself
the very constitution of the state. A remarkable
passage from the fourth book of the Republic will
show you how it is by close observation to the facts
of our nature that Plato discriminates these three
powers of the mind, and shows that they are really
distinct.—(Rep., iv. p, 439; p. 160 in Yaughan and
Davies's translation.)

43. We have now to show against whom was
Plato's doctrine of justice, and of the constitution
of human nature, intended to be directed. It was
directed against the sophists, and he argued thus: if
the nature of justice be such that it is necessarily
inherent in the constitution of the human soul, is, in
fact, itself that constitution, then is the sophistry of
the sophists, and of all other cavillers, at once over-
thrown. The sophists argued that injustice might in
many cases be preferable to justice: they argued
that justice was good, and was esteemed, merely
because it brought wealth, security, honour, and
praise, so that if a man could with consummate art
simulate justice, while he was in his soul unjust, he
might reap the full reward of justice among men,
and be to that extent happy; and, so far as regarded356

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the gods, he need not, the sophists said, give himself
much trouble about them, for they could be pro-
pitiated with sacrifices, and kept quiet by means
of a few grains of frankincense. In this way the
sophists endeavoured to make out that injustice
might be a real good to its possessor while justice
might prove a real evil. Or, at any rate, they argued
that men were just merely because they found it to
redound to their advantage, in a worldly point of
view, to be so, and that if they could procure the
same or greater advantages by being unjust, unjust
they would undoubtedly be. They argued very much
in the spirit of Hobbes, that men were deterred
from committing injustice merely by their dislike
of suffering injustice, and knowing that if they per-
petrated wrong on others they must be prepared to
endure wrong from others in return.

44. In Book i. p. 359, the explanation which the
sophists gave of law and justiee (and which you will
see resembles very closely the doctrine of Hobbes) is
set forth, and the argument illustrated by the story
of the ring which the ancestor of Gyges had pos-
sessed. Thus the sophists argued that if every man
had the ring of Gyges, by which he could make
himself invisible at pleasure, then every man would
do wrong whenever he felt inclined, and would do
right only in so far as it would promote his own
happiness. So that the life of an unjust man who
can perfectly conceal his motives (as many men canPLATO.

357

and do, even without this magic ring) may be fairly
set up as more desirable than that of a just man;
and thus injustice may in many cases be preferable
to justice, on account of the greater happiness which
it brings, and of this every man must judge for him-
self. The advantage of probity, therefore, according
to the sophists, who sometimes reasoned boldly on
these points, although at other times they endeav-
oured to hide the extreme to which their principles
carried them, did not centre in itself, but in what
was exterior to itself, namely, in the honours and
rewards which probity procured for the man who
practised it. Probity might be said to consist not in
being, but in seeming to be honest. The appearance
was quite as good as the reality. By all means, said
the sophists, be just and virtuous, if justice and virtue
make you happy; but if vice and injustice make
another man happy, why should not he too follow
the bent of his inclinations ? In doing so, he will
obey the dictates of his nature, will fulfil the law of
his being, just as much as you who pursue a contrary
course are obeying the dictates and fulfilling the law
of your being.

45. This is precisely the point where Plato enters
his dissent, and it was to meet this point that his
doctrine of the soul, as made up of three faculties,
arranged in the order of superiority and inferiority,
and illustrated by the analogous constitution of a
social community, was set forth and enforced with all358

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the power of his genius. Insist on these sophistical
opinions as you choose, says Plato, I overthrow them
all at one swoop, by asserting and by proving a cer-
tain construction or organisation of the soul, to which
organisation we must look apart altogether from
external considerations of honour or advantage. If
justice consists in the due harmony of the three facul-
ties of the soul, that is, in the obedience and submis-
sion of the inferior to the superior principles, no man
can be just by appearing to be so when he is not,
any more than a nation or state could delude a neigh-
bouring nation or state, if the soldiers, the legislators,
and the people, were in a state of anarchy; i.e., if the
people were not working, if the military were in
revolt, or the legislature overcome by imbecility. A
soul in which the inferior principles reigned supreme,
or one which presented the mere semblance, but not
the reality, of justice, would be a soul disorganised,
a soul untrue to its own constitution—a soul, in fact,
which was not a soul; just as a state in which the
relation of the governed and the governors was re-
versed, would be a state which had crumbled into
dust. And even suppose the dissimulation to have
been carried so far that both the soul and the state
appear to be in health and preservation, surely both
the man himself and the state itself would know
that no balance of power, no true strength, no true
life was within them, and that no security was theirs.
Injustice, or the want of a proper equipoise among
their various elements, would set them at variancePLATO.

359

with themselves, and lay them open to the assaults
of all around. Therefore, justice is the strength, the
true nature of every soul, just as it is of every politi-
cal constitution; and, accordingly, when this simpler
and more truthful system of morals was given to
the world by Plato, the doctrine of the sophists
fell to the ground as an edifice which had no solid
foundation.

46. Plato goes on to enforce and illustrate his
views by showing that justice is the health, and con-
sequently the happiness, of the soul, and that the
mere semblance of justice is no more the health and
happiness of the soul, than the mere semblance of
bodily vigour is the health and happiness of the
body. How, asks Plato, is bodily health produced ?
It is produced when the ongoings of our physical
frame proceed as they have been established by na-
ture ; disease inevitably arises when any part of the
system is out of joint, or is not governed according
to nature. In the same way disease arises in the
soul, when any of its parts do not conform to the
design of the whole. But justice is itself a confor-
mity with this design, is a working in accordance
with it, just as injustice is the reverse. Therefore
injustice, although its external accompaniments and
consequences may be honours and rewards, is the
disease, the deformity, the misery, the bad habit of
the soul; while justice, even though it should meet
with no corresponding external advantages, is the360

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

health, the beauty, the happiness, the good habit of
the soul. We speak of a bad habit of body when its
parts are in disorder and at variance with each other,
and of a good habit of body when its different parts
are in harmony. So vice, independently of external
considerations, is the disease, the deformity, the cor-
ruption, the pollution, the slavery of the soul, inas-
much as it indicates that the intellectual system is
disordered, and that those principles have usurped
the government which were created only to obey:
and so virtue, and, in particular, justice, is the health,
the perfection, the freedom of the soul, inasmuch as
it indicates that the intellectual system is well or-
dered, is regulated according to its nature, and that
those principles are governing which were intended
to govern, while those are obeying which were in-
tended to obey. Farther, if the state of the body
when diseased be such as to render life a burthen,
though it may be surrounded with all the luxuries
which wealth can procure, so when the state of the
soul is thoroughly corrupted by injustice, it can en-
joy no true happiness, no real satisfaction, although
crowned with worldly honours and advantages; as
Juvenal says:—

" Cur tamen hos tu
Evassise putes quos diri conscia facti
Mens habet attonitos, et surdo verbere caedit,

Occultum quatiente ammo tor tore flagellum."

—Juvenal, xiii. 192.

See especially the passage where Plato speaks of the
rightly balanced condition of the soul, which con-PLATO.

361

stitutes justice.—(Plato, Eep., B. iv. pp. 443, 444;
pp. 167, 168, 169 in English translation.)

47.	You will thus perceive that Plato argues in
favour of justice as the true condition of humanity,
by looking, not to any external advantages or disad-
vantages which justice may confer, but by looking to
the internal economy of human nature itself, and by
showing that justice is nothing more or less than the
maintenance of that economy in the order which
nature has established, just as bodily health is noth-
ing more or less than the maintenance of the order
and arrangement which nature has established among
the various organs of our physical framework.

48.	The object with which Plato instituted the
analogy or comparison between the soul of man and
the constitution of a political state was this: it was
to show that just as there can be no political state
without justice, that is, without a proper balance
and subordination being preserved among the differ-
ent orders of society; so there can be no soul, or
true rational life, in man, without justice, i.e., with-
out a proper balance and subordination being pre-
served among the different parts and principles of
the soul. Justice in a man has its analogies on a
large scale in justice in a state; and just as the state
ceases to be a state and goes to ruin so soon as jus-
tice deserts it, i.e., so soon as confusion and insub-
ordination prevail among its ranks ; so the soul goes362

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

to ruin so soon as justice departs from it, i.e., so soon
as its inferior principles prevail over its superior
ones, so soon as what was meant to obey presumes
to take the office of governor.

49.	The philosophical school founded by Plato is
known in the history of philosophy as the Academy,
so called from the groves of Academus where Plato
was in the habit of addressing his disciples. The
Academy is usually divided into three, the old, the
middle, and new. The latter two may occupy our
attention for a brief period hereafter: meanwhile I
speak merely of the old Academy, which embraced
and was presided over by the immediate followers of
Plato. None of the writings of these older Platonists
have come down to us. All that is known of their
opinions is gathered from a few brief and incidental
notices which occur in certain ancient authors. We
are not, therefore, in a position to speak with any
certainty of the manner in which they may have
modified or carried forward the philosophy of their
master. I shall merely make mention of Plato's
three more immediate followers, Speusippus, Xeno-
crates, and Polemon, who succeeded him as the heads
of the Academy.

50.	Speusippus was the nephew of Plato. He was
born probably about 400 B.C.—a calculation which
makes him about thirty years younger than hisPLATO.

363

uncle. He was a native of Athens. He accom-
panied Plato on his third journey to Syracuse, and is
said to have shown much prudence and address amid
the troubled atmosphere of the court of Dionysius.
His active and moral powers were by all accounts
greater than his intellectual acuteness. On the death
of Plato in 347, he became his successor in the Aca-
demy, having been so nominated by Plato himself.
Aristotle may have looked forward to that elevation
as a position to which he was well entitled to aspire.
But Aristotle was destined for higher things than to
be the follower even of so great a philosopher as
Plato. Although he has much in common with his
master, he was rather fitted to found a new dynasty
in philosophy than to be the continuator of an
old one. Aristotle, not long afterwards, became
the founder of the peripatetic school of philosophy,
which held its meetings in the Lyceum. Speusippus
continued president of the Academy for about eight
years. He was compelled by a lingering illness
to relinquish the office some time before his death,
which probably took place about 330 B.C., or it may
be somewhat earlier. He is said, in particular, to
have lectured against the hedonism of Aristippus.

51. Xenocrates, who succeeded Speusippus as pre-
sident of the Academy about 340 B.C., was a native
of Chalcedon, a city on the shores of the Bosporus.
He was born in 396. In early life he came to
Athens, and attached himself to Plato. Like Speu-364

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

sippus, he accompanied the philosopher on one of his
visits to Syracuse. After Plato's death, Xenocrates
went, in company with Aristotle, to the court of
Hermias, the ruler of Atarneus, in Mysia, a province
of Asia Minor. He cannot have remained very long
in this retreat; for we are told that he was frequently
sent by the Athenians on embassies to Philip of
Macedon, with whom they were at this time em-
broiled, and by whom, in the year 338, they were
ultimately subjugated. When the failing health of
Speusippus compelled him to resign the presidency of
the Academy, Xenocrates was summoned to the vacant
post, and this office he occupied from about 340 B.C.
until his death in 314, when he was in the eighty -
third year of his age. The temperament and the
morals of Xenocrates were grave, not to say austere,
in the extreme. His name was quoted in antiquity
as almost a synonym for unselfishness, modesty, tem-
perance, and continence. None of his works have
come down to us, so that we cannot speak very
particularly in regard to his opinions. Only their
titles are extant, and these are sufficiently tantalis-
ing. From them we learn that he prosecuted dili-
gently the researches in which his great master had
led the way. He wrote on dialectic, on knowledge,
on ideas, on the existent and the one, on the oppo-
site, on the indefinite, on the soul, on the pas-
sions, on happiness and virtue, on the state, and
several other topics. These writings are extremely
multifarious in their subject; and that the sub-PLATO.

365

jects were treated of by Xenocrates in an able
and interesting manner, we may infer from the fact
that Aristotle thought it worth his while to write
commentaries on some of these treatises. Xeno-
crates is said to have insisted particularly on the
distinction laid down by Plato between ato-Orjo-Ls,
So£a, and iirurrriijuq. By	he probably under-

stood the relative and contingent truths of the senses;
by So£a the relative and contingent truths of the
understanding; and by i7riar7]fi7] the absolute and
necessary truths of the reason—the truths, i.e., for
all, and not merely for some, intelligence.

52. The name of Polemon must be ever associated
with that of Xenocrates in the history of philosophy.
Polemon was notorious for his profligacy and dissipa-
tion ; but happening one day to enter the Academy
with a crowd of gay companions with whom he had
been revelling, he was so much struck by the dis-
course of Xenocrates, who was lecturing on the ad-
vantages of temperance, that he tore from his head
the chaplet of flowers with which he was crowned,
and determined then and for ever to renounce his
former way of life. He continued true to his resolu-
tion: he became the most temperate of the tem-
perate, and studied philosophy so assiduously that
he became the successor of Xenocrates in the presi-
dency of the Academy in the year 314 B.C. He
died in 273, having been born about 345.AEISTOTLE.

1.	The writings of Aristotle, even in the imperfect
state in which they have come down to us, are exceed-
ingly multifarious. They are usually divided by his
commentators into three departments: 1st, Logical;
2d, Theoretical; and, 3d, Practical. Under the logical
division are comprised the treatises called the Or-
ganon. Under the theoretical division are placed the
physics, mathematics, metaphysics, and the treatise
on the soul. Under the practical division are com-
prehended ethics and politics. There also extant
a work by Aristotle on rhetoric, another on poetics,
and several minor treatises. The only works of Aris-
totle on which I propose to touch in these lectures
are the logic, the metaphysics, the treatise on the
soul, and the ethics, and of these the ethics alone
shall engage a considerable share of our attention.

2.	The logic which you have already studied else-
where is derived entirely from Aristotelian sources:
and therefore, as I may presume that you are already
familiar with its details, I shall touch very cursorily
on this part of Aristotle's philosophy. The logic ofARISTOTLE.

367

Aristotle is usually termed formal or deductive, to
distinguish it from the inductive logic, for which
Bacon usually gets the credit. It was at one time,
and not very long ago, supposed that the inductive
logic, which studied real nature, was much more valu-
able than the deductive logic, which merely scrutin-
ised mental processes; but it is now generally acknow-
ledged that both sciences are equally worthy of our
attention. In point of technical precision, the logic
of Aristotle, and in particular his doctrine of the
syllogism, is unrivalled; and it is not a little remark-
able that it should have sprung at once into perfec-
tion. The industry and ingenuity of more than two
thousand years have added little or nothing to the
symmetrical beauty, the finished excellence, of the
logical system of the mighty Stagirite. Aristotle's
logical treatises have been collected together under
the general title of the Organon. The Organon com-
prises treatises on the Categories (/ca^rfjopLai), and on
the interpretation or expression of thought, 7repl
epfirjveia,? (the genuineness of these writings, however,
has been doubted). It contains a treatise called the
Prior Analytics (dvaXvriKa 1rpore pa), which deals
with propositions, and another entitled avaXvTL/ca
varepa, which deals with proof, definition, and divi-
sion. It also contains tottikcl, or topics, a treatise on
probable reasoning, and a treatise on sophistical fal-
lacies and their solution (irepX cro<f>i<7Ti/ca)v e\eY%c*>z>).
These are the logical writings of Aristotle. They
deal with the method of science, and are therefore368

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

classed together as the Organon or instrument of in-
quiry. The Categories, or general heads under which
all things may be classed, are the following ten:
ovata, or substance: iroaov, quantity; ttolov, quality;
7rpo9 Ti/f relation; nrov, where; 7roTe, when; KelaOai,
position;	having ; 7roieZv, doing; iraa^tv, suf-

fering. These might be reduced to two, substance
and accident; or, viewed logically, subject and predi-
cate: thus overia is the subject, for example "man,"
and all the other categories denote what may be predi-
cated of man. Thus, whatever we say of man must
be either something about his size, or his qualities, or
his relation to other things, or the place where he is
or was, or the time when he is or was, or his atti-
tude, or his possessions, or his actings or sufferings.
Aristotle's scheme of the Categories must be pro-
nounced crude and imperfect, whether we regard it
as a table of things or as a classification of the forms
of predication.

3. In his work, entitled the 4 Metaphysics/ or first
philosophy, as he himself calls it, Aristotle treats of
the principles common to all things, the universal
constituents of Being. The term metaphysics is
not employed by Aristotle. The explanation usually
given of the origin of this word is, that some early
commentator on Aristotle, finding certain treatises
placed after the physics in the arrangement of
his master's works, gave to these treatises the

superscription ra fjuera ra (j>v<ritca, the writings thatARISTOTLE.

369

come after the physics. In bestowing on them
this name, however, it is uncertain whether he was
influenced solely by the fact that these writings
followed the others in a certain arbitrary arrange-
ment, or whether he was guided partly by the con-
sideration that these writings dealt with matters
which were higher than mere physical truth, and
which lay beyond the apprehension of our mere
sensible experience. You will find this work fre-
quently described as dealing with Being in so far as
it is Being, with ens quatenus ens est, the meaning of
which rather obscure words is simply this, that in
this investigation Aristotle does not consider Being
as this or that particular Being, but simply as Being,
that is, as presenting the attributes or conditions
common to all Being, differences being left out
of view. These universal elements of Being are,
according to Aristotle, four. First, Matter or sub-
stratum ; in Greek, rj v\r] or to viroiceL^evov. Secondly,
Form or essence; in Greek, ova La, eZSo?, fiopfyr), or to
tL t]v elvai. Third, the moving or efficient cause; in
Greek, $ apyf) t?}? lavrjcrew?. Fourth, the end or final
cause, also called the good; to ov eve/ca, to tcXo?, or to
wyadov. These four principles are, according to Aris-
totle, the most general causes of things, and enter
into the constitution of everything. They are truths
for all intellect. He held that former systems had
erred in not embracing the whole of these principles.
Every antecedent system had left some of them out
of its reckoning; hence they were all partial and

2 A370

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

incomplete. I may say a few words on each of
them.

4.	In regard to the first of these, matter or v\rj,
Aristotle's doctrine is this: Matter is not, properly
speaking, the existent; neither is it the absolutely
non-existent: it is mere potentiality (S1W/U9), a capa-
bility of passing into the actual. When form, ovaia
e*8o?, supervenes to matter or v\rj, the potential is
converted into the actual, and the result is completed
existence. This perfected existence, at least when
organised, is called by Aristotle eVre\e%e£a, and also
ivepyeta. Thus, Sviand v\tj are nearly synony-
mous in the Aristotelic philosophy. They denote a
mere capacity of existence; ivreXexeia and evepyeta
are also nearly synonymous, and denote the actuality
of existence, existence realised. These words play an
important part in the system of Aristotle, metaphy-
sical, physical, and moral. There is another import-
ant word which I may mention here, <rre/>?7<m, priva-
tion. Matter devoid of all form would be in a state
of areprjais or privation. Thus, o-Teprjo-ts is the oppo-
site of eVreXe^a, for this latter term expresses the
union of matter and form (v\rj and ovala). It is not
to be supposed that matter is ever in a state of
absolute privation. Such a state is a mere mental
abstraction, or rather it is a nonsensical, inconceiv-
able condition.

5.	The second principle which Aristotle lays downARISTOTLE.

371

as one of the universal constituents of Being is Form
or Essence (ovala), a principle on which I have
touched in the preceding section. This principle
was advanced by Aristotle in the place of the Plato-
nic ideas which he endeavours to displace and refute.
Whether he dealt altogether fairly with the Platonic
theory is still a somewhat unsettled question. Aris-
totle understood Plato to maintain that the ideas
existed by themselves apart (xcopio-rd) from the indi-
vidual things which were formed after their pattern.
That Plato maintained this in literal strictness is not
by any means certain. Such, however, was Aristotle's
understanding of him. And interpreting him this
way, he objected to the doctrine of ideas on the
following grounds: First, that such a doctrine is
a mere doubling of sensible existences; the ideas
are conceived as merely attenuated material objects.
Aristotle calls them also ala-Orjra athia, that is, ever-
lasting sensibles. Secondly, he says that the ideas
not being in things, cannot be the causes of motion
or change, and therefore serve no purpose as explana-
tory of the phenomena of change. Thirdly, that not
being in things, they cannot help us to any know-
ledge of things, and are therefore of no use as ex-
planatory of the phenomenon of knowledge. Fourthly,
that they are contradictory, inasmuch as they are re-
presented as the essence of things, and yet as exist-
ing separate from things, as if it were possible that
the essence of a thing could be separated from the
thing of which it was the essence. Fifthly, that the372

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

doctrine of ideas is a poetical fancy, and that it is
merely by a metaphor that things are said to be
copies of ideas. And, sixthly, supposing the ideas
to exist, they and the things which are their copies
would require to be subsumed and reduced to unity
under a higher idea, which is absurd; for example, if
the idea man exists as something apart from actual
men, we must have a higher idea to embrace both
the ideal man and the actual men. This objection
is called the argument of the Tpiros avdptoiro^, the third
man; the other two being the idea of man and the
reality of man. This argument, however, had been
foreseen and stated by Plato himself. Such, stated
shortly, is the tenor of Aristotle's argumentation
against Plato's theory of ideas. All his objections
are offshoots from his leading objection to the Pla-
tonic assertion (or what he regards as such), that
the ideas are existences apart (^copcara) from the
things of which they are said to be the models.

6. But although Aristotle contested the Platonic
doctrine, he advanced an ideal theory of his own.
He did not hold that ideas were mere subjective con-
ceptions, the fabrications of our own minds. He held
that there was a correlative reality in the object an-
swering to the conception in our minds, and this
correlative reality he calls the form or essence, ovcria.
This essence is not an object of sense, but of intellect.
It is, in fact, the Platonic idea under another name. So
that we may say that Aristotle adopted the PlatonicARISTOTLE.

373

doctrine, with this modification, that whereas Plato (at
least as understood by Aristotle) promulgated a doc-
trine in which ideas were represented as existing by
themselves, and apart from things, Aristotle repre-
sented them as implicated in things, and as forming
their most essential constituent. The idea, for ex-
ample, considered as the one does not exist together
with the many, but it exists in the many. Unity is
essential to multiplicity. If we view ideas as laws,
we might say that while Plato, at least as interpreted
by Aristotle, regarded the laws as subsisting by them-
selves, and as constituting a world apart, Aristotle
regarded them as inseparably united with the things
of which they were the laws. (The individual is the
essence in the first and proper sense of the word;
only in a secondary sense can the genus be called the
essence.) The genus has no existence apart from the
individuals, yet although the genus or universal has
no existence in and for itself, but only an existence
in individuals, it is nevertheless the most significant,
and in its nature the most knowable, and the proper
object of knowledge. There can be no knowledge
without it.

7. Aristotle's third and fourth principles are effi-
cient cause and final cause. Every change from the
potential to the actual is brought about by a cause,
and this cause is distinguished by Aristotle as the
moving or efficient cause, to Kivrjaav. It may either
operate from within, as in the case of organised ex-374

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

istences, or from without, as when an artist forms a
statue. In either case, there is an operative cause,
through which the materials are moulded into form.
Then, lastly, there is the end or final cause. Every-
thing exists for some purpose. We may not know
for what purpose, but we must think that everything
exists for some purpose, and this purpose is called
its end or final cause. A final cause always implies
intelligence, which an efficient cause does not neces-
sarily imply.

8. The three latter principles, essence, efficient
cause, and end, are said by Aristotle to be very closely
united, and often, indeed, to run into one. It is not
difficult to see the identity of essence and end. Thus,
for example, the possession of reason is the essence
of man, and the possession of reason is also his end,
or the most important part of his end. But it is not
easy to identify efficient cause with the other two
principles. I may here remark that Aristotle's con-
ception of ends differs from that of Paley and other
modern philosophers in being more comprehensive
than theirs. Paley dwelt 011 the useful contrivances
observable in the structure of organised bodies, and
from thence inferred the existence of an intelligent
designer. The same argument is implied in Aristotle.
But he, moreover, holds that in everything that exists
there is an indwelling end or purpose, and that this
end or purpose is as much involved, although not so
obtrusive or conspicuous, in such simple structures asARISTOTLE.

375

a blade of grass, as it is in the most complicated
organisations.

9.	Aristotle's philosophy terminates in a sublime
theology. Although matter never exists without
form, and although the forms or essence of matter
never exist apart from matter, there is nevertheless a
form or essence which exists separate from all matter;
and this is the first great cause of all that is, the in-
telligent and moving energy which originally sets in
motion the wThole machinery of the universe, and
evolves potentiality into actuality. This cause is the
Deity, the Godhead, which moves all, but is itself
unmoved, pure matterless activity, the eternal self-
thinking reason, the absolute spirit, in speaking of
which Aristotle says, in the words of Homer, that the
rule of many is not good, but that there is and should
be only one sovereign over all;

Ov/c wyaOov iroKvicoipavvry eh Koipavo5 earco.

10.	Aristotle's treatise 7repl tyvxfis falls under the
head of his theoretical philosophy, and properly falls
under the subdivision of that head which is entitled
physics. It is only in reference to this treatise on
the soul of man, which he considers chiefly from a
physical point of view (in his work 7repl	that I
shall speak of the physics of Aristotle. The word soul,
yfrvxn> is vocabulary not by any means limited
to intelligence. It signifies, in its widest sense, the
power or principle of life; and in this sense it is376

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

what he calls the eVre\e%eia, or perfected organisa-
tion of the body. There is a scale or series of these
organisations in nature, rising one above another ;
and of these the higher forms always contain the
lower. Thus, there is, first and lowest, a plant soul,
or life in vegetables. This is a mere principle of nu-
trition and reproduction, to Opeim/cov. Plants are
able to assimilate what is necessary to support them,
and to continue their like. Then, secondly, there is an
animal soul, a principle of animal life, which consists
in sensation, desire, and locomotion, to alaOrjTLKov, to
ope/cri/cov, to KivrjTifcov (Kara tottov). The functions
of this principle are directed and checked by a mod-
erating power (dpxv)> which is altogether wanting in
plants. The higher animals have some degree of
fanc^ (<pavTcwia) and involuntary memory
Then, thirdly, there is the soul of man, which com-
prehends, in addition to all these principles, the
power of reason (vov$). This reason is partly pas-
sive, determined, and temporal or transitory; partly
active, determining, and immortal. So that the soul
of man comprises, according to Aristotle, a power
of nutrition and reproduction, a power of sensation,
desire, and locomotion, a power of imagination and
memory, a power of reason, and, in so far as reason
is active and determining, a power of free will.

11. The ethics of Aristotle commence with the
remark that the actions of all rational creatures aim
at some end. Ends are of two kinds, subordinateARISTOTLE.

377

and ultimate. The various arts and sciences have
subordinate ends in view. The art of medicine, for
example, has health for its end. The art of ship-
building has a ship, and the art of war has vic-
tory for its end. These are subordinate ends. But
there is an ultimate end, an end in reference to
which these, and all other subordinate ends, may be
considered as means, a chief end or summum bomim
which is desired for its own sake, and not for the
sake of anything beyond it. What is this end ?
This is the question with which political science has
to deal; for Aristotle uses the word 7toXituct) as com-
prising what we more usually term ethics.

12.	The name of this ultimate end is very easily
given. There is no dispute about that. Both philo-
sophers and the vulgar agree in calling it happiness.
Happiness is the chief good, the ultimate end at
which all human beings aim.

13.	But there is a great diversity of opinion as
to what happiness is. Philosophers differ from the
vulgar; they differ, too, among themselves as to
the nature of happiness. There are four theories of
happiness, or good, which may be briefly mentioned:
first, " that the good is an abstract something which
exists independently, and through which all things
that are good are constituted good;" secondly, that
" it is sensual pleasure;" thirdly, that it is honour as
attained in society; and fourthly, that "it consists378

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

in a life of intellectual contemplation." Such are
the four opinions enumerated by Aristotle as the
theories of happiness most in vogue at the time
when he wrote.

14.	He expresses his dissatisfaction with them all.
The first is the Platonic doctrine, according to Aris-
totle's interpretation of it. It is too abstruse and
mystical to be of any practical value. The second
theory may suit brute animals, but it is not applicable
to man. The third is true to some extent, but is in-
complete. The fourth is the truest of the four, and
is adopted by Aristotle as part of his own doctrine;
but it too is incomplete, and requires to be largely
supplemented before it can be embraced.

15.	Aristotle then proceeds to declare his own
views as to the nature of happiness, and as to the
way in which the inquiry after it should be con-
ducted. To find out what man's happiness is, we
must first of all, he says, find out what man's proper
work, or function, or vocation is. When we have
discovered this, we shall have no difficulty in dis-
covering wherein his happiness consists. For the
function which a man has to fulfil, the work which
he has to do, being known, his happiness will be
seen to centre in the discharge of that function, in
the performance of that work.

16.	We ask, then, what is man's proper work orARISTOTLE.

379

office ? It may help us to find out this if we con-
sider what his proper work is not. Man's proper
work is not the maintenance of a mere organic life,
for that, we may say, is the proper work of vege-
tables ; but man is not a vegetable. Nor is the
attainment and maintenance of pleasurable sensa-
tions the proper work of a man, for that is the
proper business of mere animals, but man is not a
mere animal. The proper work of man, therefore,
is not mere life, because he is not a creature that
merely lives; and it is not mere sensation, because
he is not a creature that merely feels.

17. What, then, is the proper work of a man ? To
ascertain this we must ascertain what man's peculiar
property or attribute is. His peculiar property or
attribute is reason. He has life in common with all
organised creatures; he has sensation in common
with all animated creatures; but he has reason as
an endowment, which is peculiar to himself. Man's
proper work, therefore, the vocation he has to dis-
charge, must stand closely related to the peculiar
characteristic, namely, the rational nature, with which
he has been endowed; and hence man's true work
or function, as defined by Aristotle, is as follows—
" The work of man is a conscious and active life of
the soul in accordance with reason." * This, he says,

* 'AvOpdfirov 5e rtdefiev Hpyov riva, ravrriv Se tyvxys ivepyeiav
kclI irpd£*is perk Koyov {trirovZaiov 8' avSpds e3 ravra Kal /caA.a)s).—

Eth. Nic., 1. 7.380

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

is the proper work of all men; it is the endeavour
of the good man to lead this life in the most noble
and perfect manner possible.

18.	Man's proper vocation having been thus
defined by Aristotle, he then defines his proper
happiness in accordance with that definition. The
definition of happiness is this—" Man's good or hap-
piness is a conscious and active and rational life of
the soul in accordance with virtue or excellence, and
carried on in favourable external circumstances." *
You will perceive that this definition embraces in
its latter clause those elements of happiness, namely,
the good gifts of fortune, which the world at large is
apt to regard as forming almost the sole constituents
of felicity, but which some schools of morality, the
Stoics, for example, were inclined to exclude alto-
gether from the conception of happiness.

19.	It is obvious that there is but little differ-
ence between these two definitions, the definition
of man's work and the definition of his happiness.
Man's work is defined in almost the same terms in
which man's happiness is defined; and it may be
thought that this close resemblance of the two shows
rather a want of discrimination on the part of Aris-
totle. But a small degree of reflection may satisfy us

* Tfc avBpwirivov dyaObv if/uxvs ivepyeia ylverai Kar aperi)?, (ef H4
irXelovs at aperal, Kara apia-Trjy Kal T€\€iordrrjv). yETt 5' iv &i(pARISTOTLE.

381

that the two definitions must bear a close resem-
blance to each other, and that their perfection con-
sists in their differing from each other but slightly;
for, observe, if man's proper work be a certain kind
of life or mode of action, then his proper happiness
must consist in doing that work well. His vocation
is a particular kind of life; his happiness, therefore,
is his living that kind of life in the best way pos-
sible. For example, if it is the proper business of a
tree to put forth blossoms and to produce fruits, then
we might say it will be that the happiness of the
tree would consist in doing this abundantly and well.
So that Aristotle, having defined man's proper work
as consisting in a particular kind of life, is strictly
logical in his procedure when he defines his happi-
ness as consisting in living that life well. The two
definitions stated in their simplest forms will stand
thus: first, in regard to man's work, man's proper
work is living reasonably; second, in regard to man's
happiness, man's happiness is his living reasonably,
in the best and noblest manner, and in the midst of
favourable external conditions.

20. These definitions, which may appear to be
little better than truisms, and which look rather
clumsy in any English translation that can be made
of them, will lead us immediately into an inquiry of
greater interest and importance. But first let us
note the elements which are involved in Aristotle's
definition of happiness. First, it is mental, and not382

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

bodily; it centres in reason, and not in sense; second-
ly, it implies excellence, that is, virtue; thirdly, it is
an activity, or energy, and not a mere potentiality of
our nature; and fourthly, it implies a life favourably
situated in regard to its external lot. All these con-
ditions must combine in order to render human hap-
piness complete; and Aristotle holds that his defini-
tion is the only one which embraces within it the
whole of them.

21. It has been said, in the terms of our definition,
that man's proper office is to live rationally, and that
his happiness consists in living rationally in the best
or most excellent way. Hence the new question
arises, What is the best or most excellent way of
living rationally ? To answer this question, we must
again inquire into the constitution of human nature.
This constitution is made up mainly of two parts.
First, the principle of reason; and secondly, the prin-
ciple of desire. Stated shortly, reason and passion
are the two principal constituents of man's ^v^r),
or immaterial part. In regard to reason, it has an
excellence of its own in which the intellectual virtues
consist. (These we leave out of view at present.)
The matter which requires our consideration is the
relation between reason and the passions. It is the
office of reason to control the passions. The passions
are able to obey, but they have also a tendency to
resist the influence of reason. The passions, we
may say, quicken and arouse the reason; the reasonAKISTOTLE.

383

checks and guides the passions; and the action of
the one of these upon the other constitutes the
moral nature of man. The due and proper work-
ing of this moral nature constitutes man's excellence
or virtue. So that the answer to our question,
What is the best and most excellent way of living
rationally ? is this, That the best and most excel-
lent way of living rationally is by maintaining the
due and proper working of our moral nature, a
nature made up, as has been said, of reason and
passion.

22. This answer gives rise to the new question,
But what is the due and proper working of man's
moral nature ? (I may here remark in passing, that
in thus carrying on the inquiry by the way of ques-
tion and answer, I am going to work more formally
and methodically even than Aristotle himself. But
this procedure may conduce, I think, to distinctness
of exposition.) The obvious answer to this question
is, that the due and proper working of man's moral
nature must consist in such an adjustment between
reason and passion, as that the one of these, the
reason, shall guide and govern, and that the other,
the passions, shall obey even while they contrive to
impel. When this adjustment is effected, the right
working of man's moral nature is secured; in other
words, moral virtue is the result, while happiness is
at the same time attained, inasmuch as man is now
living a rational life in the best and noblest way in384

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which such a life can be led—in accordance, namely,
with excellence or virtue.

23.	But a new question arises out of the answer
which has just been given. That answer was this,
that the right working of man's moral nature was an
arrangement in which reason ruled and passion obey-
ed. This answer brings forward the new question,
But how is such an arrangement or adjustment to be
brought about ? in other words, How is moral virtue
to be produced ?

24.	To this question Aristotle answers in one
word, that moral virtue is produced or acquired by
habit. Practise the virtues and you will acquire
then!; and you can acquire them in no other way.
This answer is more important and more profound
than it appears. It is opposed at once to the doc-
trine that virtue is implanted in us by nature, or
comes to us merely from nature, and to the doctrine
which Plato seems to have favoured, that virtue
might be merely theoretical, might consist in a mere
knowledge of what is right. Both of these doctrines
were impugned by Aristotle in the assertion that the
practice of virtue, its habitual exercise, was neces-
sary to the attainment and existence of virtue.

25.	The following remarks, in which Aristotle
shows that the moral virtues are not ours by nature,
but are acquired by custom, are well worthy of yourARISTOTLE.

385

consideration. Near the commencement of book
second he says *—

" Not one of the moral virtues comes to be in us
merely by nature; because of such things as exist by
nature, none can be changed by custom; a stone, for
instance, by nature gravitating downwards, could
never by custom be brought to ascend, not even if
one were to try and accustom it by throwing it up
ten thousand times; nor could fire again be brought
to descend, nor in fact could anything whose nature
is in one way be brought by custom to be in another.
The virtues, then, come to be in us neither by nature
nor against nature; but we are naturally disposed
to receive them, and are perfected in them by habit.

" Again, all the things that come to us by nature
we possess first as faculties (hwdjiet9); afterwards we
exhibit them in actual operation (ta<? ivepyeias). This
is clear with regard to the senses, for we did not get
our senses by hearing often and seeing often, but,
on the contrary, we had them and then used them;
we did not have them by using them. But the
virtues we gain by having acted first, as is the case
with the arts also, for those things which one must
learn before one can do, one learns by doing; as, for
instance, by building, builders are formed, and by
harping, harpers. So too, by doing just things we
become just; by doing temperate things, temperate;
by doing brave things, brave.

* The translation is partly taken from Mr Chase, partly from
Sir A. Grant.

2 B386

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

" And to the truth of this, testimony is borne by
what takes place in communities; because the law-
givers make the individual members good men by
habituation: and this is the intention, certainly, of
every lawgiver, and all who do it not well fail of
their intent; and herein consists the difference
between a good government and a bad one.

" Again, from the same given circumstances, and
by the same means used, all excellence is both
produced and destroyed, for by harp-playing both
the good and the bad harpers are formed; and simi-
larly of builders and all the rest, for by building
well, men will become good builders, by building
badly, bad ones ; in fact, if this had not been so
there would have been no need of instructors, but
all men would have been at once good or bad in
their several arts without them.

" So, too, is it with the virtues; for by acting in
the various relations in which we are thrown with
our fellow-men, we come to be, some just, some
unjust; and by acting in dangerous positions, and
being habituated to feel confidence or fear, we
become, some brave, others cowards.

" Similarly also it is with respect to occasions of
desire and anger, for some men become perfected in
self-control, others become incontinent and passion-
ate, the former by acting in certain circumstances in
one way, and the latter by acting in similar circum-
stances in a different way. In one word, habits (e^ee?)
are formed out of corresponding acts (ivepyetcu), where-ARISTOTLE.

387

fore it is proper that the acts should be of a right
quality, in order that the habits which they generate
may be of a right quality too. And it makes no
small, but a great, yea, the greatest of differences,
whether we are accustomed to act in this or in that
particular way, even from our earliest childhood."

26. I go on to offer a few words of comment on
the quotation from Aristotle's Ethics brought before
you in the preceding section. His doctrine in regard
to our having no natural capacity, StW/w, or virtue
may require some slight explanation, in order to
prevent it from being misconceived. There are, ac-
cording to Aristotle, two kinds of 8vvafii$, a SiW/u?
properly so called, and a Suvafjut^ less properly so
called. The Suva/jug properly so called is a natural
power, always followed by a constant and uniform
species of ivepyeca] the Bvpa/jutg less properly so called,
may issue in two opposite species of ivepyeta. The
former may be called a Svva/ug restricted to one
issue; the latter may be called a Svva/Mig capable of
two opposite issues; it is in fact called so by Aristotle,
SvvajjLig t&v ivavricov. To illustrate these two, taking
Aristotle's as well as other examples, a stone has a
hvvafitg of falling downwards to the earth; it is lim-
ited to that one issue; it has no Svvafug of falling up-
wards. When the 8vva/j,tg passes into act or ivepyeta,
the stone takes a downward course, hvva^tg proper.
A grain of wheat has a Svva/jug of passing into the
green blade and then into the full ear. It has no388

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

power of doing the opposite. Its ivepyeia cannot issue
either in a withholding of its increase or in the
production of a noxious weed. So in regard to our
senses. This is a case of Svvafjucg proper. The SbvafUQ
of seeing or of hearing cannot issue in a result the
opposite of hearing or of seeing. The capacities of
seeing or of hearing terminate respectively in the
acts of seeing or of hearing, and cannot terminate in
blindness or in deafness, as alternatives equally open
to them. These, then, are illustrations of hvva^
properly so called, that is, of Svvafiig restricted to
one issue. And that issue follows or obeys the law
of the Svvafug, that is to say, nothing more than
the Svvafug is required to bring about the resulting
ivepyeia.

27. But suppose that a stone had a capacity for
falling upwards as well as downwards. Suppose that
wheat had a capacity, not only to grow but to refuse
to grow, or that it had a capacity of growing into a
noxious weed. Suppose that our eyes when in their
normal state, and when wide open, had a capacity of
being blind as well as a capacity for seeing. Suppose
that our ears, when their function was entire, had
a capacity for being deaf as well as a capacity for
hearing. In these cases we should have so many
illustrations of what Aristotle calls the Stiva/MQ r&v
ivavTLoov, which, properly speaking, is not a Svva/ug at
all. These cases are fictitious; but there are real cases
of Svva/jLig t&v ivavTicov, the capacity of contraries;ARISTOTLE.

389

and such an example is found in the moral nature
of man. "We are capable of becoming either virtuous
or vicious, and in the same circumstances too. And
hence we have no capacity of virtue in the sense in
which a stone has a capacity of falling downwards,
or in which a man has a capacity of seeing. Of two
seeds of the same kind, and placed in the same cir-
cumstances, the one cannot grow up an ear of corn
and the other a useless weed; but of two men placed
in the same circumstances, the one may grow up a
virtuous and the other a vicious character. Hence
the moral capacity of these two men, and we may
say of man generally, is quite different from the
physical capacity of things, and quite different from
man's physical capacities, all of which are restricted
to one issue, and are properly called Swdfiets, because
the acts (ivipyetat) are determined by these capacities
and arise out of them. But the others, the Swdfjuecs
7&V ivavTtcov, being capable of issuing in two opposite
acts or ivepyeiai, are not rightly regarded as Swdfjuei?
at all. At any rate you must keep in mind the broad
distinction between them and the natural Svvd/jue(,$.
The hvvajJLi? twv ivavTLcov being open indifferently to
two issues, has obviously no power of determining
its own issue. That issue is determined, not by the
Svvafiis, but by something else; that something else
being, in the case of the moral virtues, the principle
of free-will, of which I shall say a word immediately,
and the power of custom.390

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

28.	You will now, I think, understand the sense
in which Aristotle alleges that we have no natural
capacity for virtue; we have no natural capacity for
it in the way in which we have a capacity for seeing,
or in which a stone has a capacity for falling to the
earth. We have a capacity for virtue only in the
sense that this capacity is also a capacity for vice.
It may perhaps be convenient to retain the word
capacity in this signification, but we must keep in
mind that the word thus used signifies something
very different from what is indicated by the other
employment of the term. According to Aristotle,
then, we have no natural capacity for virtue or for
vice, but only what may be improperly termed a
capacity for either of these indifferently. In certain
circumstances a man may become virtuous; in the
same circumstances he may also become vicious.
This shows that man has no natural capacity for
either of these. For out of a natural capacity the
only issue that can come in the form of acts must
be of one constant and uniform kind.

29.	Out of this doctrine that man has no natural
capacity for virtue, arises Aristotle's doctrine of free-
will, Trpoaipeais, deliberate purpose, determination, or
choice. If man had a capacity for virtue, that is, a
natural tendency, which was irresistible, and which
carried him to virtue whether he would or not, he
could, of course, have no free-will or power of choice.
The law of the Svvafjus would determine the act asARISTOTLE.

391

its inevitable consequence. But man's capacity for
virtue being equally a capacity for vice, in other
words, not strictly speaking a capacity at all, it fol-
lows that man must be determined either to virtue
or to vice, by something different from such a capa-
city, and that by which he is determined is the
power or principle of free-will (irpocdpecns).

30. Inasmuch, then, as man has no natural capa-
city of virtue, but only a capacity of being either
virtuous or vicious, the question arises, How does
man become determined either to a virtuous or to a
vicious course of action ? The answer is, that he is
determined to the one or other of these through a
power of free-will or choice (nrpoaipeaLs), and not
through any natural capacity. But this power of
choice is not sufficient to make him either virtuous
or vicious. He must acquire the one or the other of
these dispositions through custom, as has been al-
ready pointed out to you. By the practice of virtue
he acquires the habit, of virtue; by the practice
of vice he acquires the habit of vice. In fact, this is
a case in which Svvajuu? rather follows ivepyeta. In
the case of the natural Svva/M<;} the power or capacity
precedes, the act, evepyeia, follows, and the evepyeia
does not react, or reacts but little, on the hvvaills in
the way of strengthening or confirming it. But in the
virtues, and also in the operations involved in the dif-
ferent acts, ivepyeia comes first, and Stivajiis follows;
the capacity is created by the practice, the practice392

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

does not arise out of the capacity. When the capa-
city has been created by the practice, we may then
say that we have a capacity or power of virtue, Stfrn/w
t^5 aperi79; but Aristotle calls this power, not Svi/a/w,
but 6^?, or habit, which, however, is nothing but an
acquired Svvafiis.

31.	These explanations having been given, we
shall have no great difficulty in removing a certain
objection which may be taken to this doctrine, of the
origin of virtue. Aristotle has himself taken notice
of the objection I refer to; it is this:—The objector
says that some sort of paradox, or at least confusion,
is involved in the doctrine that virtue is a habit.
We are told, says he, that virtue is properly a habit,
and then we are told that, in order to acquire this
habit, we must first of all practise virtue. But how
can we practise virtue, if, in order to practise it, we
must have already practised it ? How can we get a
beginning ? Or, if we can practise virtue before we
have acquired the habit of virtue, how can it be said
that virtue is properly a habit ? For example, how
can it be said that we become just, by doing just
things ? If we can do just things, in order to ac-
quire the virtue of justice, we are surely just already,
and antecedent to the practice of justice. Aristotle's
solution of this difficulty or confusion seems to be
as follows:—

32.	"Virtue follows the analogy of the arts, inARISTOTLE.

393

which the first essays of the learner may by chance,
or by the guidance of his master (oltto	fcal aWov

vTToOefjbevov), attain a sort of success or an artistic ap-
pearance, but the learner is no artist as yet." * Play-
ing on the fiddle, for example, is an art, and the
power or capacity of playing on the fiddle may be
called a habit—a habit acquired, and only to be
acquired, by practising on that instrument. Thus we
may say without a paradox, that a fiddler becomes
a fiddler {i.e., a master on that instrument) by being
already a fiddler (that is, a learner or imperfect per-
former on that instrument); and so of all the other
arts, they are all acquired only by our already being
to some extent that which we desire to become to a
greater extent, and it is only after we have become
completely what we already are imperfectly, that we
are entitled to the name of artist. Thus we may say
that painting is a habit, and that he alone who has
acquired this habit as a confirmed power of mind
and of hand, is a painter ; and yet it would be quite
true to say that he could acquire this habit only by
the practice of painting; in other words, that he
could become a painter only by already being a
painter, although his first essays might be unworthy
of the name of painting.

33. So in regard to virtue, it is a habit, and it
is acquired by means of certain virtuous acts; but
these acts are as yet imperfect, are as little entitled
* Etli. Nic., B. II. 4; Grant, p. 75, 1st ed., vol. i. p. 415, 2d ed.394

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

to be called virtuous acts as the first harsh essays
on the fiddle by a musical tyro are entitled to be
called tunes; or as the first pair of leathern encum-
brances fabricated by an apprentice to St Crispin
are deserving of the appellation of shoes. " The first
acts by which we acquire justice, are, according to
Aristotle, not really and properly just: they want
the moral qualification of that settled internal char-
acter in the heart and mind of the agent without
which no external act is virtuous in the highest
sense of the term." They are helps and tendencies
towards the acquirement of this character, as the
first essays of the artist are towards the acquire-
ment of an art, But they are not to be confounded
with those moral acts which flow from the char-
acter when developed and fixed.

34. Aristotle's doctrine in regard to virtue being a
habit (in Greek e'^9) will be better understood if we
consider it in relation to what he calls Svva/ALs, that
is, power or capacity, and to what he calls ivipyeia,
that is, energy or actuality. All men are born with
certain natural powers or capacities (hwd^ei9); they
have a StW/u? or capacity of growth, of feeling plea-
sure and pain, of seeing, hearing, and of using their
other senses. When from this capacity to grow
growth actually ensues, the hbvaius passes into evep-
ryeca or actuality. When man's capacity to feel plea-
sure and pain, his capacity to see, hear, and so forth,
become the actual feeling of pleasure or pain, becomeARISTOTLE.

395

actual seeing, actual hearing, and so forth, the Svvafii?
has passed into ivepyeia. Now, observe that in such
cases the ivepyeca does not react upon the 8vva/u$.
Actual seeing (ivepyeia) does not create the capacity
of seeing. The capacity exists first: the practical
operation is its consequence. This is to be particu-
larly borne in mind in considering these natural
Svvd/iei9 or capacities, and the practical operations
that arise out of them: this, I say, is to be borne in
mind, that the capacities come first and the opera-
tions second, and that the latter do not react, or re-
act but very slightly, on the former. As I have said,
it is not by using his eyes that a man acquires the
power of seeing, it is not by actually feeling pleasure
that a man acquires the power of feeling pleasure;
he already has from nature the power of seeing and
the power of feeling pleasure, and when these powers
pass into act (evepyeia), he sees and he feels plea-
sure. These are cases in which Bvva/M? comes first
and ivepyeia follows.

35. Now, it has here to be asked, does this analogy
hold good in regard to man's capacity of virtue and
his practice of virtue ? Has man first a power or
capacity of virtue, and then a practice conformable
thereto, just as he has a power of seeing and of per-
forming other operations, and a practice arising out
of these powers ? Aristotle answers, No; the ana-
logy does not hold good; the cases are entirely dif-
ferent. Instead of the practice of virtue (ivepyeia)396

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

arising out of the capacity or hvvafii5 of virtue, it is
rather the 8iW/w which arises out of the ivepyeia or
practice. To acquire the power or capacity or dis-
position of virtue, we must first of all be virtuous.
The practice of virtue reacts so powerfully on the
capacity of virtue, that it may be said almost to
create that capacity. In this respect, then, the Svva-
fiis and ivepyeia of virtue are very different from the
natural Svvafieand ivepyetat, before spoken of. In
the latter cases the actuality proceeds out of the capa-
city ; in the former the capacity is first formed by
means of the actuality. Now a SiW/w, or power or
capacity, acquired by practice, is called by Aristotle
e'^9, a habit or permanent condition; and this is
what he says the true character of virtue is: it is not
SiW/u?, or natural power issuing in certain natural
actions, but it is e^?, a moral habit acquired by the
practice of certain actions, and issuing anew in the
performance of actions which possess a higher moral
significance on account of the habit out of which
they flow.

36. Perhaps you will here ask, Has, then, man,
according to Aristotle, no natural capacity of virtue ?
and if he has not, how does he ever put forth those
acts by means of which he is said to acquire the
habit, or disposition, or capacity of virtue ? The
answer seems to be, that man has no original capacity
of virtue, but he has an original capacity of acquir-
ing that capacity. Man has no original capacity ofARISTOTLE.

397

virtue as he has an original capacity of seeing; but
although we cannot say that man has a natural or
original capacity for virtue, we may nevertheless
say that he has an original capacity of acquiring
that capacity, just as he has an original capacity of
acquiring a capacity of painting. Let me illustrate
this.

37. Sir Joshua Reynolds has a capacity of paint-
ing. Is that an original capacity ? No; all that he
had originally was a capacity of acquiring that capa-
city. His capacity of painting he acquired by long
study and repeated efforts; but no doubt he had an
original capacity which enabled him to make these
efforts. Now, this original capacity is, in Aristotle's
language, a Swa/w, a natural power; the acquired
capacity, the capacity of painting resulting from
these repeated efforts, this, in Aristotle's language,
is a or confirmed habit; and it is in virtue of
this, and not in virtue of the original power, that Sir
Joshua is entitled to the name of a painter. So, in
regard to virtue, all men have by nature the capacity
of acquiring the capacity of virtue. But all men do
not acquire this capacity. Those only acquire it
who persevere in the practice of virtue, just as those
only acquire the capacity of painting who labour
assiduously with the brush and the pallet. There is
in man a natural power, or capacity, or hvva/la?, which
enables him to perform those actions by which the
capacity of virtue is gradually acquired; but this398

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

natural power is not itself that capacity; or at any
rate it is not this until it has been so reacted upon
by the practice of virtue as to have become a con-
firmed habit, or of the mind. The main points,
then, comprehended under Aristotle's assertion that
virtue is a habit may be summed up as follows:—

38. There is, first, an unconfirmed or indefinite
power of acting either rightly or wrongly. This may
be called a Bvva/bus in the sense already explained;
but Svvafjus more properly applies to powers which
are limited by nature to one issue, which the power
in question is not: it is open indifferently either to
virtue or vice. Then, secondly, there is Trpoaipeais, a
power of choice, involving freedom, reflection, deli-
beration, and will. This power may for a time be
guided by instructors. But its proper function is
that of self-determination: a man is self-determined
to be either virtuous or vicious. Then, thirdly, there
is ivepyeia. This is the act, or rather the continually-
repeated act, the practice or custom through which,
fourthly, the eft?, or habit of virtue (or vice) is formed.
This practice is the most important element in the
process: through it the e&s, or habit, or disposition,
is built up. It is the sap which feeds and supports
the life of our moral nature. "Etjw includes an in-
sight or recognition of the worth and excellence of
this habit, and of the actions by which it has
been formed. There is, fifthly, the conduct which
flows out of this conduct to which alone theARISTOTLE.

399

epithet of virtuous, in the highest sense of the word,
can be applied.

39. A further point to be noticed in treating of the
ethics of Aristotle is this, that virtue is voluntary,
that is, it is dependent on ourselves. In other words,
it is a matter of choice and election. We have it in
our power to prefer and practise the right, and to
reject and eschew the wrong. This position, in which
there is certainly no great originality, seems to have
been advanced in opposition to those who saw no
other ground for morality than blind obedience to the
dictates of law; to the sophistical opinion that the
actions of men are prompted by a blind and irre-
sistible instinct; that men always pursue what ap-
pears to them at the time to be for their own good;
that they are not the masters or the makers of their
own conception of good; that nature has fixed this
for them; and that if they pursue evil under the
appearance or semblance of good, the fault is not
theirs but hers. In fact, even at this early period
the doctrine seems to have been broached that man,
in all his actions, was the slave or victim of necessity,
that his conduct was determined by a power over
which he had no control, and that therefore he could
not justly be held responsible for his actions, or re-
garded as amenable to punishment when he had done
wrong. In opposition to this doctrine, Aristotle
maintains that man's conduct is voluntary; that he is
a free as well as an intelligent agent; and that there-400

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

fore he, and not nature, is the source and originator of
his actions; and that, by a further consequence, he is
accountable for the good or the evil which he does, and
is a proper subject of praise and reward when he has
done well, of reprobation and punishment when he has
done ill. Aristotle admits that after men's disposi-
tions are formed, after they have acquired a settled
habit, either of virtue or of vice, that then they have
little or no control over their conduct; that it is dif-
ficult, if not impossible, for the thoroughly depraved
to reform. At the same time he holds that their
character, at one period, was in their own hands;
that the formation of their disposition was originally
in their own power; that in acquiring the habit,
whether of virtue or of vice, they were at first entirely
free; that, by the early practice of virtuous actions,
they might have attained, and would have attained,
to that habit of mind which it is now too late for
them to acquire; and therefore their plea of irre-
sponsibility, grounded on their alleged want of con-
trol over their own conduct, can no more be listened
to than can the argument of him who, after having
thrown a stone, and been challenged for the damage
he has done, should plead that he had no control over
the stone after it had left his hand. The answer is,
That may be very true, but why did it ever leave
your hand ? As long as it remained in it, you had
over it a perfect control. Compare Jeremy Taylor,
4 On the Nature and Causes of Good and Evil/ c. 1:
—" The will is the mistress of all our actions. . . .ARISTOTLE.

401

The action itself is good or bad by its conformity
to, or difformity from, the rule of conscience; but
the man is good or bad by the will;" and foil.
(Yol. iii. p. 630, ed. London, 1836.)

40. In connection with this topic, I may introduce
a short discussion, which has application not to the
ethics of Aristotle only, but to all ethical systems
whatever. I ask, what is it that we pronounce our
moral judgments upon? And I answer, that it is
always upon the will, either of ourselves or others,
that these judgments are directed. This may not
always appear to be the case; for sometimes we seem
to be judging the act without considering the will at
all. How is this to be explained ? How does it hap-
pen that the act appears frequently to be that which
we judge, while in truth it is always the will of the
agent on which a judgment is really pronounced.
The answer is, or at least part of the answer is, that
it is only by and through the act that we can know
the mind or will of the agent. We can read no heart
but our own, and even our own we read but imper-
fectly. The spirit of man lies enshrouded in secrecy
till it leaps forth into action. Thus we only know
the mind of others when shown in some act ex-
terior to themselves, and in wThich the inner work-
ings of their spirits have been made as we think
visible. Our love and hate are thus suspended at
first, at least, not directly on the will of the person
whom we judge, but on the exterior symbols or evi-

2 c402

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

dences of that will. If we could read directly the
minds of other men, we should judge them by their
own inherent beauty and deformity, and not by that
beauty and deformity as shown in their outward con-
duct and demeanour. But we cannot do this. We
can only judge of what is within from our observa-
tion of what is without, and from that which shows
itself overtly we judge of the hidden character.
Hence it is that we often seem, even to ourselves, to
be expending all our indignation on vicious actions,
when in reality it is the vicious will of the agent
which moves our resentment.

41. In explaining this apparent transference of our
judgment from the will to the act, there is another
circumstance of still greater importance to be at-
tended to, this, namely, that the act is only the will
completed. Till the moment of action, the last deci-
sion of the will is uncertain. A man knows not what
he has the heart to do till the moment of action
arrive. He goes forth armed for the execution of
his purpose, but it is possible that compunction or
remorse may hold him back; and hence, while the
action is unperformed, the intention, too, of the agent
must be regarded as uncertain, and we cannot pro-
nounce an infallible judgment until the action has
tested it. So long as the hand is restrained, the mind
remains free; the will may still recoil from the deed
of guilt on which it may have resolved. But when
the act is consummated, all doubt is put an end to;ARISTOTLE.

403

the will is completed. Before this it was only in-
cipient or inchoate; now it has put forth the full
fruit of guilt. Hence a man's acts are of great im-
portance in determining our judgments of his con-
duct, although it is really his will that we judge.

42. Further, in conceiving the manner in which
our thoughts are inevitably affected by the act, as
something distinct and separate from the mind and
will of the agent, we cannot help considering the
state in which a man has placed himself by his act,
in comparison with the state he held before its per-
petration. We suppose the act to be some deed of
guilt. Before this act he occupied a respectable
place in society. Now, the moment the act is over,
he is, it may be, a murderer, and he feels the irre-
vocable doom that awaits him. One moment ago,
his whole futurity hung in suspense before him: it
was still possible for that futurity to be filled with
virtue and happiness. That moment is past; the
deed is done; there is no locus poenitentice for him
now, in so far, at least, as man is concerned; and
the result must go with him for evermore. The
indignation of his fellow-men pursues him from
place to place; the phantom of an ignominious
death haunts him till its shadow becomes a reality.
All these horrors his one act has in a moment
brought upon him. All these accompany the act,
they intensify our imagination of it. But still,
though our mind naturally fastens on the act, and on404

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

these its results, it is not these that are the objects
of our judgment. It is the will of the agent that we
condemn. But then we must look also to the act and
to the circumstances, because it is by these only that
the will is consummated or made known to us.

43. You may thus see how very different degrees
of guilt and of reprehension attach to a will which,
though wickedly inclined, shrinks from the com-
mission of a meditated crime, and one which goes
forward without flinching to the fulfilment of its pur-
pose. Nature herself has raised barriers which the
will, irresolute in wickedness, fears to overleap. This
man has not passed the fatal Rubicon of crime. He
still may be restored. His hand may have let fall
the dagger when in the very act of striking the blow.
He may have made up his mind to commit the mur-
der, but he does not commit it. Our judgment of
this man is very different from that which we pro-
nounce on him whose will has gone forward to the
perpetration of the deed. And our judgments are
thus different: our judgment in the one case is
much more lenient than in the other, because, al-
though in both cases a guilty will is the subject of
our condemnation, still the will of the one man did
not pass into act, did not show that it was fully
formed and complete, while that of the other did;
and hence there is nothing inconsistent in our main-
taining that it is the will alone on which our moral
judgments are pronounced, although acts must alsoAKISTOTLE.

405

be looked to as the only evidence we can have of
the matured existence of the will.

44.	Shakespeare has a fine description in the fol-
lowing passage of the unsettled state of the mind
when the will is hesitating about the perpetration of
a great crime, and when the passions are threatening
to overpower, and do eventually overpower, the rea-
son and the conscience. Brutus, meditating on the
conspiracy by which Julius Caesar is slain, and in
which he was to bear a prominent part, thus expresses
himself:—

" Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:

The Genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection."

One might have supposed that Shakespeare knew
Plato.

45.	I am endeavouring to give you as connected a
view as possible of the ethics of Aristotle. The best
way, perhaps, of overtaking this end is by presenting
to you the system in a series of questions and an-
swers, so couched that each answer calls up into
view a new question, until the whole series has been
gone through. Before bringing forward the question
which arises out of our last answer, I shall recapit-
ulate very shortly the catechism, as I may call it,406

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which we have already gone over. First, What is
the main purpose of ethical, or, as Aristotle frequent-
ly calls it, political science? Answer, To ascertain the
chief and ultimate end of human action, and to point
out the means of its attainment. Second question,
What is the chief and ultimate end of human action ?
Answer, Human happiness. This raises the third
question, What is human happiness? Answer: In
order to reply to this question, we must ascertain
what is the proper work or function of a man:
for the happiness of any being must be intimately
connected with the function which it has to dis-
charge. What, then, is the function or proper work
of a man ? A conscious and active and rational life
of the soul, or, more shortly, living reasonably, is the
proper work of a man. Out of this definition arises
the answer to our third question. That third ques-
tion was, What is human happiness ? And the an-
swer as now obtained is, Human happiness is living
reasonably in the best and noblest manner {tear aperrjv is
Aristotle's expression), and in agreeable circumstan-
ces, for the happiness or well-being of every creature
must consist in doing well that which is its proper
work or vocation. This answer instantly raises the
fourth question, But what is the best and noblest
manner of living reasonably ? Answer, By so regu-
lating our moral nature, which is made up of reason
and the passions, that reason shall govern and pas-
sion obey; in other words, by so regulating our
moral nature as to develop the virtues: for theARISTOTLE.

407

virtues arise out of the governance which reason
exercises over the passions. This answer calls for-
ward the fifth question, But how is this adjustment
to be effected ? by what means are the moral virtues
to be developed ? Answer, By means of custom.
The practice of virtue, a practice which is sooner
or later determined and directed by free-will, this
practice produces the habit or disposition of virtue.
While this habit is being formed the virtues are more
or less incomplete. It is only when the habit is
fully formed that they are complete, and are entitled
to be called virtues in the highest and strictest sense
of the word. But I must abstain from all discussion.
The short answer to the fifth question is, The virtues
are developed by means of custom or repeated prac-
tice. This answer brings up a new question, one on
which I have not yet touched. I proceed to lay it
before you.

46. Virtue, we have said, is a habit acquired
through custom or practice. The new or sixth ques-
tion which arises out of this answer is this, "What
is the kind of custom or practice which gives rise
to the virtues ? Answer, The practice out of which
the virtues arise is a practice, to state it in short and
somewhat technical language, a practice of aiming
at the mean. Virtue is a middle between two ex-
tremes. Accustom yourselves to that middle, and you
will settle down in the virtues. Perhaps a simpler
and less formal answer to our question, What is the408

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

custom or practice which gives rise to the virtues ?
would be this, The practice which produces virtues
is "the avoidance of excess and defect." Medio
tutissimus ibis. And thus the answer to our sixth
question, .which, I think, is closely and logically
affiliated to the questions which have gone before
it, brings us to the celebrated Aristotelic position,
that virtue is a mean or middle between two ex-
tremes, which in themselves are vices. We shall
consider this position for a few minutes.

47. We are now able to define virtue, which we
could not do until this sixth question was answered.
Previous to that question we had declared that
virtue was a habit. But there are other habits be-
sides the virtuous. Vice may be called a habit.
Habit, therefore, is only the genus under which
virtue falls. We want its differentia. Do we obtain
this when we say that virtue is a habit produced by
practice ? We certainly do not, for all habits are pro-
duced by practice. But we do obtain this differentia
when we look to the answer to the sixth question,
and when we say, Virtue is a habit which aims at
the mean. Every habit which steers clear of excess
on the one hand, and of defect on the other hand,
partakes of the quality of virtue. And accordingly,
Aristotle's definition of virtue is, that it is a disposi-
tion or state or habit (genus) of aiming at the mean
between two opposite vices (difference).ARISTOTLE.

409

48. Virtue, according to Aristotle, consists in a
medium between two extremes. This is a sound
practical doctrine, and, viewed as a metaphysical
truth, it is more profound than it appears. It of
course means that any virtue, by being carried too
far, either in the direction of excess or of deficiency,
loses the character, and becomes undeserving of the
name of virtue. Thus courage, avSpeta, is a mean
between cowardice and rashness. The man who
flies from all danger is a coward; the man who
rushes on all dangers is madly rash. But the brave
man is he who neither flies from all dangers, nor
rushes on all dangers, but who faces all dangers
which reason directs him in the circumstances to
encounter. The virtue of courage is thus a mean
between the extremes of cowardice and rashness.
So he who gives himself up to all pleasures is a
voluptuary; and he who refuses all pleasures is
austere, insensible, or unsociable. The virtue of
temperance, aco^poavvrj, therefore lies in the middle
between sensuality and asceticism; sensuality is the
excess of self-indulgence; aco(f>poavvrj is the middle,
self-control or temperance; asceticism or insen-
sibility or repugnance to all pleasure is the de-
fect on the opposite side. Aristotle regards this
deficiency rather as imaginary than real, for in-
sensibility to pleasure can very seldom or never
be laid to the charge of human nature. Indeed,
it may be said generally, that all the virtues
incline more towards one of the two terms which410

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

are laid down as their extremes than towards the
other; and therefore the statement is not per-
fectly accurate which represents each virtue as a
mid-point between two extremes, if we mean by
a mid-point a point exactly in the middle. For
courage certainly inclines more towards rashness
than it does towards cowardice; generosity inclines
more towards profusion than towards stinginess;
and so I believe in regard to every virtue that could
be named; the one extreme always lies at a greater
distance than the other from the virtue which is
placed between them. But, no doubt, for practical
purposes, it is a very true account of the virtues to
represent them as occupying a middle place between
two extremes, the extreme of excess and the ex-
treme of deficiency. From this account of the vir-
tues, you may perceive that Aristotle, like Adam
Smith, makes their general characteristic to be pro-
priety, i.e., a state in which they are not pushed to
the extreme, either of extravagant excess or of still
more reprehensible deficiency. In the same way
Plato places the essence of virtue in propriety, i.e.,
in the equilibrium of the soul, which was described
in preceding lectures.

49. This doctrine is of a much earlier date than
the days of Aristotle. Indeed, it would seem to
require no very advanced state of philosophy for
men to discover the maxim that "moderation is
best," that " excess is to be avoided." Thus, so farARISTOTLE.

411

back as Hesiod, we find the praise of /juerpta epya,
moderate acts. The era of the seven sages produced
the saying, afterwards inscribed on the temple of
Delphi, fjLTjSev ajav, nothing in excess. Now, all that
is contained in these popular and prudential sayings
is of course also contained in the principle of fjueaori]9,
or the mean which is so conspicuous in the ethics of
Aristotle. But Aristotle's principle contains some-
thing deeper than this; it is not a mere application
of the doctrine of moderation to the subject-matter
of the various separate virtues. It takes us back
to the Pythagorean ethics, one of the principles of
which was, that evil was of the nature of the infinite
(the unlimited, the immoderate), that good was of the
nature of the finite (the bounded, the moderate). To
say that the infinite is evil, and that the finite is
good, may seem an entire contradiction to our modern
ways of thinking. It is a mode of speech and of
thought which may nevertheless be justified. The
Pythagoreans held that number or limit was the
origin of all intelligibility, of all order; and that
whatever was infinite or unlimited (to airetpov) or
incalculable, was unintelligible, chaotic, or, as we
should say, nonsensical. Limit, to irepas, therefore,
or that which made things finite, or gave them order,
this it was which also made them good, just as the
want of limit was that which left them in a state of
disorder, and, consequently, in a condition of evil.
Limit, in fact, was considered as identical with form
or law, and the finite or limited was that which was412

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

obedient to law ; while the unlimited or infinite was
that which no law controlled. Out of the union of
these two principles, the limited and the unlimited,
the universe arose according to the Pythagoreans.
The limiting principle does not limit that which is
already limited; such a statement would be absurd.
It limits that which in its own nature is unlimited;
and out of this combination the beauty and harmony
of the universe are formed.

50. Now, this doctrine of the limit and the un-
limited (7r6pa9and to aireipov), which the Pythagoreans
applied to all things, this doctrine applied to morals
gives rise to the Aristotelic doctrine of the /^ecroT^?, or
of virtue as a mean between two extremes. Many
passions are in themselves of the nature of the in-
finite, the unlimited, the excessive; consequently, in
themselves they are bad; they are vices. But when
checked and controlled by the limit, they become
good, they acquire the character of virtues. In fact,
all the passions in excess are mere madnesses,
and it is their nature to be in excess. But when
reduced to finitude, to limit, they become the springs
which move the world, the sources out of which all
human happiness and all human greatness proceed.
Eeason or thought is the power which fixes a limit
to passion. When this limit is fixed the passion
shows as a fieo-orrjs, or mean between two extremes.
Such is the metaphysical, and also historical, explan-
ation of Aristotle's doctrine of the fieaorr]^ He bor-ARISTOTLE.

413

rowed it from the Pythagoreans. I should not omit
to mention that Plato also has this doctrine; in the Dia-
logue entitled ' Philebus ' it is distinctly propounded.

51. In close connection with our sixth question
and answer, this, the seventh question, comes before
us: By what test shall a man know whether he has
attained to the perfect habit of virtue, or whether he
is still but a stumbler in the ways of virtue ? This is
a question of some practical moment. And Aristotle
answers it by saying that a man may know how far
he is a proficient in virtue, by reflecting on the ease
and satisfaction, or the difficulty and dislike, with
which he performs virtuous actions. If the prac-
tice of virtue gives him pleasure, his virtuous
habit is perfect, or nearly so. If the practice of
virtue gives him pain or dissatisfaction, if he feels
that it involves a struggle or sacrifice, in that case his
virtue is far from perfect, the habit is by no means
confirmed. For example, a man denies himself sen-
sual indulgences; he is temperate, and he rejoices
and finds pleasure in his temperance. His habit of
mind is such that intemperance would give him pain.
Such a man has truly attained the virtue of temper-
ance. Again, another man denies himself all sensual
gratifications, but he feels pain in doing so; he is
grieved by such self-denial; it is to him a sacrifice;
he has no pleasure in his temperance. Such a man,
according to Aristotle, although he may be, indeed
is, on the right road to the acquisition of a virtuous414

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

habit, has not yet attained to it; he is, in fact, a
voluptuary still, for satisfaction does not accompany
the practice of his temperance; and this, according to
Aristotle, is the test of virtue, the test which proves
whether temperance, or whatever the virtue may be,
has truly been attained to or not. In short, if a man
has no pleasure in his temperance, such temperance
does not deserve the name of virtue. With this doc-
trine we may agree so far, I think, as to admit that
the test which Aristotle lays down is indeed the
criterion of the very highest virtue; in other words,
that virtue of the most perfect kind always affords
pleasure to him who practises it, and that unless it
does this it cannot be of the highest order. At the
same time, I think it would be unfair to refuse the
name of virtuous to that disposition which, in the
performance of virtuous actions, could not feel much
pleasure, but, on the contrary, felt that some degree
of self-sacrifice was involved in their performance.
Such a restriction would, I think, be unfair; because
such a disposition, though its virtue may not be al-
together perfect, may nevertheless be very noble and
magnanimous, and an object of our approbation all
the more on account of the sacrifice which it is un-
dergoing in the practice of virtue.

52. I believe that Aristotle himself would not have
withheld the name of virtuous in a restricted sense
to a mind which was struggling to be virtuous, but
whose efforts were still accompanied by some degreeAKISTOTLE.

415

of pain or self-sacrifice, although in accordance with
the theory which makes virtue a habit, he could not
admit that such a mind was virtuous in the highest,
or indeed in any very high, degree. All habits, when
acquired, issue in acts which are easy and agree-
able to the agent; if they do not issue in such
acts, the habits are not acquired, they are still in
a state of formation. The performer is a tyro, but
no proficient. He may be skilled in his art up to
a certain point, but he is not yet perfect. This is
true in regard to all the arts. The musician who
plays with difficulty, ev^en though he plays tolerably
well, has still much to learn. So the virtuous man,
whose virtue is a fight and a struggle, is still more or
less in the gall of bitterness and the bonds of ini-
quity, and he may know that he is so just from the
pain which accompanies his acts of virtue, as he may
know that he has broken loose from these bonds
entirely when pleasure mingles with his virtuous
exercises. The delight, then, which a man finds in
virtue, the misery which he finds in vice, this, ac-
cording to Aristotle, is the test or criterion by which
a man may try whether his virtue is perfect or not,
and whether or not he has attained to the assured
habit and disposition of virtue.

53. In concluding this account of the chief points
contained in the ethical system of Aristotle, I may
just add one word on his doctrine concerning happi-
ness. Happiness was with him, as with all the ancient416

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

moralists, the great end of man. This is the highest
good, the summum bonum, the end for which all beings
live, the object which they all pursue. But Aristotle's
standard of happiness is high and noble. It consists
in the satisfaction, not of the inferior propensities,
but of the loftier principles and capacities of our
nature. The pleasures which arise when any of out
lower desires are gratified, are satisfactions which man
shares in common with the brutes. These, therefore,
are not peculiar to man. In these human happiness,
the happiness which is proper to man, is not to be
found. The felicity appropriate to man is to be looked
for only in the satisfactions which are aimed at not
by a mere animal, but by an intelligent and rational
existence. Now, all intelligence seeks and finds its
happiness in the unimpeded energies of a life devoted
either to action or to contemplation. Human happi-
ness, therefore, consists in a wellbeing of the reason,
which finds scope for the unrestrained exercise of its
power in a life either of practical action, or of specu-
lative contemplation, both of which lives are states
both of wellbeing and of welldoing. In short, Aris-
totle keeps in view the two ends which I have set
forth as constituting the proper goal of all human
action, both the evirpa^ia and the evSaifAovia. We must
first of all live according to our true nature; we must
fulfil the proper law of our being. We must preserve
our status as rational beings, as manly characters;
and then, this being secured, we may draw as largely
as we can upon the sources of external happiness.ARISTOTLE.

417

54.	In going over the main points of Aristotle's
ethics, I have shown you what, according to him,
the ultimate end of human action is, and what the
means of its attainment are. We have seen, to state
the matter in very simple language, that human hap-
piness, or man's ultimate end, consists in living rea-
sonably in the best way possible, and that the best
way of living reasonably, is by subjugating our pas-
sions to reason. We have seen that this subjugation
is effected through custom, and that the custom here
practised is that which aims at the mean between
two extremes. We have also seen what the test is
by which a man may know whether he is truly
virtuous or not A man, according to Aristotle, may
perform virtuous actions without being himself vir-
tuous, because he may perform these occasionally, or
by fits and starts, without possessing that fixed habit
which alone constitutes virtue, in which case he is
not properly regarded as a virtuous character.

55.	I shall conclude this exposition with a few re-
marks quoted from Book x. of Aristotle's Ethics, in
which he shows that happiness is to be found rather
in a life of contemplation, than in a life of practical
activity.* He says—"Now if happiness be a work-
ing in the way of excellence, of course that excellence
must be the highest, that is to say, must be the excel-
lence of the best principle of our nature. Whether,
then, this best principle is intellect, or some other
* C. 7 and 8. Cited mainly from Chase's translation, p. 362 and foil.

2 D418

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

which is thought naturally to rule, and to lead, and
to conceive of noble and divine things; whether be-
ing in its own nature divine, or the most divine of
all our internal principles, the working of this prin-
ciple in accordance with its own proper excellence,
or the working of this principle in the best way
possible, must be the most perfect happiness.

"That this happiness is contemplative, has been
already said, and this would seem to be consistent
with truth, for this, in the first place, contemplative
working is of the highest kind, our intellect being
the highest of our internal principles; and the sub-
jects, moreover, with which it is conversant, are the
highest that fall within the range of our knowledge.

"Next, this happiness is also the most continuous,,
for we are better able to contemplate than to do any-
thing else whatever continuously.

" Again, pleasure must be in some way an ingre-
dient of happiness, but speculation, and the pursuit
of science, contain pleasures admirable for purity and
permanence.

" Self-sufficiency, too, will attach chiefly to the
activity of contemplation; for while all other men
require companionship and co-operation, the man of
pure science can contemplate and speculate even
when quite alone, and the more entirely he deserves
this appellation, the more able is he to do so ; it may
be he can do better for having fellow-workers, but
still he is certainly most self-sufficient.

" Again, contemplation alone seems to be desiredARISTOTLE.

419

for its own sake, and, therefore, is alone an end in
itself. Again, this life of contemplation seems to
constitute each man's proper self\ and being so, it
would be absurd for a man not to choose his own
life.

" Further, that the most perfect happiness must be
a kind of contemplative activity (decopia), may appear
also from the following consideration: our concep-
tion of the gods is, that they are, above all, blessed
and happy. Now, what kind of moral actions are we
to attribute to them ? Those of justice ? Nay, will
they not be set in a ridiculous light, if represented as
forming contrasts, and restoring deposits, and so on ?
Well, then, shall we picture them performing brave
actions, withstanding objects of fear, and meeting
dangers because it is noble to do so ? or liberal ones ?
but to whom shall they be giving ? In short, if one
followed this subject into all details, the circum-
stances connected with moral actions will appear
trivial and unworthy of the gods.

" Still every one believes that they live, and there-
fore that they work, because it is not supposed that
they sleep their time away like Endymion: now, if
from a living being you take away action, still more
if creation, what remains but contemplation ? So
then the working of the gods, eminent in blessedness,
will be one apt for contemplative speculation: and
of all human workings, that will have the greatest
capacity for happiness which is nearest akin to this."STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

1.	In the present lecture I propose to place before
you, as clearly as the lights which I have been able
to collect on the subject will enable me, the moral
philosophy of the Stoics.

2.	Zeno, the founder of the Stoical sect, was born
in the island of Cyprus. The dates of his birth and
death are uncertain. He is said to have been alive,
in an extreme old age, in the year 260 b.c., so that
we may assume 300 b.c., or thereabouts, as the period
when he flourished, or was in the active exercise of
his powers. The place in Athens where he harangued
his pupils was stoa, the porch; the Variegated Porch,
as it was called, from the paintings of Polygnotus
which adorned its walls, and which represented
the victories gained by the Athenians over the Per-
sians. From this meeting-place his adherents re-
ceived the name of Stoics; that is, the philosophers
of the porch. The successors of Zeno were Cleanthes
and Chrysippus, the latter of whom is mentioned by
Horace in the lines in which he gives the preferenceSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

421

to Homer as a teacher of moral wisdom over all
other instructors, saying of the great poet, the
"Trojani belli scriptorem," that he was a man

4 4 Qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid noil,
Planius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit."

3. Zeno the founder of the Stoical philosophy, is,
of course, not to be confounded with Zeno the phil-
osopher of the Eleatic school, of whom I have spoken
above (see p. 102). It has been said that while a
man's speculative opinions frequently depend on the
age in which he lives, and on the modes of thought
in the midst of which he has been brought up, his
ethical views, on the other hand, generally depend
more on his own natural temperament, or moral
idiosyncrasy, or worldly fortunes. Hence a biogra-
phical account of Zeno the founder of the Stoics, a
narrative of his life and fortunes, would probably
throw much light on the moral doctrines that he in-
culcated. Little more, however, is known of him
than this, that having been shipwrecked near Athens,
and thereby reduced to poverty, he was so much dis-
gusted by the loss of all his worldly substance that
he attached himself to the philosophy of the Cynics.
Zeno, however, we are told, was soon repelled by the
grossness of manners, the intellectual narrowness,
and incapacity of this sect, and established a school
for himself. He is said to have lived, partly perhaps
because he could not help it, upon a very spare diet,
consisting of figs, bread, and honey, and the severity422

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

of his life was reflected in the moral principles which
he promulgated; principles, however, which were not
without grandeur and truth, could we but get them
exhibited to us in a clear and systematic exposition.

4. So scattered and fragmentary are the notices of
the Stoical philosophy that have come down to us,
so declamatory and incoherent is every exposition of
their ethical opinions, that it is by no means easy to
give any account of their moral philosophy which
shall be either intelligible or interesting. The germ
of the Stoical morality seems to lie in some such pro-
position as this: All good, all happiness, all virtue,
consists in a conformity to law, just as all evil, all
misery, all vice, consists in lawlessness, in a repu-
diation or violation or defiance of law. Submission
to law, acquiescence in the established order of the
universe, this seems to be the principle, and, indeed,
the sum and substance, of their moral code. That
being, I think, the general root of their system, we
have now to consider the details into which it
branches. And I ask what is the law, a conformity
with which is equivalent to good, is equivalent to
happiness, is equivalent to virtue ? The answer, so
far as man is concerned, seems to be this: To be
virtuous and happy, man must conform first to the
law of his own nature; secondly, he must conform to
the law by which society is held together; thirdly,
he must conform to the law of Providence. A life
in conformity with these three laws, or rather threeSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

423

classes of laws, is, and must be, a life of virtue and
happiness. But here it has to be asked, By means of
what principle is man to find out these laws ? how is
he to discover what they are, and what they enjoin ?
By what principle is he to know when he is obeying
the laws of his own nature, and when he is violating
them ? By what principle is he to know when he is
obeying the laws of society, and when he is violating
them ? By what principle is he to know when he is
obeying the laws of God, and when he is violating
them ? He is enabled to know this, the Stoics say,
by the principle of reason; so that their general ethi-
cal doctrine, stated more explicitly, amounts to this,
" Man is happy and virtuous in proportion to the de-
gree in which, under the guidance and enlightenment
of reason and knowledge, he conforms or accommo-
dates himself, first, to the law of his own nature;
secondly, to the law of society ; thirdly, to the law of
Providence." The perfect man of the Stoics, their
completely wise man, is represented as living in strict
conformity with these laws. Under the guidance of
a perfect reason he yields an entire submission to the
law of his own being, he fulfils to the letter all that
his true nature enjoins. He yields an entire submis-
sion to the great laws by which society is held to-
gether and advanced; he yields an entire submission
to the will of his Creator, and acts in strict accord-
ance with the designs of an overruling and all-
governing Providence; and doing so, his happiness as
well as his virtue is supreme. But this picture is424

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

obviously ideal. Horace has ridiculed the wise and
perfect mail of the Stoics in these words:

" Sapiens uno minor est Jove ; dives,

Liber, honoratus, pulcher, rex denique reguiri,

Prsecipue sanus, nisi cum pituita molesta est."

—Ep. I. i. 106.

But Horace has here construed their abstract man
into the concrete. They do not affirm that their
pattern man ever existed on the earth; and-there-
fore, when Horace remarks that all the magnifi-
cent virtues and high-sounding pretensions of this
perfect sage are scattered to the winds by an attack
of phlegm, they might have retorted that they had
taken care never to place him in a situation where
there was any danger of his catching cold.

5. In regard to the first of the conformities now
spoken of, namely, the conformity with the law of
our own nature, I have just to remark that there is
a close consonance, indeed an absolute coincidence,
between this doctrine and that propounded by So-
crates, Plato, and Butler, in regard to the government
of the passions. Aristotle also teaches the same
doctrine. Both Plato and Aristotle set forth reason
as the born ruler of the passions. They hold that
the law of our nature is not conformed to, but is vio-
lated, when this relation is reversed, and when the
passions get the upper hand. Indeed, so universal is
this doctrine that it is promulgated in every system;
and, as we saw yesterday, Shakespeare, without anySTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

425

Greek, has got hold of it. When in the council
which is held by the mortal instruments, as he
denominates the passions, and the genius, as he
terms the higher principle of reason or conscience,
when in this council the mortal instruments prevail
over the genius, the state of man, like to a little king-
dom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection; in
other words, the law of our constitution is violated,
the man goes to wreck, crime and misery ensue.
The Stoical precept was, vivere convenienter naturae; in
Greek, 6fioXo<yovfjL6va)s rfj (frvaei, %r)v, which means, to
maintain the law of our being, live conformably to
that law. The meaning of which again is simply this,
that we must allow that relation of superiority and
inferiority to subsist which nature herself has estab-
lished among the different principles of our constitu-
tion, and that in doing so we shall attain to both
virtue and happiness. And this, as we have seen,
is no other than the foundation on which the whole
of Bishop Butler's ethical system reposes. It is un-
necessary for me, therefore, to enlarge further on the
submission which we must yield to the law of our
being if we would attain to virtue and happiness.

6. There is this, however, to be observed, that,
unlike Butler, the Stoics make self-love to be the
elementary principle of human action. This is a
natural principle which leads man, and indeed all
animated creatures, to adopt means by which their
own preservation and welfare may be secured. To426

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the operation of this principle their wellbeing has
been intrusted. Man, however, is endowed with
reason, and hence he is able to arrange in a scale,
according to their different degrees of eligibility,
as pointed out by reason, the natural good things
by which his wellbeing is promoted; and the first
steps which he takes towards a life of virtue and
happiness are to be found in the preference which
he gives to those things which, in the estimation of
reason, are the more eligible over those which are
the less eligible. These natural good things, and the
scale in which they stand, are described by Adam
Smith in his ' Theory of Moral Sentiments/ part vii.
sec. 2, chap. 1, p. 215, &c., ed. London, 1792.

7. In explanation of the second of the conformi-
ties spoken of in the ethical scheme of the Stoics, our
conformity, namely, to the law of society, a few words
have to be said. The law of society signifies simply
the means, whatever these may be, by which society
is best held together, and its general interests most
effectually promoted. Season and experience, that
is, either personal observation or knowledge gathered
from the history of mankind in the different eras of
civilisation, these are the guides which will point out
to us what the means are by which the good of
society may be promoted, and its interests advanced.
Hence it is incumbent on the wise man to listen to
reason and experience, and to adopt and use to the
utmost of his power whatever expedients these lightsSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

427

may reveal as conducive to the general good, taking
care, by the strict governance of his own passions, to
avoid all those excesses by which the social order is
violated, and the wellbeing of the state impaired.
Should, however, the constitution of society be such
that its amendment is hopeless, in that case it is the
duty of the wise man to adjust himself as well as
he can to the adverse circumstances in which he is
placed, to make the best of a bad position, and to
acquiesce in the arrangements by which he is envi-
roned, not doubting that Providence has some wise
end to fulfil in permitting the continuance of a state
of things so much at variance with the short-sighted
wisdom of man. For this, a resignation to the will
of the Supreme Euler of the universe, a bringing of
the human will into subjection to whatever He may
have ordained, this conformity with the divine law
is what the Stoics inculcate as the highest species of
virtue. So that, in laying down a conformity with
nature as the rule of life, and as the road to virtue
and happiness, the doctrine of the Stoics is, that the
wise man first conforms to his own nature, adjusts
himself in such a way as not to violate the economy
of his own constitution; secondly, he conforms to
the law of society, that is to say, he so adjusts him-
self to the world by which he is surrounded, as not
to violate by any passionate excess the fundamental
principles by which society is held together, and if
he cannot amend or improve this society, he at any
rate takes care not to make it worse than it is; and,428

GEEEK PHILOSOPHY.

lastly, lie seeks to conform himself to that sovereign
will, of which the whole constitution of the universe
is only the manifestation, and to fulfil and be in con-
sonance with which must therefore be the highest
virtue. Such is the threefold idea of that temper
of mind which constituted virtue, and to which the
Stoics conceived that it was possible for man not per-
haps to attain, but certainly to approximate. And
they argued that if this resigned and fortified dis-
position of the soul were attained, it could not be
destroyed nor impaired, nor could its happiness be
taken away by anything external to itself. No mis-
fortunes could shake the soul of their ideal sage, no
perturbations of passion could overthrow his reason.
Hence their doctrine that pain was no evil, and that
all calamities were indifferent. Their ideal wise man
carried his own happiness with him in the subjugation
of his passions, in his ceaseless endeavours to pro-
mote the welfare of others, in his perfect acquies-
cence in whatever fortune might have in store for
him, and in his thorough conviction that all things,
in the long-run, worked together for good.

8. The main and central idea of the moral phil-
osophy of the Stoics may be presented in this way.
The universe, they may be supposed to say—indeed
this is the very essence of their teaching—the uni-
verse is a vast machine pervaded by an almighty
reason, which directs all its ongoings. This great
spirit of reason permeates all things, giving law andSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

429

order to the parts and the whole. But man, too,
man, who is a part of this mighty machine, man,
too, is endowed with reason, and hence it is his busi-
ness also to diffuse law and order as far as his power
can reach; and this he does, or this at least he ought
to do, by striving to act in conformity with the laws
of his own being, with the laws by which social
order is preserved and promoted, and the laws by
which God's universe is regulated and maintained.
The individual man is thus like a small peg or pivot
in some gigantic machine, which small pivot has to
attend to and govern itself, first, in reference to its
own structure; secondly, in reference to the parts of
the machine with which it is more immediately in
contact; and, thirdly, in reference to the whole ma-
chine to which it belongs. When this is done, then,
and then only, does this small peg or pivot fulfil the
end for which it was designed by the creator of the
machine; and when man demeans himself in an
analogous manner, then, and then only, does he fulfil
the end for which he was designed by the great
Artificer of that mighty machine called the universe;
then, and only then, is his virtue perfect and his
happiness secured.

9. The exposition which I gave you yesterday of
the leading principles of the Stoical ethics, may en-
able you to understand those strong and somewhat
startling assertions which have been called by Cicero
and others the Paradoxes of the Stoics. It will be430

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

found that these assertions are the necessary con-
sequences of the premises from which they start;
that perhaps these paradoxes are not so paradoxical
after all; and that although they may appear at first
sight to revolt the common sense of mankind, they
are not altogether irreconcilable with reason and with
truth. Of these paradoxes it may be sufficient if I
make mention of three.

10. Among the paradoxes or lofty assertions of the
Stoics, there was one to the effect that nothing could
happen contrary to the will of the wise man. Now
that position, from what we know of their ideal wise
man, is perfectly intelligible, for the highest endea-
vour of the wise man is to conform himself to the
divine will; and therefore whatever he sees to be in-
evitable, that is, to be manifestly appointed by the
supreme wTill, becomes to him the object of his cheer-
ful acquiescence, or rather of his desire. Whatever
his reason told him was ordained by God, to that
his will conformed, because what he sought for and
desired above all things was the accomplishment of
the divine will. With this will his will worked in
accordance, and therefore, inasmuch as reason assured
him that nothing that happened happened contrary
to the will of God, but that everything took place in
accordance to that will; so nothing that happened
could happen contrary to the wise man's will, inas-
much as his will had been brought into conformity
with the will and designs of Omnipotence. TheSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

431

Stoics held that if the wise man, in endeavouring to
attain to perfect wisdom, that is, to make the divine
will habitually his own, permitted any opposition
to that will to exist within him, he acted absurdly.
Again compare Adam Smith, p. 221: "A wise man
never complains of the destiny of Providence and
fate." There is, then, nothing so very paradoxical in
the assertion that nothing can happen contrary to
the will of the wise man: Christianity proclaims the
same truth, and in terms equally emphatic.

11. Another paradox of the Stoics was that pain
is no evil. To suppose that in this assertion they
meant to maintain that pain is not painful, is not
disagreeable, is not to be avoided, would be to do
them grievous wrong. They merely meant to say
that natural or physical pain was not moral evil, that
calamity was not identical with wickedness, that
there was a difference between sin and suffering. To
the truly wise man of the Stoics there was no evil
except moral evil; that is, except vice; that is, again,
except some derangement either of a man's own sys-
tem, or of the universal system, brought about by his
own voluntary act. Pain might arise out of such
derangement, but this pain was not itself evil; the
evil lay in the derangement or rather in the volun-
tary act by which it had been brought about. The
pain was the effect of the evil, but was not itself the
evil: the evil was, as I have said, the derangement
and the act which produced it. Then, again, when432

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

pain or misfortune overtook a man, not through his
own misdeeds, but through the inscrutable decrees of
Providence, such pain was not to be regarded by the
wise man as evil, for to him there is no evil except
vice, no good except virtue. And it is obvious that
such pain or calamity is not in itself moral evil; it
is not wickedness, it is only distress, distress either
of body or of mind, and by the endurance and res-
ignation which it calls forth it may be the means of
eliciting the loftiest virtues of the soul.

12.	A third paradox of the Stoics is that they in-
culcated apathy, airaQeia, as the highest condition of
the wise and virtuous mind. This is a point of some
importance, for their doctrine of apathy (airaOeia) has
frequently been misunderstood. By apathy they are
frequently supposed to mean an entire deadening of
the affections, a total suppression or extirpation of
the passions; in short, a state of cold and heartless
insensibility. That some of the Stoics, both by their
theory and their practice, may have afforded grounds
for such an interpretation of their doctrine, is quite
possible. But it is still more certain that the Stoical
apathy admits of a very different interpretation, and
that no such paradoxical doctrine as that which is
here indicated was taught by the genuine philoso-
pher of that sect. Let us inquire, then, what the
Stoics meant by apathy.

13.	The Greek word 7rado<?, which is usually trans-STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

433

lated by the wordpassion, is always rendered by Cicero,
when speaking in the language of the Stoics, by the
term perticrbatio, or perturbation. In considering the
philosophy of the Stoics, the word iraQos should always
be held equivalent to perturbation. The definition,
indeed, of the term iraOo9, as given by the Stoics, was
op fir] 7fkeovaCpvaa, translated by Cicero cvppetitus vehe-
mentior. Ilddos means, not passion in a state of mode-
ration, but passion in a state of excess, a tendency or
motion of the soul which is excessive and beyond
bounds. This explanation of the word irddo? as a per-
turbation or state of mind which was always in ex-
cess, is confirmed by Stobseus, who, in his collection of
philosophical fragments, says that "Zeno does not
call a TraOo? something merely capable by nature to
pass into excess, but something actually in excess
already, or having its essence not in mere capacity,
but in actuality."—(Eel. Eth., p. 159.)

14.	Apathy therefore means, not an entire extinc-
tion of passion, but merely a liberation from immo-
derate and excessive passion. This being explained,
it follows that their wise man, the man of perfect
character, must of necessity be airaOi79, apathetic or
void of perturbation, not in the sense of being devoid
of all feeling, but in the sense of being free from
those disturbances which cloud the reason and per-
vert the judgment.

15.	That this was the sense in which the Stoics un-

2 E434

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

derstood the term apathy we have their authority for
saying, as given to us by Diogenes Laertius. He
says, "According to the Stoics, the wise man is
apathetic; that is, is free from perturbation, by being
superior to error or false judgment; not, as many
people (absurdly) interpret their statement, by being
superior to all sense, emotion, feeling, or affection.
The Stoics, indeed, have specially guarded themselves
against this misinterpretation of their doctrine."
" There is also," says Epictetus, one of the most dis-
tinguished writers, " there is also another sort of apa-
thetic man who is bad, who is the same in character
as the hard and inflexible." This, however, is not
the apathetic man of the Stoics. Epictetus goes on
to say, " I am not to be apathetic like a stone or a
statue; but I am withal to observe relations, both the
natural and adventitious, as the man of religion, as
the son, as the brother, as the father, and as the
citizen."—(Arr. Epict., 1. 3, c. 2, p. 359.)

16. In considering, then, this third paradox of the
Stoics, which represents a passionless or apathetic con-
dition as the highest virtue of the soul, we must re-
member that their apathy did not consist in insensi-
bility, or in a deadness of feeling; it did not consist in
an extinction or eradication of the passions. On the
contrary, in the character of their virtuous man they
included rational desire and aversion ; they included
love and parental affection, friendship, and a general
charity and benevolence to all mankind; they con-STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

435

sidered it as a duty arising out of our very nature
not to neglect the welfare of public society, but to be
ever ready, according to our station or capacity, to
act either the magistrate or the private citizen. Their
apathy was no more than a freedom from perturba-
tions, from irrational and excessive agitations of the
soul; it was an antagonism put forth against the
passions, not with a view of extinguishing them, but
merely of preventing them from running into excess;
and consequently that paradoxical apathy commonly
laid to their charge, and in the demolishing of which
so many imaginary triumphs have been achieved,
was an imaginary apathy for which they were in no
way accountable.

17. Epicurus, the founder of the Epicurean school
of philosophy, and from whose name the common
and somewhat opprobrious word epicure is derived,
was born in the island of Samos, in the year 342 B.C.
We may assume him to have been in his prime
about the year 300. He was thus contemporary
with Zeno, and the two schools of Stoicism and Epi-
curism arose and flourished simultaneously in ancient
Greece. Epicurus came to Athens when he was 18
years old. After residing here for a short time, and
studying probably under Xenocrates, who was then
at the head of the Platonic school of philosophy,
Epicurus went to Colophon, and afterwards to My-
tilene and Lampsacus, where he was engaged for five
years in studying and in teaching philosophy. In436

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the year 306 B.C., at the age of 35, he returned to
Athens, and established a philosophical school in
a garden which he had purchased near that city.
These gardens, the Krjiroi'EwtKovpov, have become as
famous as the aroa or porch of the Stoics, or as the
afcaSrjfjueia of Plato and his followers, or as the
Lyceum of Aristotle and the Peripatetics. In these
groves Epicurus spent the remainder of his life sur-
rounded by numerous friends and pupils. His mode
of life was simple and temperate, and the aspersions
of satirists, and the calumnies of those who describe
him as a man devoted to sensual pleasures, are
not entitled to the smallest degree of credit. How-
ever erroneous his doctrines may have been, and
whatever mischief they may have occasioned, the
character of the philosopher himself seems to have
been very unjustly impeached by the voice of slan-
der. He died in the year 270 B.C., at the age of 72,
after a painful and lingering illness, which he en-
dured with a philosophical fortitude which a Stoic
might have envied and admired, but which he could
not have surpassed.

18. In the present lecture I shall endeavour to
give you some account of the moral philosophy of
Epicurus, exhibiting his opinions rather as they
stand contrasted with those of the Stoics than as
they are in themselves, and irrespective of that con-
trast. The contrast which I propose to draw, and of
which I have already given you the outline, betweenSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

437

Stoicism and Epicurism, will perhaps bring out the
respective doctrines of these sects, or at least the
principles and scope of their systems, in a clearer
light than we could obtain if we studied them in
their isolation, and out of relation to each other.

19. As Zeno had adopted in part the doctrines of
a previous sect, the Cynics, so the ethical theory
of Epicurus and his followers was founded on the
principles of an antecedent sect called the Cyrenaics,
who held that pleasure is the summum bonum, the
end of all human endeavour. The lines of Horace
are well known, in which he represents himself as
an eclectic in moral philosophy.—Ep. I. i. 14.

" Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri,

Quo me cunque rapit terapestas deferor hospes :

Nunc agilis fio et mersor civilibus undis
Virtutis verse custos rigidusque satelles;

Nunc in Aristippi furtim prsecepta relabor
Et mihi res, non me rebus, subjungere conor."

Or, as it is in Pope's imitation—

" But ask not to what doctors I apply,

Sworn to no master, of no sect am I :

As drives the storm at any door I knock,

And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke ;
Sometimes a patriot, active in debate,

Mix with the world, and battle for the State.

Free as young Littleton her cause pursue,

Still true to virtue, and as warm as true ;

Sometimes with Aristippus or St Paul,

Indulge my candour, and grow all to all;

Back to my native moderation glide,

And win my way by yielding to the tide."

The last line of Horace seems to give expression438

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

rather to a Stoical than to an Epicurean principle.
It might mean, I endeavour to bend or subdue
things to myself rather than myself to things; I
endeavour to rise superior to circumstances, and
refuse to allow my happiness and peace of mind to
be dependent on the caprices of fortune. It might
mean that ; but that is a Stoical position, which
Horace in this line is very far from intending to ex-
press. The meaning, therefore, must be, I endeavour
to make outward things and events minister to my
pleasure and contentment. Instead of submitting to
be a mere tool in the hands of circumstances, I en-
deavour to take these circumstances into my own
hands, and to convert them into the instruments of
my happiness.

20. The radical difference between Stoicism and
Epicurism is one which has announced itself in meta-
physics no less than in morals, in speculative no less
than in practical philosophy. The distinction is ex-
pressed in the antithetical terms feeling and thought,
sensation and reason, sensualism and naturalism, pas-
sion and intellect; and when looked at from a moral
and religious point of view, in the antithesis of the
flesh and the spirit, carnal-mindedness and spiritual-
mindedness. All these expressions point to a dis-
tinction which has divided the world, and the adjust-
ment and explanation of which has occupied the
attention of philosophers, both speculative and prac-
tical, from the earliest times.STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

439

21.	Stoicism and Epicurism have their roots in
this distinction, and are to be regarded merely as a
new and marked form in which the distinction was
propounded and enforced. The Stoic assigns pre-
eminence to thought, reason, the spirit. The Epicu-
rean gives the chief place to feeling, sensation, the
flesh. When Stoicism is carried to excess, it leads
to pride, and asceticism, and pharisaism. When
Epicurism is carried to excess, it degenerates into
effeminacy and carnality.

22.	But we should form a very erroneous estimate
of these two schemes if we looked at them merely in
their excess. Pride and austerity are the abuses of
Stoicism. Effeminacy and sensuality are the vices
of Epicurism. By looking to these abuses we cer-
tainly obtain some notion of the tendencies of these
systems, but we gain no insight into their true prin-
ciples and essential characteristics.

23.	To form a correct estimate, then, of Stoicism
and Epicurism we must study them, not as they
appear when carried to an extreme, but as they de-
velop themselves when inculcated with propriety and
moderation. Let us ask, first of all, in what respect
they agree ? They agree in holding that happiness,
of one kind or another, is the great end of man. With
both of them happiness or satisfaction is the swmmum
bonum. They further agree in holding that a life ac-
cording to nature is the means, and the only means,440

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

by which happiness, the summum bonum, may be
attained. They further agree in holding that a life
according to nature is a life of virtue. It is a life of
virtue, of rectitude, because it is the right way lead-
ing to the true end of man, viz., to felicity. Nature
has fixed happiness as the end of man; a life, there-
fore, according to nature must lead to this end; and
a life according to nature must be a virtuous, that is,
a rightly directed life, because it leads to this end.
The points of agreement, then, are these: 1st, The
end of man is happiness; 2dly, The mean to this
end is the life according to nature; 3dly, The life
according to nature is virtue, and is right, because it
leads us right to the end for which we were destined
by nature, viz., happiness. On the other hand, the
life adverse to nature is vicious, because it leads us
away from our proper destination, and causes us to
miss the end for which we were created.

24. These being the chief points of agreement be-
tween the Stoics and the Epicureans, we have now to
consider wherein it is that they differ. They differ
in their opinions concerning happiness, and concern-
ing the nature of man, and also concerning the char-
acter of virtue; and these are very important points
in which to differ. Agreeing that happiness is the
end, that the life of nature is the means, and that
the life of nature and the life of virtue are coinci-
dent or identical, they by no means agree in regard
to what happiness is, or in regard to what man'sSTOICS AND EPICUKEANS.

441

nature is, nor in regard to what man's virtue is. All,
or nearly all, moralists agree in holding that happi-
ness is, in some sense, the end of man; that the life
of nature and of virtue are the means to this end.
The question on which much difference of opinion
has prevailed is, What is this happiness which we
admit to be the end of man ? What is this natural
and virtuous life which we admit to be the means to
this end ? It is a question, not about the that, but
about the vjhat. On this question moralists have
differed widely, and among them the Stoics and the
Epicureans have more particularly differed.

25. We ask, then, in what respect do the Stoics
and the Epicureans differ in their doctrines respect-
ing happiness, and nature, and virtue ? We shall
ascertain the fundamental point of disagreement be-
tween them if we revert to the distinction referred
to a short way back, the distinction between feel-
ing and thought, sensation and reason, the flesh and
the spirit, or, if you choose so to express it, the body
and the soul. When a man says, as all men do, that
happiness is the chief end of man, does he mean that
man's chief end is the happiness of the feelings, the
happiness of sensation, the satisfaction of the passions,
of the flesh, of the body ? or does he mean that man's
chief end is the happiness of thought, of reason, of
the spirit, of the soul ? The latter should be rather
called the perfecting, than the happiness, of his na-
ture ; but let us call it happiness at present. You442

GKEEK PHILOSOPHY.

will observe that different kinds of happiness (or at
least a happiness of which the ingredients are com-
bined in different proportions) will be indicated ac-
cording to the answers we return to this question.
Again, does the nature of man consist in feeling, in
sensation, in the passions, in the flesh ? or does it con-
sist in thought, in reason, in intellect, in the spirit ?
According as this question is answered, the nature of
man will be differently understood and interpreted,
and a life conformable to nature will mean two dif-
ferent things according as the question is answered
in the one way or in the other. Again, when we say
that the virtuous life is coincident or identical with
the natural life, do we mean that it is coincident
with the life according to feeling, to sensation, to the
flesh ? or do we mean that the virtuous life is iden-
tical with the life according to thought, to reason, to
the spirit ? And here, too, according as this question
is answered do we obtain different conceptions in re-
gard to the character and nature of virtue.

26. Now we shall obtain a broad, and general, and
fundamental conception of the distinctive character-
istics of Stoicism and Epicurism, if we regard them
as taking up these questions and answering them in
opposite ways. According to Stoicism, it is the hap-
piness of thought, of reason, the satisfaction of the
spirit, which is the great end of man. According to
Epicurism, it is the happiness of the feelings, of sen-
sation, of the flesh, which is the great end of man.STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

443

This at least is the indispensable condition or ground-
work of happiness. According to Stoicism, man's
proper nature is thought, reason, the spirit, and a life
conformable to what these prescribe is a life of na-
ture and of virtue. According to Epicurism, man's
proper nature is feeling, sensation, the flesh; and a
life conformable to these, not recklessly, but pru-
dently conformable to these, is a life of nature.
Again, according to Stoicism, the virtuous life is coin-

O '	O	*

cident with the natural life when it is identical with
the life according to thought, to reason, and to the
spirit; while, according to Epicurism, the virtuous
life is coincident with the natural life when it is in
prudent and properly regulated conformity with feel-
ing, sensation, and the flesh. Thus Stoicism incul-
cates that rational happiness, the happiness of rea-
son, spiritual felicity, is the great end of man; their
happiness is, perfection; that the life of reason, the
life according to the spirit, being the life of nature,
is the means to this end, and that the rational life is
the virtuous life. On the other hand, Epicurism in-
culcates that sensational happiness, the happiness of
the feelings, the satisfaction of the passions, bodily
felicity, is the great end of man; that the life of
agreeable sensations being the life according to na-
ture, is the means by which this end is attained; and
that thus the life of prudent pleasure is the virtuous
life. The whole difference between them thus hinges
ultimately upon the distinction between thought and
feeling, reason and sensation, the spirit and the flesh.444

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

On the ground of this distinction they may be under-
stood to take up opposite positions, the one party
founding their system on what they conceive to be
the superior claims of the soul, and the other party
founding their scheme on what they hold to be the
more stringent demands of the body.

27. Assuming happiness to be in both cases the
goal, we perceive that the happiness which the Stoics
represent as the end at which man should aim, is very
different from the felicity which the Epicureans pro-
pose as his aim. The Stoical happiness is a perfec-
tion of the mind in which we rise above the thral-
dom of the passions. It is an inner life in which we
are conscious of our intellectual freedom and inde-
pendency. It is a victorious antagonism exerted
against sensation, passion, and desire; and in this
victory our true being is realised. And thus our
wellbeing consists, not in the gratification of our
natural impulses, but in the limits which, by an act
of freedom and of will, we impose on these impulses,
a limit which prevents them from monopolising us
completely, and which affords room for our free
personality to be developed and to work along with
them. It is not in the passion, or in its indulgence,
that our happiness and perfection consist: it is in
the limit, the check, which, in our very character
as rational and conscious beings, we impose upon
the passion: it is in this that our true wellbeing
is to be looked for. Epicurism, on the other hand,STOICS AND EPICUREANS.

445

makes our happiness to centre, not in the check
which the passion receives, but in the passion itself
which is checked. Epicurism admits that our pas-
sions must be restrained, restrained on account of
prudential considerations, or because their over-
indulgence would entail on us a balance of lasting
misery greater than the transient happiness which
that over-indulgence had bestowed. Both systems
agree in holding that the passions must be held in
check and prevented from running into excess. But
they differ in this respect in their doctrines concern-
ing happiness. It is in virtue of the check, says the
Stoic, that man attains to felicity. The limit is the
essential constituent in man's wellbeing. The passion
itself is the accidental, the non-essential. The limit
is the important factor. The passion itself and its
indulgence are insignificant. In other words, man's
happiness is composed of two elements: a desire or
impulse, and a limit or boundary to that impulse.
I maintain, says the Stoic, that the limit, and not
the impulse, is the primary constituent, is the more
important element of the two. On the other hand,
the Epicurean argues that the passion, desire, or
impulse, and not the limit, is the fundamental
and essential constituent. This is the primary
element; the check which the impulse receives is
accidental, and non-essential to the constitution of
our happiness. It is due entirely to prudential con-
siderations, and is not involved, as the Stoics main-
tain, in the very conception of rational happiness and446

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

perfection. By keeping in mind these two factors,
the limit and the passion, as the constituents of hap-
piness, and by considering that the Stoics make the
former, and the Epicureans the latter, to be the
essential ingredient, you will obtain, I think, a suffi-
ciently clear conception of their respective doctrines
in regard to happiness. This view at least seems to
me to lay open the fundamental difference of the two
doctrines.

28.	To illustrate this difference, you may suppose
a dispute to arise as to whether the matter or the form
of a statue be the more essential of the two in the
composition of the statue. One man might argue
that the matter, the marble, was the essential and
primary element; that the form, the limit, was the
secondary and accidental factor. Another man might
argue that the form, the limiting outline, was the
essential, and that the matter, the marble, was the
non-essential, element. So in regard to happiness.
Is it the matter, the passions and their indulgence,
is it this that makes us happy ? or do we owe our
happiness to the form, the limit, the restraint by
which our passions are controlled ? Epicurism con-
tends for the first of these positions, Stoicism argues
in favour of the second.

29.	I cannot but think that the Stoical doctrine
has here a great advantage over the Epicurean, in
being founded on a deeper and truer insight into theSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

447

constitution of human nature. At first sight the
Epicurean opinion seems more consonant with our
customary convictions. It seems more agreeable to
truth and to common-sense to say that our happiness
arises out of the gratification of our desires them-
selves, and depends on our sensations themselves,
than to say that it is caused, not by desire or passion
itself, but by the limitation of passion and de-
sire. It seems somewhat paradoxical to affirm that
it is because both passion and pleasure are bounded,
and not because they are either passion or pleasure,
that they conduce to happiness. Nevertheless, para-
doxical as this position may seem, and however much
it may be at variance with our ordinary habits of
thought, it is, I believe, profoundly and philosophi-
cally true, and it receives ample confirmation from
the facts of our constitution, when these are properly
examined and understood. This in particular must
be borne in mind, that our very existence as self-
conscious and rational beings is brought about by
that act of free activity which limits our natural
passions and prevents them from monopolising us
completely, and to the exclusion, we may say, of
our proper selves. Therefore our happiness de-
pends on this limitation, inasmuch as our very
rational existence depends upon it.

30. This Stoical doctrine, that it is not passion
which is essentially good, or its indulgence which is
essentially conducive to our wellbeing, but that it is448

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

the limit which is essentially good, the check which
the passion receives that is essentially conducive to
wellbeing, this doctrine is, I think, merely another
form of Aristotle's doctrine of the fieaorrj^, or the
mean. Virtue, according to Aristotle, is a mean be-
tween two extremes, both of which are vices, or at
least irregularities; in other words, impose a limit on
a vice, and you produce a virtue; set bounds to rash-
ness, or set bounds to cowardice, and in either case
you produce courage. In the same way, all our pas-
sions and pleasures are in themselves irregular and
boundless ; they are in themselves without form and
without law; they stretch into the chaotic, the infi-
nite, the evil. Impose upon them a law and a limit,
and out of the two, out of the passion and the limit,
you create a virtue. Virtue is thus generated, not
out of the passion itself, but out of the law or limit
which holds it in check. Happiness, too, our proper
happiness as rational beings, is also generated, not
out of the pleasure which accompanies the indul-
gence of our passions, but out of the limit which pre-
vents that pleasure from being carried too far. The
essence, then, of virtue and of happiness is to be
placed, not in passion or in pleasure itself, but in the
limiting act by which passion is subjugated, and by
which pleasure is moderated and restrained.

31. I have said, in the conclusion of my last lec-
ture, that our happiness might be regarded as made
up of two elements, the operation of our passions andSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

449

desires, or natural impulses, on the one hand, and a
limit, or check, or measure imposed on that opera-
tion, on the other hand. The passion without the
limit is lawless and unbounded; viewed in itself, or
per se, it is to be regarded as a form of insanity, and
as not conducive to felicity. Again, the limit with-
out the passion is empty and unsubstantial; viewed
per se, it is a form without any contents, just as the
passion per se is contents without any form: each,
therefore, is required in order to supplement the
other. The question is, which is the more essential
element of the two in the formation of our wellbeing ?
The Stoics, as I understand them, maintain the limit
is the essential element, and that the passion itself is
the accidental constituent, just as we might suppose
a person to hold that the beauty of a statue was
essentially due to the form, and not to the matter of
which it was composed; while the Epicureans, on
the contrary, maintain that the passion is the essen-
tial element, and that the limit is the accidental con-
stituent, just as we may suppose another person to
maintain that the beauty of a statue essentially de-
pends, not on the form, but on the matter of which
it is composed.

32. This difference of opinion in.regard to the
constitution of happiness or wellbeing—a difference
of opinion which goes to this extent, that the Stoic
regards as essential what the Epicurean regards as
accidental, while, conversely, the Epicurean regards as

2 F450

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

essential what the Stoic regards as accidental—this
difference of opinion in regard to happiness is founded
on a difference of opinion in regard to the nature of
man, and it leads at once to a difference of opinion
in regard to virtue and in regard to the practical con-
duct of life. Let me speak of these in their order;
and, first, in regard to the difference of opinion be-
tween the Stoics and the Epicureans as to the nature
of man, and as to the life which is conformable to
that nature.

33.	According to the Epicureans, the essential
staple of man's nature consists of sensations, appe-
tites, passions, and desires. These constitute man's
proper nature. They do not deny that thought and
reason are also a part of man's nature, but these they
regard as accidental and secondary; and accordingly
a life prudently conformable to these impulses is a
life of nature. It is a life according to nature, be-
cause it is a life which leads to the end for which
nature designed us, to that happiness, namely, which
springs from a prudent indulgence in the passions.

34.	On the other hand, according to the Stoics,
the essential staple of man's nature consists, not of
his sensations, appetites, passions, and desires, but of
thought and reason; in other words, of the limits by
which these are held in check. It is the limit, and
not the passion, which constitutes man's proper and
peculiar nature; and accordingly a life conformable,STOICS AND EPICUKEANS.

451

not to the impulses which urge us on, but rather to
the restraints which hold us back, a life conformable,
not to the driving principle, but to the controlling
principle, of our constitution, is the life of nature.
It is a life according to nature, because it is a life
which leads to the end for which nature designed
us, to that happiness, namely, which springs from a
limitation and subjugation of the passions.

35.	Such, then, in a very few words, seems to be
the leading difference of opinion between the Stoics
and Epicureans as to the nature of man, and as to
the life which is conformable to that nature. This
difference turns on the same principle as that on
which their difference of opinion as to man's happi-
ness hinges. The one party regards as essential what
the other party regards as accidental, and conversely.
Just as the Epicurean holds that the passion and not
the limit is the essential element in the constitution
of man's happiness, so he holds that the passion and
not the limit is the essential element in man's nature,
and in the life which is in conformity with that nature;
and again, just as the Stoic holds that the limit and
not the passion is the essential element in the consti-
tution of man's happiness, so he holds that the limit
and not the passion is the essential element in man's
nature, and in the life which is conformable thereto.

36.	In the next place, the Stoics and the Epi-
cureans differ in their opinions as to virtue, and as452

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

to the practical rule of life; and this difference turns,
as before, on the same principle as that on which
their difference of opinion as to man's happiness, and
as to man's nature, hinges. In their estimate of vir-
tue, and in laying down the practical rule of life, the
one party regards as essential what the other re-
gards as accidental, and conversely. According to
the Epicureans, virtue consists in an indulgence of
the passions in so far as prudence permits ; and their
rule of life would be, Indulge the passions, but from
motives of prudence indulge them only in modera-
tion. Here a yielding to the passions is inculcated
as the essential and primary circumstance in the
practice of virtue. The limit, the resistance, to the
passion is set forth as the accidental and secondary
circumstance. According to the Stoics, on the other
hand, virtue consists in a limitation or subjugation
of the passions, in so far as our nature allows; and
their rule of life would be, Eestrain or moderate the
passions, but on prudential grounds (the wiser among
them may be supposed to say)—on prudential grounds,
do not carry this restraint too far. Do not carry it
so far as to extinguish or eradicate the passions alto-
gether. Here the subjugation of the passion is set
forth as the primary and essential circumstance in the
practice of virtue, while the indulgence of the passion
is set forth as the secondary and non-essential circum-
stance. The Epicurean, regarding the passion and
not the restraint as the essential in the practice of
virtue, lays the emphasis on the indulgence, and maySTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

453

be supposed to say, Indulge the passions, subject to
certain limitations. The Stoic, again, who regards
the restraint and not the passion as the essential in
the practice of virtue, lays the emphasis on the re-
straint, and may be supposed to say, Restrain the pas-
sions, subject to certain indulgences. In the latter
case restraint is laid down as the rule and indulgence
as the exception; in the former case indulgence is
laid down as the rule and restraint as the exception.

37. Taking this view of the fundamental charac-
teristics by which Stoicism and Epicurism are dis-
tinguished from each other, we may easily understand
how liable either system is to be driven to an ex-
treme. Although the two systems are founded on
very different principles, and arise out of estimates
of human nature essentially distinct, inasmuch as
the one makes man's true nature to centre in the
spirit and the reason, and the other in the flesh and
the passions, they have, nevertheless, much in com-
mon, in so far as their practical instructions are con-
cerned. They both lead to the same result in incul-
cating, as they both do, the government and subor-
dination of the passions. At the same time, from
the explanations given—explanations, you will bear
in mind, which turn on the one party regarding as
unessential what the other party regards as essential
—from these explanations you may, as I have said,
readily understand how susceptible either system is
of being pushed to an extreme. Let the accidental454

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

in either case be regarded as of no account, or as a
thing to be got entirely rid of, and let the essential
be made all in all, and you have either system, as the
case may be, developed in its most extreme form.
Let the Stoic insist, not mainly but exclusively, on
the limit, the restraint, as that which should be
encouraged and enforced, and you obtain a system of
thoroughgoing asceticism, a system of penance and
mortification of the flesh. This is the extreme into
which Stoicism has run in the fastings and vigils
and other austere practices of certain religious
bodies. This is the form in which it has shown
itself among certain orders of Roman Catholic
monks, and also to some extent among the Pro-
testant Puritans of our own country. In these
bodies we frequently see Stoicism carried to an
excess, because they have made the essential to be
all in all, and have allowed no influence whatever to
the accidental. The passions are extinguished, and
the limits are set up to rule and to reign alone. On
the other hand, let the Epicurean insist, not mainly
but exclusively, on the passions as that which should
be indulged in, and you obtain a system of thorough-
going sensuality. This is the extreme into which
Epicurism has run in many a profligate period of
the world's history. Here, too, Epicurism has run
into excess, because it has made what it regards as
the essential to be all in all, and has allowed no
influence whatever to what it regards as the acci-
dental. As in extreme Stoicism the limit absorbsSTOICS AND EPICUREANS.

455

and annihilates the passion, so in extreme Epicurism
the passion swallows up and destroys the limit. The
restraints are extinguished, and the passions are set
up to rule and to reign alone.

38. It might now be shown, in conclusion, from a
survey of the human constitution, that the Stoics
are more in the right than the Epicureans; that the
facts of our nature, when rightly investigated and
understood, bear out the Stoical doctrines to a much
greater extent than they do those of the Epicureans.
A careful examination of our nature shows us that
there is a vital and radical antagonism between our
sensations, passions, and desires on the one hand,
and our reason and power of thought on the other ;
our power of thought as shown more particularly in
that act through which our personality and self-con-
sciousness are realised. This antagonism shows that
our sensations, passions, and desires, so far from con-
stituting our true and essential nature, do rather, on
the contrary, tend to prevent that true nature from
being realised; while that true nature, our will and
personality, in actualising itself, displaces to some
extent our sensations, passions, and desires, and
abridges their influence, which would otherwise be
overwhelming. But I have already said enough on
these points, and I think that by means of your own
reflections you may be able to work out more fully
for yourselves the views which I have been engaged
in laying before you.THE SUCCESSORS OF PLATO AND ARISTOTLE,
ZENO AND EPICURUS.

1. After the deaths of Plato and Aristotle, of Zeno
and Epicurus, the schools founded by these philoso-
phers continued to be known as the Academic, the
Peripatetic, the Stoic, and the Epicurean. These
schools, of which the Academic and the Peripatetic
preceded the other two by some forty or fifty years,
existed in a state of greater or of less animation
until the very close of the Greek philosophy. But
the period when they principally flourished was in
the interval between their birth, say, in round num-
bers, about 300 years b.c. or somewhat earlier, and
the rise of the Alexandrian or Neoplatonic philoso-
phy about 200 years after Christ, an interval of
about 500 years. During this protracted period,
philosophy, although illustrated by some eminent
writers, exhibited no very great accession of ori-
ginality, and put forth few evidences of power.
Athens continued to be the headquarters of the
schools I have enumerated. But, by degrees, a more
general diffusion of philosophical opinions took place.LATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

457

About the year 146 B.C., Greece was reduced to the
condition of a Eoman province. And then the
arms of Eome, we may say, began to be inter-
changed for the arts of Athens. Philosophy now
migrated for the first time to the Eternal City.

2. Pansetius, who was born at Ehodes, was the
philosopher who indoctrinated the Romans with the
principles of Stoicism. At this time (that is, about
145 or 150 B.C.) the Eepublic was in its most flour-
ishing condition. It was the era of the third Punic
war. The arms of Eome were everywhere victorious;
and the rudeness of her primitive manners had begun
to be tempered by more polished-tastes. Literature
had sprung up in the poetry of Ennius and Lucilius,
and in the plays of Plautus and Terence, the latter
of whom was but recently dead. Scipio Africanus
the younger, the conqueror of Carthage, and Laelius,
whom Cicero has immortalised in his treatise 'De
Senectute,' were warm patrons of philosophy and all
liberal accomplishments. Under the auspices of
these illustrious men, with whom he lived on terms
of intimate friendship, Pansetius introduced Stoicism
to the Eomans. This happened, as I said, about 145
B.C. The antiphilosophical party, with Cato at their
head, protested in vain against the importation of
Greek philosophy. Fostered by the great names of
Scipio and Lselius, the doctrines of Panaetius took
root and flourished. His Stoicism was of a modified
and moderate character. He avoided the extreme458

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

opinions of the early Stoics. He softened their sever-
ity and harshness; he abjured their "insensibility
and apathy " (Aulus Gellius, 12, 5), and skilfully in-
corporated with their doctrines many of the opinions
of Plato, Aristotle, Xenocrates, and Theophrastus.
In opposition to the credulity of most of his sect, he
scouted the predictions of astrologers, and exercised
in everything a sound judgment, no less than an
eloquence, which fitted him to recommend the doc-
trines he professed to so practical a people as the
Eomans. This philosophy was, in itself, peculiarly
adapted to their genius, whether in their greatness
or in their decline. In the palmy days of the Be-
public, it animated them with the fortitude of power ;
in the tragic gloom and sinking fortunes of the
Empire, it upheld them with the fortitude of despair.
It is with the spring-time of Eoman Stoicism that
the name of Pansetius is associated. None of his
writings have come down to us; but how highly
they were esteemed in their day is proved by the
fact that so great a writer as Cicero thought it not
beneath him to copy his own treatise,'De Officiis,'
from one of the works of Pansetius. Panaetius died
at Athens about 112 B.C.

3. Cicero, as indicated in the last sentence, was an
admirer and expounder of the doctrines of the Stoics.
He was, at the same time, an adherent of the Aca-
demical philosophy, a philosophy which inculcated
the necessity of great caution, not to say scepticism,LATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

459

in the deliverance of scientific judgments. The
fame of Cicero as an orator and statesman has over-
shadowed his reputation as a philosopher. In phil-
osophy, indeed, he has no pretensions to originality:
he was rather an amateur than one of the regular
and professional fraternity. Yet his philosophical
writings are able and eloquent digests of the opinions
of preceding philosophers, and are well worthy of our
study. His dialogues,4 De Amicitia' and ' De Senec-
tute,' have a deep ethical interest, and have besides
" a fine mellow tone of colouring, which sets them,
perhaps, above all his other works in point of origi-
nality and beauty." Cicero was born 106 B.C., and
died, or rather was murdered, 43 B.C., during the
troubled times of the triumvirate between Augustus,
Antony, and Lepidus. In regard to the Epicurean
philosophy, its tenets were adopted and its praises
sounded by the Roman poet Lucretius (b. 95 B.C.,
d. 51 B.C.) And no doubt many of the luxurious
Romans adopted the creed of Epicurus.

4. At a somewhat later period Stoicism was upheld
at Eome by the example and writings of Seneca, one
of the most distinguished adherents of whom this
sect can boast. Seneca was a person of some import-
ance as the tutor of Nero, and his history is con-
nected with the dark reign of that hideous tyrant.
He was falsely charged with being privy to the con-
spiracy of Piso, and the emperor's commands were
conveyed to him, signifying that he must prepare for460

greek philosophy.

death. He heard his doom unmoved, and his bearing
showed that he could practise, as well as preach, the
principles of an exalted Stoicism. His veins were
opened, and he expired in a warm bath, endeavour-
ing, as his life ebbed away, to assuage by his exhorta-
tions the sorrow of his surrounding friends, and to
confirm their virtue by his example. He died a.d.
65.—(Tacit. Annal., xv. 62.)

5. In regard to the character of Seneca opinions
have been divided. By some he has been represented
as vain and avaricious, as a time-server and a hypo-
crite. It is truer, as well as more charitable, to sup-
pose that his faults were incident to his situation
rather than indigenous to himself; that in circum-
stances the most inimical to virtue he preserved his
virtue, if not spotless, still tolerably entire; and that,
true to the principles of his philosophy, he succeeded
in making the best of a very bad position. Stoicism,
as expounded by Seneca, and as practised by him
and other noble Romans, was the one redeeming
feature in this, the worst of times. It inculcated a
reliance on the wisdom, and an acquiescence in the
decrees, of Providence; and at a time when the lives,
the liberties, and the possessions of men were in the
highest degree unstable and precarious, when the
whole Roman Empire was broken-hearted and in
despair, it taught that to overcome the fear of death
was to stand superior to every earthly calamity; and
that to be conscious of an inner and spiritual free-LATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

461

dom as the true life of the soul, and as a possession
which the power of the imperial tyrant and his
minions could never reach, was to enjoy a peace
which the world could neither give nor take away.
Such is the purport of the philosophy which Seneca
enforces, often with eloquence and solemnity, although
his style is generally deficient in natural grace, and
somewhat too antithetical. The work in modern
times which most closely resembles the writings of
Seneca, both in thought and in expression, is Young's
4 Night Thoughts.'

6. Having made these slight observations on the in-
fluence of Epicurism and Stoicism among the Romans,
I must now say a few words in regard to the fol-
lowers of Plato and Aristotle, the frequenters of the
Academy and the Lyceum. Of Plato's immediate
successors, Speusippus, Xenocrates, and Polemon, I
have already spoken. These, with their master, may
be reckoned as constituting what is called the old
Academy. They were succeeded by what is called
the second or middle Academy, the founder of which
was Arcesilaus, who lived from about 318 to 250 B.C.
The Academy was again renovated by Carneades, who
lived from about 213 to 129 B.C. So that the phil-
osophical school called the Academy comes before us
under three modifications. First, the old Academy;
secondly, the middle Academy; and, thirdly, the new
Academy. In regard to their differences of doctrine, it
may be sufficient to remark, that the second Academy462

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

was more sceptical than the first, and that the third
seems to have been more sceptical than the second.
Of the Peripatetics or disciples of Aristotle I shall
merely signalise his immediate successor, Theophras-
tus, who ably expounded the opinions of his master.
Some of his writings have come down to us, but they
relate principally to physics. Among them, however,
is a small work of more general interest, entitled
' Ethical Characters.' It contains many vivid but
coarsely-painted portraits, and presents curious illus-
trations of the manners of the time.

7.	Contemporary with these four sects there was
a fifth, of which some mention must now be made.
This was the Sceptical school of philosophy. The
founder of this sect was Pyrrho, a native of Elis in
the Peloponnesus. When he was born is uncertain,
but as he is said to have accompanied the expedition
of Alexander the Great into India, it is probable that
his birth took place near the middle of the fourth
century, B.C., and that he flourished about 300 B.C.
Pyrrho, as the founder of the Sceptics, was thus con-
temporary, or nearly so, with Zeno and Epicurus, and
but little later than the early Academics and Peripa-
tetics. We may regard the five schools as existing
simultaneously.

8.	Pyrrho left no writings behind him, at least
none that have come down to our times. Indeed, if
we except a few incidental notices which occur in theLATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

463

writings of Cicero, the only record of the Sceptical
opinions which we possess is the work of Sextus
Empiricus, a physician who lived in the first half of
the third century of the Christian era, that is to
say, several centuries after Pyrrho and his followers.
Sextus, however, must have had access to sufficient
sources of information, for his compilation is ample,
and appears to give a faithful and authentic expres-
sion to the opinions which it registers. It is an
immense repository of doubts. Part of the work is
entitled 4 Outlines of Pyrrhonism, or Sceptical Com-
mentaries.' The other part is entitled 4 Disputations
against the Mathematicians.' It is an attack on all
positive or dogmatic philosophy. Sextus was him-
self an advocate of the opinions which he recorded.

9. The principle on which the Pyrrhonic Scepti-
cism, as expounded by Sextus, is founded, is the
relativity of all knowledge, feeling, and sensation,
the relativity of all truth, sensible, moral, and intel-
lectual. Scepticism is in fact merely a more fully
developed, more systematic, and more thoroughgoing
Sophistic. Substantially the Sceptics added but little
to the maxim which expresses the relativity of all
human cognition, that man is the measure of the
universe; but they carried out this maxim into a
multiplicity of directions and details, and enforced it
with abundant and superabundant illustrations. They
dwelt more than the Sophists had done on the uncer-
tainty and utter ignorance as to objective and inde-464

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

pendent truth under which we labour, in consequence
of the relative character df all our sensible, intellec-
tual, and moral impressions. It was rather to mag-
nify the power and supremacy of man that the
Sophists, or some of them at least, represented him
as the measure of the universe; it was rather to con-
vict him of an ignorance altogether irremediable, and
to prove that he was utterly incompetent to attain to
any degree of objective certainty and truth, that the
Sceptics represented him in the same light.

10. Stated plainly, the question which Pyrrho, or
we may say the Sceptic generally, raises is this: Are
our faculties competent to give us any certain infor-
mation as to what anything is in itself \ and out of its
relation to us ? And the answer is, that our faculties
are not competent. They can only declare what a
thing is in relation to themselves. And further, our
faculties do so alter and modify things in conformity
with their own structure, that it is impossible for us
to know them as they are in themselves. Hence real
and objective truth is placed altogether beyond our
reach. We can be certain of the phenomenon, we
can be certain that the appearance is as it appears,
but we can have no certainty as to the voovfjuevov or
transcendental something which lies at the back of
the phenomenon. We cannot know what this is in
itself. For instance, when I look at a laurel leaf, I
am certain that I see what I see—viz., a smooth and
shining surface. No Sceptic ever doubted that. ILATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

465

certainly see a smooth and shining surface, but is this
leaf in itself a smooth and shining surface ? Most
probably it is not, indeed we may say with certainty
it is not; because, alter the structure of my eyes, or
place the leaf under a powerful magnifier, and it will
become rough and dull. Is it then rough and dull
in itself? Not one whit more than it was smooth
and shining. Its dulness and roughness are just as
phenomenal as its shining and smoothness, because
to a differently constituted eye it would present an
appearance quite different from either of the other
two. And this new appearance would, of course, not
bring us one whit nearer to what the leaf was in it-
self All that sentient beings can be certain of, is
the appearance which the leaf presents to them: in
short, all that we can be certain of is, what it is in
relation to us, not what it is in itself; that is to say,
not what it is verily and in truth.

11. The Sceptics may be supposed to put their case
in this way: Nothing is hot in itself \ because, what
one being regards as hot, another being regards,
or may regard, as cold. Nothing is cold in itself,
because, what one being regards as cold, another re-
gards, or may regard, as hot. Nothing is green or
blue in itself \ because, to a retina of a different de-
gree of susceptibility, the green would not be green,
but some other colour; and the blue would not be
blue, but some other colour. Again, nothing is large
in itself because, what a small being thinks large, a

2 G466

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

being of much greater dimensions would regard as
small. Nor is anything small in itself \ because, what
a large being thinks small, will appear large to a
very diminutive creature. These may be accepted as
illustrations of the manner in which the Sceptics de-
prived the qualities of things of all objective reality,
and made them merely relative, or dependent on the
different sentient or intellectual structures of the
beings to whom they were presented. What the
reality of things was in itself \ and out of relation to
sentient observers, or whether there was any such in-
dependent reality at all, the Sceptic held that all men
were for ever debarred from knowing, or from even
remotely conjecturing. I may just remind you par-
enthetically, and in passing, that the division of the
qualities of matter into primary and secondary, was
devised chiefly as a means of overruling the conclu-
sions of the Sceptics. It was thought that the pri-
mary qualities, extension, figure, and solidity, were
objective, and belonged to things themselves; while
the secondary, such as colour, heat, cold, sound, and
so forth, were mere subjective sensations. Opinions,
however, have differed as to the value and import-
ance of this distinction. It may be doubted whether
it has accomplished the purpose which it had in view.

12. The arguments by which Pyrrho, as expounded
by Sextus, enforced the conclusions of Scepticism,
were called rpoiroL, a word sometimes translated tropes,
although that term is more frequently employed toLATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

467

express a figure of speech. Of these tropes or Scep-
tical arguments Sextus enumerates ten as belonging
to the earlier Sceptics, of whom Pyrrho was the chief,
and five as belonging to the later Sceptics, fifteen in
all. Of the ten tropoi of Pyrrho, I may cite two or
three specimens. The first is, that the tribes of liv-
ing creatures, including man, are so various, and are
organised so differently, that they must and do de-
rive very different impressions from the same objects,
that no one of these impressions has a better title
than any other to be regarded as representing the
real nature of the object, and that, therefore, we must
remain for ever in ignorance of what the object in
itself is. A second argument is, that, putting other
creatures aside, the senses and intelligences even of
human beings are found to differ widely, and there-
fore, inasmuch as the reports of all of them cannot
be true in reference to the same objects, and further,
inasmuch as no one man has a better title than any
other to set himself up as the standard of what is
true, the conclusion is that objective reality is be-
yond our grasp. A third argument is, that our
senses are not consistent with themselves, for one
sense will relish what another sense dislikes, and
conversely. Hence we cannot say whether the thing
is agreeable or disagreeable in itself. (This argument
seems a poor one.) A fourth argument is, that things
affect us differently, according as we are in health or
out of health. To a man suffering from jaundice, all
things taste bitter. They are not bitter, however, in468

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

themselves; he makes them bitter. For the tenth
tropos the same sort of argument is applied to morals.
Morality is entirely conventional and acquired. Dif-
ferent nations differ widely in their estimate of moral
distinctions. Hence these distinctions are altogether
relative. We can form no conception of anything as
good or as bad in itself, but only a conception of it
as good or as bad in relation to ourselves. These
specimens may be sufficient as examples of the Scep-
tical line of argumentation. Some of them, it may
be owned, are rather frivolous, and on that account,
as well as from the consideration that they are all
reducible, as I have said, to the principle of relativity,
it is not necessary to make any further mention of
the rpoiroi, either of the earlier or of the later Sceptics.

13. The Sceptical conclusions may be summed up
thus: first, There is no possibility of knowledge, in
the strict sense of the word, because we can never
know things as they are in themselves, but only as
they are coloured and modified by our faculties of
cognition, that is, we cannot know them as they are,
but only as they are not; secondly, There is no
standard or criterion of truth, because the senses
and understanding of different beings differ widely,
and no one of them has a better title than any other
to set itself up as the criterion of the truth; thirdly,
There is no stability in definitions, because a defini-
tion of a thing which may recommend itself to one
intelligence will not recommend itself to a differentlyLATER SCHOOLS, SCEPTICS.

469

constituted intelligence; fourthly, The object of
thought or cognition is different from the thought
or cognition of which it is the object; the thought or
cognition is that alone of which we can be certain;
we can have no certainty in regard to the object, for
here there is a wide interval between the objective
and the subjective; fifthly, There is no standard of
morality, because this will shift with the varying
tastes and sensibilities of individuals or of nations.

14.	You may ask for what end or purpose these
arguments leading to these conclusions have been set
on foot ? The answer is, that these arguments are
designed to bring us into a condition of indisturbance
or quietude of mind, arapagia. Seeing the fact estab-
lished by good reasons, that nothing is to be known,
that certainty is unattainable, we shall be disposed
to settle down in placid contentment with a lot from
which there is no escape, and an ill for which there
is no remedy. Perceiving our ignorance to be inevi-
table, we shall live in a state of arapagia, or mental
indisturbance; and of /juerpLOTraOeta, or moderation of
the desires. That, say the Sceptics, is the good end
which is brought about by our Sceptical exercitations-

15.	In this paragraph I shall merely enumerate
the names of the schools which flourished between
the death of Aristotle and the rise of the Neoplatonic
or Alexandrian philosophy. These schools were the
Academic, founded by Plato; the Peripatetic, founded470

greek philosophy.

by Aristotle; the Stoic, founded by Zeno; the Epi-
curean, founded by Epicurus; and the Sceptical,
founded by Pyrrho. These schools continued to
exist until the very close of the Greek philosophy
in 529 a.d. ; but their independence was probably
merged or eclipsed in the vast and mystical splen-
dour of the Alexandrian philosophy, of which I now
propose to give you some account.NEOPLATONISTS.

1.	Ammonius, called Saccas, or the Sack-carrier,
from the occupation at which he originally toiled,
gets the credit of being the founder of the Neopla-
tonic or Alexandrian philosophy. He was born
about 160, and died about 240 of the Christian era.
He lived and taught at Alexandria. He is said by
some to have combined Christianity with his philo-
sophy, and to have continued a Christian to the last;
by others he is said to have apostatised from the faith.
Very little, however, is known about him; his philo-
sophic position is very obscure and insignificant when
placed in comparison with the claims of his pupil
and follower, Plotinus, whom we must regard as by
far the greatest representative of the Alexandrian
philosophy, and of whom I now proceed to speak.

2.	Plotinus, the chief of the Alexandrian Platon-
ists, is said to have always refused to divulge the
names of his parents, and the time and place of his
birth, so little reason did he think he had to con-
gratulate himself on having been born. The secret,472

greek philosophy.

however, seems to have transpired, for it is related
that he first saw the light at Lycopolis in Egypt,
a.d. 205. At the age of twenty he went to study
in Alexandria, which for long had been celebrated
for its commercial prosperity, and for the variety and
activity of its literary institutions. In the first cen-
turies of the Christian era this city was the gather-
ing-point of the learning of the East and of the West.
Here were collected together, as in a vast reservoir,
the Greek philosophy, the oriental mysticism, the
ancient superstitions of heathendom, the rising power
of Christianity, the heresies of gnosticism, and the
doctrines of the Jewish kabala; and in the midst of
the fermentation of these elements, the Alexandrian
philosophy arose. Although not set up in express
rivalry or antagonism to the new religion, it was no
doubt inspired, in part at least, by the desire to
question and reduce its pretensions. It was an effort
on the part of expiring paganism to rally and organ-
ise her forces, in order to show the world that the
heathen sages had not preached, and that the heathen
devotees had not practised, in vain; that there was
still some fire in the ancient ashes, still some life and
health in the old philosophical and mythological
traditions; and that they did not merit the hatred
and contempt with which they were now frequently
assailed.

3. When Plotinus came to Alexandria, Ammonius
Saccas was at the head of this philosophy, was. in-neoplatonists.

473

deed, its reputed founder, although it is probable
that the system had been set on foot, and had be-
gun to take shape, before his time. Some years
elapsed before Plotinus made the acquaintance of
this philosopher, and during that time his soul was
disquieted by the thirst of knowledge unappeased.
He found peace so soon as he was introduced to
Ammonius, whose devoted disciple he became, and
to whose instructions he listened assiduously for
eleven years.

4. In his thirty-ninth year, Plotinus, being anxious
to extend his knowledge by a more intimate acquain-
tance with the philosophy of the East, joined an ex-
pedition which the Roman Emperor Gordian had
equipped for the invasion of Persia. The issue of the
expedition was disastrous. Gordian was assassinated
in Mesopotamia, and Plotinus with difficulty escaped
with his life. This expedition having brought him
into close relations with the Romans, he betook him-
self to Rome in the fortieth year of his age. Here
he resided until his death, expounding the Alexan-
drian philosophy, of which he has a better title than
Ammonius to be regarded as the originator. At any
rate, he amplified it greatly, and by him it has been
handed down to posterity. He had a project of
founding a city in Campania, on the model of Plato's
republic, but the ministers of the Emperor wisely
refused to give any encouragement to the scheme.
He died at Rome in his sixty-sixth year, a.d. 270.474

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

5.	Plotinus had many pupils and admirers. Of
these the most faithful and intelligent was Porphyry,
and to him he intrusted the arrangement and pub-
lication of his writings. They consisted of fifty-
four books, which Porphyry divided, according to
their subjects, into six parts. Each of these parts
contained nine books, which he called Enneads,
from the Greek word signifying nine. The philo-
sophy of Plotinus is styled Neo-Platonism, because
it is a revival of the Platonic doctrines, and also
Eclecticism, because it aimed at combining with Pla-
tonism whatever was worthy of adoption in the tenets
of other philosophers. Its prevailing tone, however,
is derived from the element which it borrowed from
the East, a mysticism which blends the Creator with
the creation, and confounds the human and the
divine.

6.	The philosophy of Plotinus, divested of its
mystical complexion, presents to us the following
principal points, which may be shortly exhibited in
the form of question and answer:—First, What does
philosophy aim at ? At absolute truth. Secondly,
What kind of truth is that ? Truth for all intelli-
gence, that is, for intellect considered simply as in-
tellect, and not as this or any kind of intellect: a
truth which any intellect is necessarily shut out from
knowing is not an absolute truth. Thirdly, What is
the truth for all intelligence ? Unity; the oneness
of all things. Fourthly, How so ? Because, whileNEOPLATONISTS.

475

the diversity of things is addressed to what is pecu-
liar to each order of intellect, their unity can be taken
up only by what is common to all orders of intellect.
Unity is thus the object of philosophical pursuit,
inasmuch as it is the truth for all, in other words,
the absolutely true. Fifthly, But what is this unity?
The Alexandrian philosophy is driven in upon the
answer that thought is the unity of the universe.
Hence the knowledge of self, the thought of thought,
the reflection of reason upon itself, is inculcated by
Plotinus as the highest duty, and as the noblest
source of purification and enlightenment. This is
the sum and substance of his teaching, in so far as
it can be intelligibly reported.

7.	To the system thus concisely exhibited, some
explanation must be appended, showing, first, the
grounds on which Plotinus and the Platonists gener-
ally refused to acknowledge the material world as the
absolutely real; secondly, in what respect the Alex-
andrian philosophy differs from antecedent systems;
and, thirdly, how Plotinus was led to lay down thought
as the absolutely real, and as constituting the unity
in all things. A few words on each of these points.

8.	I.—The consideration that the truth which
philosophy aims at is the truth for all, disposed at
once of the claim of the material world to be regarded
as absolutely true; for matter is not a truth for all
intellect, but only for intellect' furnished with such476

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

senses as ours. I have explained this point suffi-
ciently on former occasions. Matter was thus put
out of court, as being not the absolutely true. This,
we may say, was the verdict of philosophers gen-
erally, and pronounced at a very early period in
speculation.

9. II.—Matter being set aside as not the abso-
lutely real, the absolute had now to be looked for
elsewhere, and accordingly philosophers proceeded to
search for it, not in the region of sense, but in that of
intellect. Pythagoras proclaimed number as the truth
for all. The Eleatics took their stand upon Being.
Heraclitus contended for Becoming or change. Plato
advanced his theory of ideas (resemblance, difference,
the good, &c.) It is obvious, however, that these
are rather the objects of thought than thought itself.
There is some distinction between number and the
thought of number, between being and the thought
of being; and on this ground it might be argued that
number, being, and the others, might perhaps not be
absolute truths. Whatever is different from thought
is not necessarily true for all thought. Number, be-
ing, and other universals, are different from thought,
and are therefore not true for all thought. The sub-
ject and the object are here separated, and Scepticism
takes advantage of the separation to represent the
objective as uncertain. This position, indeed, the
separation of subject and object, was the stronghold
of Scepticism, the fdrtress from which it strove toNEOPLATONISTS.

477

break down the strength of Platonism, and to strip
all philosophy of its assured conviction that it had
reached the ultimately real. It was necessary, there-
fore, to shift the ground of the absolutely true from
the thing thought of to the thovxjht itself of the thing.
This was what Plotinus did, and it is in this respect
that the Alexandrian scheme differs from all the
systems which preceded it. They placed the abso-
lute truth in something which thought embraced.
This system placed it in the thought itself by which
this something is taken hold of.

10.	III.—Such appears to be the leading position
occupied by Plotinus when the mists of his system
are blown aside. He was led to it by the inconse-
quence of which Scepticism had convicted all antece-
dent systems. A paralogism or fallacy might be in-
volved in the assertion that the contents of any thought
must be a truth for all intellect; but no paralogism
could be involved in the assertion that thought itself
is the truth for all intellect, because thought and
intellect are one. Here, to speak the language of
modern philosophy, the object thought of and the
thinking subject are the same, and that interval
between the two does not exist which Scepticism
represents as an impassable gulf separating reason
from the truth.

11.	Thought, then, is the truth, the unity in all
things, the only absolute and assured reality in the478

GREEK PHILOSOPHY.

universe, because it is a truth, and the only truth,
which every intellect must entertain, and which no
scepticism can invalidate. So reasoned Plotinus.

12. In recommending self-reflection, or the study
of thought, as the noblest of all pursuits, Plotinus
intended that men should habituate themselves to
the contemplation of thought in its universality, that
they should see and understand that it is not pro-
perly their own. The passions and desires of men
are subjective and their own, but thought is objective
still more than it is subjective; it is the common
medium which brings the human mind into relation
with an intelligence infinitely higher than itself,
from which all things are emanations, just as the
infinite intelligence itself is an emanation from a
unity still more inconceivable and ineffable. But
here the system loses itself in mysticism, and we
shall not attempt to follow it through its fantastic
and unintelligible processions of spiritual and mate-
rial creation.

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