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Title: The Greek Philosophers, Vol. I (of 2)


Author: Alfred William Benn



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THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS
VOL I.


THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS

by

ALFRED WILLIAM BENN


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

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


In Two Volumes

VOL. I.






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




                       AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

                                  TO

                               J. B. B.




PREFACE.


A considerable portion of the present work, comprising the whole of the
first volume and the first two chapters of the second, is reprinted
with corrections and additions from the _Westminster Review_. The last
chapter of the second volume has already appeared under a slightly
different title in _Mind_ for January and April 1882. The chapters
entitled, ‘The Sceptics and Eclectics,’ ‘The Religious Revival,’ and
‘The Spiritualism of Plotinus,’ are now published for the first time.

The subject of Greek philosophy is so vast that, in England at least,
it has become customary to deal with it in detached portions rather
than as a connected whole. This method has its advantages, but it has
also its drawbacks. The critic who singles out some one thinker for
special study is apt to exaggerate the importance of his hero and
to credit him with the origination of principles which were really
borrowed from his predecessors. Moreover, the appearance of a new idea
can only be made intelligible by tracing the previous tendencies which
it either continues, combines, or contradicts. In a word, the history
of philosophy has itself a philosophy which requires that we should go
beyond particular phenomena and view them as variously related parts of
a single system.

The history of Greek philosophy, whether conceived in this
comprehensive sense or as an erudite investigation into matters of
detail, is a province which the Germans have made peculiarly their own;
and, among German scholars, Dr. Zeller is the one who has treated it
with most success. My obligations to his great work are sufficiently
shown by the copious references to it which occur throughout the
following pages. It is in those instances--and they are, unfortunately,
very numerous--where our knowledge of particular philosophers and
of their opinions rests on fragmentary or second-hand information,
that I have found his assistance most valuable. This has especially
been the case with reference to the pre-Socratic schools, the minor
successors of Socrates, the earlier Stoics, the Sceptics, and the later
Pythagoreans. I must, however, guard against the supposition that my
work is, in any respect, a popularisation or abridgment of Zeller’s. To
popularise Zeller would, indeed, be an impertinence, for nothing can
be more luminous and interesting than his style and general mode of
exposition. Nor am I playing the part of a finder to a large telescope;
for my point of view by no means coincides with that of the learned
German historian. Thus, while my limits have obliged me to be content
with a very summary treatment of many topics which he has discussed
at length, there are others, and those, in my opinion, not the least
important, to which he has given less space than will be found allotted
to them here. On several questions, also, I have ventured to controvert
his opinions, notably with reference to the Sophists, Socrates,
Aristotle, and Plotinus. My general way of looking at the Greeks
and their philosophy also differs from his. And the reasons which
have led me to follow an independent course in this respect involve
considerations of such interest and importance, that I shall take the
liberty of specifying them in some detail.

Stated briefly, Zeller’s theory of ancient thought is that the Greeks
originally lived in harmony with Nature; that the bond was broken by
philosophy and particularly by the philosophy of Socrates; that the
discord imperfectly overcome by Plato and Aristotle revealed itself
once more in the unreconciled, self-concentrated subjectivity of the
later schools; that this hopeless estrangement, after reaching its
climax in the mysticism of the Neo-Platonists, led to the complete
collapse of independent speculation; and that the creation of a new
consciousness by the advent of Christianity and of the Germanic races
was necessary in order to the successful resumption of scientific
enquiry. Zeller was formerly a Hegelian, and it seems to me that he
still retains far too much of the Hegelian formalism in his historical
constructions. The well-worked antithesis between object and subject,
even after being revised in a positivist sense, is totally inadequate
to the burden laid on it by this theory; and if we want really to
understand the causes which first hampered, then arrested, and finally
paralysed Greek philosophy, we must seek for them in a more concrete
order of considerations. Zeller, with perfect justice, attributes
the failure of Plato and Aristotle to their defective observation of
Nature and their habit of regarding the logical combinations of ideas
derived from the common use of words as an adequate representative
of the relations obtaining among things in themselves. But it seems
an extremely strained and artificial explanation to say that their
shortcomings in this respect were due to a confusion of the objective
and the subjective, consequent on the imperfect separation of the
Greek mind from Nature--a confusion, it is added, which only the
advent of a new religion and a new race could overcome.[1] It is
unfair to make Hellenism as a whole responsible for fallacies which
might easily be paralleled in the works of modern metaphysicians;
and the unfairness will become still more evident when we remember
that, after enjoying the benefit of Christianity and Germanism for a
thousand years, the modern world had still to take its first lessons
in patience of observation, in accuracy of reasoning, and in sobriety
of expression from such men as Thucydides and Hippocrates, Polybius,
Archimêdes and Hipparchus. Even had the Greeks as a nation been less
keen to distinguish between illusion and reality than their successors
up to the sixteenth century--a supposition notoriously the reverse of
true--it would still have to be explained why Plato and Aristotle,
with their prodigious intellects, went much further astray than their
predecessors in the study of Nature. And this Zeller’s method does not
explain at all.

Again, I think that Zeller quite misconceives the relation between
Greek philosophy and Greek life when he attributes the intellectual
decline of the post-Aristotelian period, in part at least, to the
simultaneous ruin of public spirit and political independence. The
degeneracy of poetry and art, of eloquence and history, may perhaps
be accounted for in this way, but not the relaxation of philosophical
activity. On the contrary, the disappearance of political interests
was of all conditions the most favourable to speculation, as witness
the Ionians, Democritus, and Aristotle. Had the independence and
power of the great city-republics been prolonged much further, it
is probable--as the example of the Sophists and Socrates seems to
show--that philosophy would have become still more absorbingly moral
and practical than it actually became in the Stoic, Epicurean, and
Sceptical schools. And theoretical studies did, in fact, receive
a great impulse from the Macedonian conquest, a large fund of
intellectual energy being diverted from public affairs to the pursuit
of knowledge, only it took the direction of positive science rather
than of general speculation.[2]

The cause which first arrested and finally destroyed the free movement
of Greek thought was not any intrinsic limitation or corruption of the
Greek genius, but the ever-increasing preponderance of two interests,
both tending, although in different ways and different degrees, to
strengthen the principle of authority and to enfeeble the principle of
reason. One was the theological interest, the other was the scholastic
interest. The former was the more conspicuous and the more mischievous
of the two. From the persecution of Anaxagoras to the prohibition
of philosophical teaching by Justinian, we may trace the rise and
spread of a reaction towards superstition, sometimes advancing and
sometimes receding, but, on the whole, gaining ground from age to age,
until from the noontide splendour of Pericles we pass to that long
night which stretches in almost impenetrable darkness down to the
red and stormy daybreak of the Crusades. And it was a reaction which
extended through all classes, including the philosophers themselves.
It seems to me that where the Athenian school, from Socrates on, fall
short of their predecessors, as in some points they unquestionably
do, their inferiority is largely due to this cause. Its influence
is very perceptible in weakening the speculative energies of those
who stand at the greatest distance from the popular beliefs. It was
because dislike for theology occupied so large a place in the thoughts
of Epicurus and his disciples, that they valued science only as a
refutation of its teaching, instead of regarding it simply as an
obstacle to be removed from the path of enquiry. More than this; they
became infected with the spirit of that against which they fought, and
their absolute indifference to truth was the shadow which it cast on
their minds.

The theological interest and the scholastic interest, though not
necessarily associated, have, as already observed, a point of contact
in their common exaltation of authority. Thus, for our present purpose
they may be classified under the more general notion of traditionalism.
By this term I understand a disposition to accept as true opinions
received either by the mass of mankind or by the best accredited
teachers, and to throw these opinions into a form adapted for easy
transmission to others. In this sense, traditionalism is Janus-faced,
looking on one side to the past and on the other to the future. Now
philosophy could only gain general acceptance by becoming a tradition.
For a long time the Greek thinkers busied themselves almost exclusively
with the discovery of truth, remaining comparatively indifferent to
its diffusion. As Plato says, they went their own way without caring
whether they took us along with them or not.[3] And it was at this
period that the most valuable speculative ideas were first originated.
At last a strong desire arose among the higher classes to profit by the
results of the new learning, and a class of men came into existence
whose profession was to gratify this desire. But the Sophists, as
they were called, soon found that lessons in the art of life were
more highly appreciated and more liberally rewarded than lessons in
the constitution of Nature. Accordingly, with the facile ingenuity of
Greeks, they set to work proving, first that Nature could not be known,
and finally that there was no such thing as Nature at all. The real
philosophers were driven to secure their position by a change of front.
They became teachers themselves, disguising their lessons, however,
under the form of a search after truth undertaken conjointly with their
friends, who, of course, were not expected to pay for the privilege
of giving their assistance, and giving it for so admirable a purpose.
In this co-operative system, the person who led the conversation was
particularly careful to show that his conclusions followed directly
from the admissions of his interlocutors, being, so to speak, latent
in their minds, and only needing a little obstetric assistance on his
part to bring them into the light of day. And the better to rivet their
attention, he chose for the subject of discussion questions of human
interest, or else, when the conversation turned to physical phenomena,
he led the way towards a teleological or aesthetical interpretation of
their meaning.

Thus, where Zeller says that the Greek philosophers confounded the
objective with the subjective because they were still imperfectly
separated from Nature, we seem to have come on a less ambitious but
more intelligible explanation of the facts, and one capable of being
stated with as much generality as his. Not only among the Greeks but
everywhere, culture is more or less antagonistic to originality,
and the diffusion to the enlargement of knowledge. Thought is like
water; when spread over a wider surface it is apt to become stagnant
and shallow. When ideas could only live on the condition of being
communicated to a large circle of listeners, they were necessarily
adapted to the taste and lowered to the comprehension of relatively
vulgar minds. And not only so, but the habit of taking their opinions
and prejudices as the starting-point of every enquiry frequently led
to the investment of those opinions and prejudices with the formal
sanction of a philosophical demonstration. It was held that education
consisted less in the acquisition of new truth than in the elevation
to clearer consciousness of truths which had all along been dimly
perceived.

To the criticism and systematisation of common language and common
opinion succeeded the more laborious criticism and systematisation of
philosophical theories. Such an enormous amount of labour was demanded
for the task of working up the materials amassed by Greek thought
during the period of its creative originality, and accommodating them
to the popular belief, that not much could be done in the way of adding
to their extent. Nor was this all. Among the most valuable ideas of the
earlier thinkers were those which stood in most striking opposition
to the evidence of the senses. As such they were excluded from the
system which had for its object the reorganisation of philosophy on
the basis of general consent. Thus not only did thought tend to become
stationary, but it even abandoned some of the ground which had been
formerly won.

Not that the vitality of Hellenic reason gave way simultaneously at
every point. The same independent spirit, the same imaginative vigour
which had carried physical speculation to such splendid conquests
during the first two centuries of its existence were manifested with
equal effect when the energies previously devoted to Nature as a
whole concentrated themselves on the study of conduct and belief. It
was thus that Socrates could claim the whole field of human life for
scientific treatment, and create the method by which it has ever since
been most successfully studied. It was thus that Plato could analyse
and ideally reconstruct all practices, institutions, and beliefs. It
was thus that Aristotle, while definitely arresting the progress of
research, could still complete the method and create the language
through which the results of new research have been established,
recognised, and communicated ever since. It was thus that the Stoics
advanced from paradox to paradox until they succeeded in co-ordinating
morality for all time by reference to the three fundamental ideas of
personal conscience, individual obligation, and universal humanity.
And not only were dialectics and ethics at first animated by the same
enterprising spirit as speculative physics, but their very existence
as recognised studies must be ascribed to its decay, to the revolution
through which philosophy, from being purely theoretical, became social
and didactic. While in some directions thought was made stationary
and even retrogressive by the very process of its diffusion, in
other directions this diffusion was the cause of its more complete
development. Finally, ethics and logic were reduced to a scholastic
routine, and progress continued to be made only in the positive
sciences, until, here also, it was brought to an end by the triumph of
superstition and barbarism combined.

If the cessation of speculative activity among the Greeks needs to
be accounted for by something more definite than phrases about the
objective and the subjective, so also does its resumption among the
nations of modern Europe. This may be explained by two different
circumstances--the disappearance of the obstacles which had long
opposed themselves to the free exercise of reason, and the stimulus
given to enquiry by the Copernican astronomy. After spreading over
the whole basin of the Mediterranean, Hellenic culture had next to
repair the ravages of the barbarians, and, chiefly under the form of
Christianity, to make itself accepted by the new nationalities which
had risen on the ruins of the Roman empire. So arduous a task was
sufficient to engross, during many centuries, the entire intellectual
energies of Western Europe. At last the extreme limits of diffusion
were provisionally reached, and thought once more became available for
the discovery of new truth. Simultaneously with this consummation,
the great supernaturalist reaction, having also reached its extreme
limits, had so far subsided, that Nature could once more be studied on
scientific principles, with less freedom, indeed, than in old Ionia,
but still with tolerable security against the vengeance of interested
or fanatical opponents. And at the very same conjuncture it was shown
by the accumulated observations of many ages that the conception of
the universe on which the accepted philosophy rested must be replaced
by one of a directly opposite description. I must confess that in this
vast revolution the relation between the objective and the subjective,
as reconstituted by Christianity and the Germanic genius, does not seem
to me to have played a very prominent part.

If Zeller’s semi-Hegelian theory of history does scant justice to
the variety and complexity of causes determining the evolution of
philosophy, it also draws away attention from the ultimate elements,
the matter, in an Aristotelian sense, of which that evolution consists.
By this I mean the development of particular ideas as distinguished
from the systems into which they enter as component parts. Often
the formation of a system depends on an accidental combination of
circumstances, and therefore cannot be brought under any particular law
of progress, while the ideas out of which it is constructed exhibit a
perfectly regular advance on the form under which they last appeared.
Others, again, are characterised by a remarkable fixity which enables
them to persist unchanged through the most varied combinations and the
most protracted intervals of time. But when each system is regarded
as, so to speak, an organic individual, the complete and harmonious
expression of some one phase of thought, and the entire series of
systems as succeeding one another in strict logical order according
to some simple law of evolution, there will be a certain tendency to
regard the particular elements of each as determined by the character
of the whole to which they belong, rather than by their intrinsic
nature and antecedent history. And I think it is owing to this
limitation of view that Zeller has not illustrated, so fully as could
be desired, the subtler references by which the different schools of
philosophy are connected with one another and also with the literature
of their own and other times.

An interesting example of the process on which I have just touched
is offered by the reappearance and further elaboration of some most
important Greek ideas in modern philosophy. In the concluding chapter
of this work I have attempted to indicate the chief lines along
which such a transmission may be traced. The subject is one which
has hitherto been unduly neglected. No critic would be justified in
describing the speculative movement of the nineteenth century without
constant reference to the metaphysicians and moralists of the two
preceding centuries. Yet the dependence of those thinkers on the
schools of antiquity is hardly less intimate than our dependence on
Spinoza and Hume. Nevertheless, in no work that I am acquainted with
has this circumstance been used to elucidate the course pursued by
modern thought; indeed, I may say that the persistence of Hellenic
ideas down to the most recent times has not been fully recognised by
any scholar except Prof. Teichmüller, who has particularly devoted
his attention to the history of conceptions as distinguished from the
history of systems.

The introduction of Teichmüller’s name affords me an opportunity
for mentioning that my attention was not directed to his brilliant
researches into various questions connected with Greek philosophy,
and more particularly with the systems of Plato and Aristotle,
until it was too late for me to profit by them in the present work.
I allude more particularly to his _Studien zur Geschichte der
Begriffe_ (Berlin, 1874), and to his recently published _Literarische
Fehden im vierten Jahrhundert vor Chr._ (Breslau, 1881). The chief
points of the former work are, that Plato was really a pantheist
or monist, not, as is commonly believed and as I have myself taken
for granted, a dualist; that, as a consequence of the suppression
of individuality which characterises his system, he did not really
accept or teach the doctrine of personal immortality, although he
wished that the mass of the people should believe it; that Plato
no more attributed a transcendent existence to his ideas than did
Aristotle to his substantial forms; and that in putting an opposite
interpretation on his old master’s theory, Aristotle is guilty of
gross misrepresentation. The most important point of the _Literarische
Fehden_ is that Aristotle published his _Ethics_ while Plato was still
alive and engaged in the composition of his _Laws_, and that certain
passages in the latter work, of which one relates to free-will and the
other to the unity of virtue (861, A ff. and 962 ff.) were intended as
a reply to Aristotle’s well-known criticisms on the Platonic theory of
ethics.

I have been necessarily brief in my statement of Teichmüller’s
theses; and to judge of them apart from the facts and arguments by
which they are supported in the two very interesting volumes above
named would be in the highest degree unfair. I feel bound, however,
to mention the chief reasons which make me hesitate to accept his
conclusions. It seems to me, then, that although Plato was moving
in the direction of pantheism--as I have myself pointed out in more
than one passage of this work--he never actually reached it. For
(i.) he does not, like Plotinus, attempt to deduce his material from
his ideal principle, but only blends without reconciling them in the
world of sensible experience. (ii.) In opposing the perishable nature
of the individual (or rather the particular) to the eternal nature
of the universal, he is going on the facts of experience rather than
on any necessary opposition between the two, and on experience of
material or sensible objects rather than of immaterial souls; while,
even as regards material objects, the heavenly bodies, to which he
attributes everlasting duration, constitute such a sweeping exception
to his rule as entirely to destroy its applicability. (iii.) Plato’s
multiplied and elaborate arguments for the immortality of the soul
would be superfluous were his only object to prove that the soul, like
everything else, contains an eternal element. (iv.) The Pythagorean
theory that the soul is a harmony, which Plato rejects, would have
been perfectly compatible with the ideal and impersonal immortality
which Teichmüller supposes him to have taught; for while the particular
harmony perishes, the general laws of harmony remain. (v.) Teichmüller
does not dispose satisfactorily of Plato’s crowning argument that the
idea of life is as inseparable from the soul as heat from fire or cold
from snow. He says (_op. cit._, p. 134) that, on this principle, the
individual soul may still perish, just as particular portions of fire
are extinguished and particular portions of snow are melted. Yes, but
portions of fire do not grow cold, nor portions of snow hot, which and
which alone would offer an analogy to the extinction of a soul.

I agree, however, with Teichmüller that the doctrines of reminiscence
and metempsychosis have a purely mythical significance, and I should
have expressed my views on the subject with more definiteness and
decision had I known that his authority might be quoted in their
support. I think that Plato was in a transition state from the Oriental
to what afterwards became the Christian theory of retribution. In
the one he found an allegorical illustration of his metaphysics,
in the other a very serious sanction for his ethics. He felt their
incompatibility, but was not prepared to undertake such a complete
reconstruction of his system as would have been necessitated by
altogether denying the pre-existence of the soul. Of such vacillation
Plato’s later Dialogues offer, I think, sufficient evidence. For
example, the Matter of the _Timacus_ seems to be a revised version
of the Other or principle of division and change, which has already
figured as a pure idea, in which capacity it must necessarily be
opposed to matter. At the same time, I must observe that, from my point
of view, it is enough if Plato inculcated the doctrine of a future life
as an important element of his religious system. And that he did so
inculcate it Teichmüller fully admits.[4]

With regard to the _Nicomachean Ethics_, I think Teichmüller has proved
this much, that it was written before Aristotle had read the _Laws_
or knew of its existence. But this does not prove that he wrote it
during Plato’s lifetime, since the _Laws_ was not published until after
Plato’s death, possibly not until several years after. And, published
or not, Aristotle may very well have remained ignorant of its existence
until his return to Athens, which, according to the tradition, took
place about 336 B.C. Teichmüller does, indeed, suppose that Aristotle
spent some time in Athens between his flight from Mitylênê and his
engagement as tutor to Alexander (_Literarische Fehden_, p. 261). But
this theory, besides its purely conjectural character, would still
allow the possibility of Aristotle’s having remained unacquainted with
the _Laws_ up to the age of forty. And it is obvious that the passages
which Teichmüller interprets as replies to Aristotle’s criticisms admit
of more than one alternative explanation. They may have originated
in doubts and difficulties which spontaneously suggested themselves
to Plato in the course of his independent reflections; or, granting
that there is a polemic reference, it may have been provoked by some
other critic, or by the spoken criticisms of Aristotle himself. For
the supposition that Aristotle wrote his _Ethics_ at the early age of
thirty-two or thirty-three seems to me so improbable that we should not
accept it except under pressure of the strongest evidence. That a work
of such matured thought and observation should have been produced by
so young a man is, so far as I know, a phenomenon unparalleled in the
history of literature. And to this we must add the further circumstance
that the Greek mind was not particularly remarkable for precocity in
any field except war and statesmanship. We do, indeed, find instances
of comparatively juvenile authorship, but none, I believe, of a Greek
writer, whether poet, historian, or philosopher, who reached the
full maturity of his powers before a considerably advanced period of
middle age. That the _Ethics_ is very imperfect I fully admit, and
have expressly maintained against its numerous admirers in the course
of this work. But, although imperfect, it is not crude. It contains
as good a discussion of the subject undertaken as Aristotle was ever
capable of giving, and its limitations are not those of an unripe
intellect, but of an intellect at all times comparatively unsuited for
the treatment of practical problems, and narrowed still further by the
requirements of an elaborate speculative system. Now to work out this
system must have demanded considerably more labour and independent
thought than one can suppose even an Aristotle to have found time for
before thirty-three; while the experience of life shown in the _Ethics_
is such as study, so far from supplying, would, on the contrary, have
delayed. Moreover, the _Rhetoric_, which was confessedly written
before the _Ethics_, exhibits the same qualities in about an equal
degree, and therefore, on Teichmüller’s theory, testifies to a still
more extraordinary precocity. And there is the further circumstance
that while Aristotle is known to have begun his public career as a
teacher of rhetoric, his earliest productions seem to have been of a
rather diffuse and declamatory character, quite opposed to the severe
concision which marks the style both of the _Rhetoric_ and of the
_Ethics_. In addition to these general considerations, one may mention
that in a well-known passage of the _Ethics_, referring to a question
of logical method (I., iv.), Plato is spoken of in the imperfect
tense, which would seem to imply that he was no longer living when it
was written. Speaking from memory, I should even be inclined to doubt
whether the mention of a living writer by name at all is consistent
with Aristotle’s standard of literary etiquette.

These are difficulties which Teichmüller has, no doubt, fully weighed
and put aside as not sufficiently strong to invalidate his conclusions.
I have stated them in order to show that enough can be said for the
old view to justify the republication of what was written on the
assumption of its unquestionable truth. Moreover, researches conducted
with so much skill and learning as those of Teichmüller demand some
public acknowledgment in a work like the present, even when the results
are such that the writer cannot see his way to accepting them as
satisfactorily made out. There are many English scholars more competent
than I am to discuss the whole question at issue. Perhaps these lines
may induce some of them to give it the attention which it merits, but
which, in England at least, it does not seem to have as yet received.

My obligations to other writers have been acknowledged throughout this
work, so far as I was conscious of them, and so far as they could be
defined by reference to specific points. I take the present opportunity
for mentioning in a more general way the valuable assistance which
I have derived from Schwegler’s _Geschichte der Griechischen
Philosophie_, Lange’s _Geschichte des Materialismus_, and Dühring’s
_Geschichte der Philosophie_. The parallel between Socrates, Giordano
Bruno, and Spinoza was probably suggested to me by Dühring, as also
were some points in my characterisation of Aristotle. As my view of the
position occupied by Lucretius with respect to religion and philosophy
differs in many important points from that of Prof. Sellar, it is the
more incumbent on me to state that, but for a perusal of Prof. Sellar’s
eloquent and sympathetic chapters on the great Epicurean poet, my own
estimate of his genius would certainly not have been written in its
present form and would probably not have been written at all.

On the whole, I am afraid that my acquaintance with the modern
literature of the subject will be found rather limited for an
undertaking like the present. But I do not think that wider reading in
that direction would have much furthered the object I had in view. That
object has been to exhibit the principal ideas of Greek philosophy in
the closest possible connexion with the characters of their authors,
with each other, with their developments in modern speculation, with
the parallel tendencies of literature and art, with the history of
religion, of physical science, and of civilisation as a whole. To
interpret all things by a system of universal references is the method
of philosophy; when applied to a series of events this method is the
philosophy of history; when the events are ideas, it is the philosophy
of philosophy itself.




                               CONTENTS

                                  OF

                           THE FIRST VOLUME.


CHAPTER I.

EARLY GREEK THOUGHT    pages 1-52

I. Strength and universality of the Greek intellect, 1—Specialisation
of individual genius, 2—Pervading sense of harmony and union,
3—Circumstances by which the intellectual character of the Greeks
was determined, 3—Philosophy a natural product of the Greek mind,
4—Speculation at first limited to the external world, 4—Important
results achieved by the early Greek thinkers, 5—Their conception of
a cosmos first made science possible, 6—The alleged influence of
Oriental ideas disproved, 6.

II. Thales was the first to offer a purely physical explanation of the
world, 7—Why he fixed on water as the origin of all things, 8—Great
advance made by Anaximander, 9—His conception of the Infinite,
9-Anaximenes mediates between the theories of his two predecessors,
10—The Pythagoreans: their love of antithesis and the importance
attributed to number in their system, 11—Connexion between their
ethical teaching and the general religious movement of the age,
13—Analogy with the mediaeval spirit, 13.

III. Xenophanes: his attacks on the popular religion, 14—Absence of
intolerance among the Greeks, 15—Primitive character of the monotheism
taught by Xenophanes, 16—Elimination of the religious element from
philosophy by Parmenides, 16—His speculative innovations, 17—He
discovers the indestructibility of matter, 17—but confuses matter
with existence in general, 18—and more particularly with extension,
19—In what sense he can be called a materialist, 19—New arguments
brought forward by Zeno in defence of the Eleatic system, 20—The
analytical or mediatorial moment of Greek thought, 21—Influence of
Parmenides on subsequent systems of philosophy, 22—Diametrically
opposite method pursued by Heracleitus, 22—His contempt for the
mass of mankind, 22—Doctrine of universal relativity, 23—Fire as
the primordial element, 24—The idea of Law first introduced by
Heracleitus, 25—Extremes to which his principles were afterwards
carried, 25—Polarisation of Greek thought, 26.

IV. Historical order of the systems which succeeded and mediated
between Parmenides and Heracleitus, 26—Empedocles: poetic and
religious character of his philosophy, 27—His inferiority to previous
thinkers, 28—Eclectic tendency of his system, 29—In what respects it
marks an advance on that of Parmenides, 29—His alleged anticipation
of the Darwinian theory, 30—The fixity of species a doctrine held
by every ancient philosopher except Anaximander, 31—The theory of
knowledge put forward by Empedocles: its objective and materialistic
character, 32—How it suggested the Atomic theory, 33—The possibility
of a vacuum denied by Parmenides and asserted by Leucippus, 34—The
Atomic theory developed and applied by Democritus: encyclopaedic range
of his studies, 35—His complete rejection of the supernatural, 36.

V. Anaxagoras at Athens, 36—He is accused of impiety and compelled to
fly, 37—Analysis of his system, 38—Its mechanical and materialistic
tendency, 39—Separation of Nous from the rest of Nature, 40—In
denying the divinity of the heavenly bodies, Anaxagoras opposed himself
to the universal faith of antiquity, 40—The exceptional intolerance
of the Athenians and its explanation, 42—Transition from physical to
dialectical and ethical philosophy, 43.

VI. Early Greek thought as manifested in literature and art, 45—The
genealogical method of Hesiod and Herodotus, 47—The search for first
causes in Pindar and Aeschylus, 48—Analogous tendencies of sculpture
and architecture, 49—Combination of geographical with genealogical
studies, 50—The evolution of order from chaos suggested by the
negative or antithetical moment of Greek thought, 50—Verifiable and
fruitful character of early Greek thought, 52.


CHAPTER II.

THE GREEK HUMANISTS: NATURE AND LAW    pages 53-107

I. The reaction of speculation on life, 53—Moral superiority of the
Greeks to the Hebrews and Romans, 54—Illustrations of humanity from
the Greek poets, 55—Temporary corruption of moral sentiment and its
explanation, 56—Subsequent reformation effected by philosophy, 57—The
Greek worship of beauty not incompatible with a high moral standard,
58—Preference of the solid to the showy virtues shown by public
opinion in Greece, 59—Opinion of Plato, 60.

II. Virtues inculcated in the aphorisms of the Seven Sages,
62—Sôphrosynê as a combination of moderation and self-knowledge,
62—Illustrations from Homer, 62—Transition from self-regarding to
other-regarding virtue, 63—How morality acquired a religious sanction
(i.) by the use of oaths, 64—(ii.) by the ascription of a divine
origin to law, 65—(iii.) by the practice of consulting oracles on
questions of right and wrong, 65—Difference between the Olympian and
Chthonian religions, 66—The latter was closely connected with the
ideas of law and of retribution after death, 67—Beneficent results due
to the interaction of the two religions, 68.

III. The religious standpoint of Aeschylus, 69—Incipient dissociation
of religion from morality in Sophocles, 70—Their complete separation
in Euripides, 71—Contrast between the Eteocles of Aeschylus and the
Eteocles of Euripides, 72—Analogous difference between Herodotus
and Thucydides, 73—Evidence of moral deterioration supplied by
Aristophanes and Plato, 74—Probability of an association between
intellectual growth and moral decline, 75.

IV. The Sophists, 76—Prodicus and Hippias, 77—Their theory of Nature
as a moral guide, 79—Illustration from Euripides, 80—Probable
connexion of the Cynic school with Prodicus, 81—Antithesis between
Nature and Law, 81—Opposition to slavery, 82—The versatility of
Hippias connected with his advocacy of Nature, 83—The right of the
stronger as a law of Nature, 84.

V. Rise of idealism and accompanying tendency to set convention above
Nature, 85—Agnosticism of Protagoras, 87—In what sense he made man
the measure of all things, 88—His defence of civilisation, 89—Similar
views expressed by Thucydides, 90—Contrast between the naturalism of
Aeschylus and the humanism of Sophocles, 91—The flexible character
of Nomos favourable to education, 92—Greek youths and modern women,
93—The teaching of rhetoric, 93—It is subsequently developed into
eristicism, 94.

VI. The nihilism of Gorgias, 95—His arguments really directed against
the worship of Nature, 96—The power of rhetoric in ancient Athens and
modern England, 97—The doctrines of Protagoras as developed by the
Cyrenaic school, 99—and by the Megaric school, 100—Subsequent history
of the antithesis between Nature and Law, 100.

VII. Variety of tendencies represented by the Sophists, 102—Their
position in Greek society, 103—The different views taken of their
profession in ancient and modern times, 104—Their place in the
development of Greek philosophy, 107.


CHAPTER III.

THE PLACE OF SOCRATES IN GREEK PHILOSOPHY    pages 108-170

I. Universal celebrity of Socrates, 108—Our intimate knowledge of his
appearance and character, 109—Conflicting views of his philosophy,
110—Untrustworthiness of the Platonic _Apologia_, 111—Plato’s account
contradicted by Xenophon, 113—Consistency of the _Apologia_ with the
general standpoint of Plato’s Dialogues, 114—The Platonic idea of
science, 115-— How Plato can help us to understand Socrates, 116.

II. Zeller’s theory of the Socratic philosophy, 117—Socrates did
not offer any definition of knowledge, 119—Nor did he correct the
deficiencies of Greek physical speculation, 120—His attitude towards
physics resembled that of Protagoras, 121—Positive theories of
morality and religion which he entertained, 123.

III. True meaning and originality of the Socratic teaching,
125—Circumstances by which the Athenian character was formed, 126—Its
prosaic, rationalistic, and utilitarian tendencies, 127—Effect
produced by the possession of empire, 128—The study of mind in art
and philosophy, 128—How the Athenian character was represented by
Socrates, 129—His sympathy with its practical and religious side,
130—His relation to the Humanists, 131—His identification of virtue
with knowledge, 132—The search for a unifying principle in ethics,
133—Importance of knowledge as a factor in conduct and civilisation,
133—Fundamental identity of all the mental processes, 136.

IV. Harmony of theory and practice in the life of Socrates, 137—Mind
as a principle (i.) of self-control, (ii.) of co-operation, and
(iii.) of spontaneous energy, 137—Derivation and function of the
cross-examining elenchus, 138—How it illustrates the negative moment
of Greek thought, 139—Conversations with Glauco and Euthydemus,
139—The erotetic method as an aid to self-discipline, 141—Survival of
contradictory debate in the speeches of Thucydides, 142.

V. Why Socrates insisted on the necessity of defining abstract terms,
142—Subsequent influence of his method on the development of Roman
law, 144—Substitution of arrangement by resemblance and difference
for arrangement by contiguity, 145—The One in the Many, and the Many
in the One: conversation with Charmides, 146—Illustration of ideas
by their contradictory opposites, 147—The Socratic induction, (i.)
an interpretation of the unknown by the known, 148—Misapplication of
this method in the theory of final causes, 149—(ii.) A process of
comparison and abstraction, 150—Appropriateness of this method to the
study of mental phenomena, 151—Why it is inapplicable to the physical
sciences, 151—Wide range of studies included in a complete philosophy
of mind, 151—The dialectical elimination of inconsistency, 152.

VI. Consistency the great principle represented by Socrates,
152—Parallelism of ethics and logic, 154—The ethical dialectic of
Socrates and Homer, 154—Personal and historical verifications of
the Socratic method, 155—Its influence on the development of art
and literature, 156—and on the relations between men and women,
158—Meaning of the Daemonium, 160.

VII. Accusation and trial of Socrates, 161—Futility of the charges
brought against him, 162—Misconceptions of modern critics, 164—His
defence and condemnation, 165—Worthlessness of Grote’s apology for
the Dicastery, 166—Refusal of Socrates to save himself by flight,
168—Comparison with Giordano Bruno and Spinoza, 169—The monuments
raised to Socrates by Plato and Xenophon, 169.


CHAPTER IV.

PLATO; HIS TEACHERS AND HIS TIMES    pages 171-213

I. New meaning given to systems of philosophy by the method of
evolution, 171—Extravagances of which Plato’s philosophy seems to be
made up, 172—The high reputation which it, nevertheless, continues
to enjoy, 174—Distinction between speculative tendencies and the
systematic form under which they are transmitted, 174—Genuineness
of the Platonic Dialogues, 175—Their chronological order, 177—They
embody the substance of Plato’s philosophical teaching, 177.

II. Wider application given to the dialectic method by Plato, 179—He
goes back to the initial doubt of Socrates, 180—To what extent
he shared in the religious reaction of his time, 181—He places
demonstrative reasoning above divine inspiration, 182—His criticism
of the Socratic ethics, 183—Exceptional character of the _Crito_
accounted for, 184—Traces of Sophistic influence, 185—General
relation of Plato to the Sophists, 186—Egoistic hedonism of the
_Protagoras_, 188.

III. Plato as an individual: his high descent, personal beauty, and
artistic endowment, 189—His style is neither poetry nor eloquence
nor conversation, but the expression of spontaneous thought, 190—The
Platonic Socrates, 191—Plato carries the spirit of the Athenian
aristocracy into philosophy, 192—Severity with which great reformers
habitually view their own age, 192—Plato’s scornful opinion of
the many, 194—His loss of faith in his own order, 195—Horror of
despotism inspired by his intercourse with Dionysius, 195—His
dissatisfaction with the constitution of Sparta, 196—His theory
of political degeneration verified by the history of the Roman
republic, 196—His exclusively Hellenic and aristocratic sympathies,
197—Invectives against the corrupting influence of the multitude and
of their flatterers, 198—Denunciation of the popular law-courts,
199—Character of the successful pleader, 200—Importance to which he
had risen in Plato’s time, 200—The professional teacher of rhetoric,
201.

IV. Value and comprehensiveness of Plato’s philosophy, 202—Combination
of Sicilian and Italiote with Attic modes of thought, 203—Transition
from the _Protagoras_ to the _Theaetêtus_, 205—‘Man is the measure
of all things’: opinion and sensation, 206—Extension of the
dialectic method to all existence, 207—The Heracleitean system true
of phenomena, 208—Heracleitus and Parmenides in the _Cratylus_,
209—Tendency to fix on Identity and Difference as the ultimate
elements of knowledge, 210—Combination of the mathematical method
with the dialectic of Socrates, 210—Doctrine of _à priori_ cognition,
211—The idea of Sameness derived from introspection, 212—Tendency
towards monism, 213.


CHAPTER V.

PLATO AS A REFORMER    pages 214-274

I. Recapitulation, 214—Plato’s identification of the human with
the divine, 215—The Athanasian creed of philosophy, 216—Attempts
to mediate between appearance and reality, 216—Meaning of Platonic
love, 217—Its subsequent development in the philosophy of Aristotle,
218—And in the poetry of Dante, 219—Connexion between religious
mysticism and the passion of love, 219—Successive stages of Greek
thought represented in the _Symposium_, 220—Analysis of Plato’s
dialectical method, 221—Exaggerated importance attributed to
classification, 222—Plato’s influence on modern philosophy, 223.

II. Mediatoral character of Plato’s psychology, 223—Empirical
knowledge as a link between demonstration and sense perception,
224—Pride as a link between reason and appetite, 224—Transition from
metaphysics to ethics: knowledge and pleasure, 225—Anti-hedonistic
arguments of the _Philébus_, 226—Attempt to base ethics on the
distinction between soul and body, 227—What is meant by the Idea of
Good? 228—It is probably the abstract notion of Identity, 229.

III. How the practical teaching of Plato differed from that of
Socrates, 229—Identification of justice with self-interest,
230—Confusion of social with individual happiness, 231—Resolution of
the soul into a multitude of conflicting impulses, 232—Impossibility
of arguing men into goodness, 233.

IV. Union of religion with morality, 234—Cautious handling of
the popular theology, 234—The immortality of the soul, 235—The
Pythagorean reformation arrested by the progress of physical
philosophy, 237—Immortality denied by some of the Pythagoreans
themselves, 237—Scepticism as a transition from materialism to
spiritualism, 238—The arguments of Plato, 239—Pantheism the natural
outcome of his system, 240.

V. Plato’s condemnation of art, 241—Exception in favour of religious
hymns and edifying fiction, 241—Mathematics to be made the basis of
education, 242—Application of science to the improvement of the race,
242—Inconsistency of Plato’s belief in heredity with the doctrine
of metempsychosis, 243—Scheme for the reorganisation of society,
244—Practical dialectic of the _Republic_, 245.

VI. Hegel’s theory of the _Republic_, 246—Several distinct tendencies
confounded under the name of subjectivity, 247—Greek philosophy not
an element of political disintegration, 250—Plato borrowed more from
Egypt than from Sparta, 253.

VII. The consequences of a radical revolution, 254—Plato constructed
his new republic out of the elementary and subordinate forms of social
union, 254—Inconsistencies into which he was led by this method,
254—The position which he assigns to women, 256—The Platonic State
half school-board and half marriage-board, 258—Partial realisation of
Plato’s polity in the Middle Ages, 259—Contrast between Plato and the
modern Communists, 259—His real affinities are with Comte and Herbert
Spencer, 261.

VIII. Reaction of Plato’s social studies on his metaphysics, 262—The
ideas resolved into different aspects of the relation between soul and
body, 263—Dialectic dissolution of the four fundamental contrasts
between reality and appearance, 263—Mind as an intermediary between
the Ideas and the external world, 265—Cosmogony of the _Timaeus_,
265—Philosophy and theology, 267.

IX. Plato’s hopes from a beneficent despotism, 268—The _Laws_,
269—Concessions to current modes of thought, 270—Religious
intolerance, 271—Recapitulation of Plato’s achievements,
272—Fertility of his method, 273.


CHAPTER VI.

CHARACTERISTICS OF ARISTOTLE    pages 275-329

I. Recent Aristotelian literature, 275—Reaction in favour of
Aristotle’s philosophy, 277—and accompanying misinterpretation of its
meaning, 278—Zeller’s partiality for Aristotle, 280.

II. Life of Aristotle, 280—His relation to Plato, 281-Aristotle and
Hermeias; 284—Aristotle and Alexander, 285—Aristotle’s residence
in Athens, flight, and death, 288—His choice of a successor,
288—Provisions of his will, 289—Personal appearance, 289—Anecdotes
illustrating his character, 290—Want of self-reliance and originality,
291.

III. Prevalent misconception of the difference between Aristotle
and Plato, 291—Plato a practical, Aristotle a theoretical genius,
293—Contrast offered by their views of theology, ethics, and politics,
294—Aristotle’s ideal of a State, 296—His want of political insight
and prevision, 297—Worthlessness of his theories at the present day,
298.

IV. Strength and weakness of Aristotle’s _Rhetoric_, 299—Erroneous
theory of aesthetic enjoyment put forward in his _Poetics_, 300—The
true nature of tragic emotion, 303—Importance of female characters
in tragedy, 303—Necessity of poetic injustice, 305—Theory of the
Catharsis, 306—Aristotle’s rules for reasoning compiled from Plato,
307—The _Organon_ in Ceylon, 307.

V. Aristotle’s unequalled intellectual enthusiasm, 308—Illustrations
from his writings, 309—His total failure in every physical science
except zoology and anatomy, 311—His repeated rejection of the just
views put forward by other philosophers, 312—Complete antithesis
between his theory of Nature and ours, 316.

VI. Supreme mastery shown by Aristotle in dealing with the surface of
things, 318—His inability to go below the surface, 319—In what points
he was inferior to his predecessors, 320—His standpoint necessarily
determined by the development of Greek thought, 321—Analogous
development of the Attic drama, 323.

VII. Periodical return to the Aristotelian method, 325—The
systematising power of Aristotle exemplified in all his writings,
326—but chiefly in those relating to the descriptive sciences,
327—His biological generalisations, 328—How they are explained and
corrected by the theory of evolution, 329.


CHAPTER VII.

THE SYSTEMATIC PHILOSOPHY OF ARISTOTLE    pages 330-402

I. Homogeneity of Aristotle’s writings, 330—The _Metaphysics_,
331—What are the causes and principles of things? 331—Objections
to the Ionian materialism, 332—Aristotle’s teleology a study of
functions, 332—Illegitimate generalisation to the inorganic world,
333—Aristotle’s Four Causes, 334—Derivation of his substantial Forms
from the Platonic Ideas, 335—His criticism of the Ideal theory,
336—Its applicability to every kind of transcendental realism,
338—Survival of the Platonic theory in Aristotle’s system, 338.

II. Specific forms assumed by the fundamental dualism of Greek
thought, 339—Stress laid by Aristotle on the antithesis between Being
and not Being, 339—Its formulation in the highest laws of logic,
340—Intermediate character ascribed to accidents, 340—Distinction
between truth and real existence, 341—The Categories: their import
and derivation, 341—Analysis of the idea of Substance, 343—Analysis
of individuality, 345—Substitution of Possibility and Actuality for
Matter and Form, 346—Purely verbal significance of this doctrine,
347—Motion as the transformation of Power into Act, 347.

III. Aristotle’s theology founded on a dynamical misconception,
348—Necessity of a Prime Mover, 349—Aristotle not a pantheist
but a theist, 350—Mistaken interpretation of Sir A. Grant,
351—Inconsistency of Aristotle’s metaphysics with Catholic theology,
352—and with the modern arguments for the existence of a God, 353—as
well as with the conclusions of modern science, 353—Self-contradictory
character of his system, 354—Motives by which it may be explained,
354—The Greek star-worship and the Christian heaven, 356—Higher
position given to the earth by Copernicus, 356—Aristotle’s
glorification of the heavens, 357—How his astronomy illustrates the
Greek ideas of circumscription and mediation, 358.

IV. Aristotle’s general principle of systematisation, 359—Deduction
of the Four Elements, 360—Connexion of the Peripatetic physics with
astrology and alchemy, 361—Revolution effected by modern science,
361—Systematisation of biology, 362—Aristotle on the Generation of
Animals, 363—His success in comparative anatomy, 364.

V. Antithetical framework of Aristotle’s psychology, 365—His theory
of sensation contrasted with that of the Atomists, 365—His successful
treatment of imagination and memory, 366—How general ideas are
formed, 366—The active Nous is a self-conscious idea, 367—The train
of thought which led to this theory, 368—Meaning of the passage in
the _Generation of Animals_, 369—Supposed refutation of materialism,
370—Aristotle not an adherent of Ferrier, 371—Form and matter not
distinguished as subject and object, 373—Aristotle rejects the
doctrine of personal immortality, 374.

VI. Aristotle’s logic, 375—Subordination of judgments to concepts,
376—Science as a process of definition and classification,
377—Aristotle’s theory of propositions, 378—His conceptual analysis
of the syllogism, 379—Influence of Aristotle’s metaphysics on his
logic, 380—Disjunction the primordial form of all reasoning, 381—How
it gives rise to hypothetical and categorical reasoning, 382.

VII. Theory of applied reasoning: distinction between demonstration and
dialectic, 383—Aristotle places abstractions above reasoned truth,
384—Neglect of axioms in comparison with definitions, 384—‘Laws
of nature’ not recognised by Aristotle, 385—He failed to perceive
the value of deductive reasoning, 387—Derivation of generals from
particulars: Aristotle and Mill, 387—In what sense Aristotle was
an empiricist, 390—Examination of Zeller’s view, 391—Induction as
the analysis of the middle term into the extremes, 393—Theory of
experimental reasoning contained in the _Topics_, 394.

VIII. Systematic treatment of the antithesis between Reason and
Passion, 395—Relation between the _Rhetoric_ and the _Ethics_,
395—Artificial treatment of the virtues, 396—Fallacious opposition
of Wisdom to Temperance, 397—Central idea of the _Politics_: the
distinction between the intellectual state and the material state,
398—Consistency of the _Poetics_ with Aristotle’s system as a whole,
399.

IX. Aristotle’s philosophy a valuable corrective to the modern
glorification of material industry, 399—Leisure a necessary condition
of intellectual progress, 400—How Aristotle would view the results of
modern civilisation, 401.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Die Philosophie der Griechen_, III., a, pp. 5 f.

[2] If I remember rightly, Polybius makes the same observation, but I
cannot recall the exact reference.

[3] _Sophist_, 243, A.

[4] See especially the interesting note on the subject in his recent
work, _Die wirkliche und die scheinbare Welt_, Vorrede, pp x. ff.




ADDITIONAL REFERENCES.

 Transcriber’s Note: These have been marked up as footnotes in the
 text, using alphabetic coding. This identifies the page and line number
 rather than any precise text.

[A] Page 9, line 18. Plutarch (_ut fertur_), _Plac. Phil._, I., iii., 4.

[B] Page 15, line 26. Xenophanes, _Fragm._ 19 and 21, ed. Mullach.

[C] Page 41, line 25. Diogenes Laert., IX., 34. The words ‘in the
Eastern countries where he had travelled,’ are a conjectural addition,
but they seem justified by the context.

[D] Page 43, line 11. Plutarch, _Pericles_, iv.

[E] Page 65. For the story of Glaucus, see Herodotus VI., lxxxvi.

[F] Page 77, line 21. Plato, _Protag._, 315, D.

[G] Page 78, line 1. _Ibid._, 341, A.

[H] Page 103. For the opinion of Socrates respecting the Sophists, see
Xenophon, _Mem._, I., vi., 11 ff.

[I] Page 114, line 4. Xenophon, _Mem._, I., iv., 1.

[J] Page 194, line 28. _Repub._, 493, A; _ibid._, line 33. Gorgias,
521, E.

[K] Page 195, line 23. _Theaetêt._, 175, A and 174, E. Jowett’s
Transl., IV., p. 325.

[L] Page 233, last line. _Sophist._, 246, D.

[M] Page 294, line 7. For Plato’s preference of practice to
contemplation, see _Repub._, 496, E.




THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS.




CHAPTER I.

EARLY GREEK THOUGHT.


I.

During the two centuries that ended with the close of the Peloponnesian
war, a single race, weak numerically, and weakened still further
by political disunion, simultaneously developed all the highest
human faculties to an extent possibly rivalled but certainly not
surpassed by the collective efforts of that vastly greater population
which now wields the accumulated resources of modern Europe. This
race, while maintaining a precarious foothold on the shores of the
Mediterranean by repeated prodigies of courage and genius, contributed
a new element to civilisation which has been the mainspring of all
subsequent progress, but which, as it expanded into wider circles and
encountered an increasing resistance from without, unavoidably lost
some of the enormous elasticity that characterised its earliest and
most concentrated reaction. It was the just boast of the Greek that
to Asiatic refinement and Thracian valour he joined a disinterested
thirst for knowledge unshared by his neighbours on either side.[5] And
if a contemporary of Pericles could have foreseen all that would be
thought, and said, and done during the next twenty-three centuries
of this world’s existence, at no period during that long lapse of
ages, not even among the kindred Italian race, could he have found
a competitor to contest with Hellas the olive crown of a nobler
Olympia, the guerdon due to a unique combination of supreme excellence
in every variety of intellectual exercise, in strategy, diplomacy,
statesmanship; in mathematical science, architecture, plastic art, and
poetry; in the severe fidelity of the historian whose paramount object
is to relate facts as they have occurred, and the dexterous windings
of the advocate whose interest leads him to evade or to disguise
them; in the far-reaching meditations of the lonely thinker grappling
with the enigmas of his own soul, and the fervid eloquence by which a
multitude on whose decision hang great issues is inspired, directed,
or controlled. He would not, it is true, have found any single Greek
to pit against the athletes of the Renaissance; there were none who
displayed that universal genius so characteristic of the greatest
Tuscan artists such as Lionardo and Michael Angelo; nor, to take a much
narrower range, did a single Greek writer whose compositions have come
down to us excel, or even attempt to excel, in poetry and prose alike.
But our imaginary prophet might have observed that such versatility
better befitted a sophist like Hippias or an adventurer like Critias
than an earnest master of the Pheidian type. He might have quoted
Pindar’s sarcasm about highly educated persons who have an infinity
of tastes and bring none of them to perfection;[6] holding, as Plato
did in the next generation, that one man can only do one thing well,
he might have added that the heroes of modern art would have done much
nobler work had they concentrated their powers on a single task instead
of attempting half a dozen and leaving most of them incomplete.

This careful restriction of individual effort to a single province
involved no dispersion or incoherence in the results achieved. The
highest workers were all animated by a common spirit. Each represented
some one aspect of the glory and greatness participated in by all. Nor
was the collective consciousness, the uniting sympathy, limited to a
single sphere. It rose, by a graduated series, from the city community,
through the Dorian or Ionian stock with which they claimed more
immediate kinship, to the Panhellenic race, the whole of humanity, and
the divine fatherhood of Zeus, until it rested in that all-embracing
nature which Pindar knew as the one mother of gods and men.[7]

We may, perhaps, find some suggestion of this combined distinctness and
comprehensiveness in the aspect and configuration of Greece itself;
in its manifold varieties of soil, and climate, and scenery, and
productions; in the exquisite clearness with which the features of its
landscape are defined; and the admirable development of coast-line by
which all parts of its territory, while preserving their political
independence, were brought into safe and speedy communication with
one another. The industrial and commercial habits of the people,
necessitating a well-marked division of labour and a regulated
distribution of commodities, gave a further impulse in the same
direction.

But what afforded the most valuable education in this sense was their
system of free government, involving, as it did, the supremacy of an
impersonal law, the subdivision of public authority among a number of
magistrates, and the assignment to each of certain carefully defined
functions which he was forbidden to exceed; together with the living
interest felt by each citizen in the welfare of the whole state, and
that conception of it as a whole composed of various parts, which is
impossible where all the public powers are collected in a single hand.

A people so endowed were the natural creators of philosophy. There
came a time when the harmonious universality of the Hellenic genius
sought for its counterpart and completion in a theory of the external
world. And there came a time, also, when the decay of political
interests left a large fund of intellectual energy, accustomed to work
under certain conditions, with the desire to realise those conditions
in an ideal sphere. Such is the most general significance we can
attach to that memorable series of speculations on the nature of
things which, beginning in Ionia, was carried by the Greek colonists
to Italy and Sicily, whence, after receiving important additions and
modifications, the stream of thought flowed back into the old country,
where it was directed into an entirely new channel by the practical
genius of Athens. Thales and his successors down to Democritus were
not exactly what we should call philosophers, in any sense of the
word that would include a Locke or a Hume, and exclude a Boyle or a
Black; for their speculations never went beyond the confines of the
material universe; they did not even suspect the existence of those
ethical and dialectical problems which long constituted the sole
object of philosophical discussion, and have continued since the
time when they were first mooted to be regarded as its most peculiar
province. Nor yet can we look on them altogether or chiefly as men of
science, for their paramount purpose was to gather up the whole of
knowledge under a single principle; and they sought to realise this
purpose, not by observation and experiment, but by the power of thought
alone. It would, perhaps, be truest to say that from their point of
view philosophy and science were still undifferentiated, and that
knowledge as a universal synthesis was not yet divorced from special
investigations into particular orders of phenomena. Here, as elsewhere,
advancing reason tends to reunite studies which have been provisionally
separated, and we must look to our own contemporaries—to our Tyndalls
and Thomsons, our Helmholtzes and Zöllners—as furnishing the fittest
parallel to Anaximander and Empedocles, Leucippus and Diogenes of
Apollonia.

It has been the fashion in certain quarters to look down on these
early thinkers—to depreciate the value of their speculations because
they were thinkers, because, as we have already noticed, they reached
their most important conclusions by thinking, the means of truly
scientific observation not being within their reach. Nevertheless,
they performed services to humanity comparable for value with the
legislation of Solon and Cleisthenes, or the victories of Marathon
and Salamis; while their creative imagination was not inferior to
that of the great lyric and dramatic poets, the great architects and
sculptors, whose contemporaries they were. They first taught men to
distinguish between the realities of nature and the illusions of sense;
they discovered or divined the indestructibility of matter and its
atomic constitution; they taught that space is infinite, a conception
so far from being self-evident that it transcended the capacity of
Aristotle to grasp; they held that the seemingly eternal universe was
brought into its present form by the operation of mechanical forces
which will also effect its dissolution; confronted by the seeming
permanence and solidity of our planet, with the innumerable varieties
of life to be found on its surface, they declared that all things had
arisen by differentiation[8] from a homogeneous attenuated vapour;
while one of them went so far as to surmise that man is descended from
an aquatic animal. But higher still than these fragmentary glimpses
and anticipations of a theory which still awaits confirmation from
experience, we must place their central doctrine, that the universe
is a cosmos, an ordered whole governed by number and law, not a blind
conflict of semi-conscious agents, or a theatre for the arbitrary
interference of partial, jealous, and vindictive gods; that its
changes are determined, if at all, by an immanent unchanging reason;
and that those celestial luminaries which had drawn to themselves in
every age the unquestioning worship of all mankind were, in truth,
nothing more than fiery masses of inanimate matter. Thus, even if the
early Greek thinkers were not scientific, they first made science
possible by substituting for a theory of the universe which is its
direct negation, one that methodised observation has increasingly
tended to confirm. The garland of poetic praise woven by Lucretius
for his adored master should have been dedicated to them, and to them
alone. His noble enthusiasm was really inspired by their lessons, not
by the wearisome trifling of a moralist who knew little and cared less
about those studies in which the whole soul of his Roman disciple was
absorbed.

When the power and value of these primitive speculations can no longer
be denied, their originality is sometimes questioned by the systematic
detractors of everything Hellenic. Thales and the rest, we are told,
simply borrowed their theories without acknowledgment from a storehouse
of Oriental wisdom on which the Greeks are supposed to have drawn as
freely as Coleridge drew on German philosophy. Sometimes each system is
affiliated to one of the great Asiatic religions; sometimes they are
all traced back to the schools of Hindostan. It is natural that no two
critics should agree, when the rival explanations are based on nothing
stronger than superficial analogies and accidental coincidences. Dr.
Zeller in his wonderfully learned, clear, and sagacious work on Greek
philosophy, has carefully sifted some of the hypotheses referred to,
and shown how destitute they are of internal or external evidence,
and how utterly they fail to account for the facts. The oldest and
best authorities, Plato and Aristotle, knew nothing about such a
derivation of Greek thought from Eastern sources. Isocrates does,
indeed, mention that Pythagoras borrowed his philosophy from Egypt,
but Isocrates did not even pretend to be a truthful narrator. No Greek
of the early period except those regularly domiciled in Susa seems to
have been acquainted with any language but his own. Few travelled very
far into Asia, and of those few, only one or two were philosophers.
Democritus, who visited more foreign countries than any man of his
time, speaks only of having discussed mathematical problems with the
wise men whom he encountered; and even in mathematics he was at least
their equal.[9] It was precisely at the greatest distance from Asia,
in Italy and Sicily, that the systems arose which seem to have most
analogy with Asiatic modes of thought. Can we suppose that the traders
of those times were in any way qualified to transport the speculations
of Confucius and the Vedas to such a distance from their native homes?
With far better reason might one expect a German merchant to carry a
knowledge of Kant’s philosophy from Königsberg to Canton. But a more
convincing argument than any is to show that Greek philosophy in its
historical evolution exhibits a perfectly natural and spontaneous
progress from simpler to more complex forms, and that system grew out
of system by a strictly logical process of extension, analysis, and
combination. This is what, chiefly under the guidance of Zeller, we
shall now attempt to do.


II.

Thales, of Miletus, an Ionian geometrician and astronomer, about whose
age considerable uncertainty prevails, but who seems to have flourished
towards the close of the seventh century before our era, is by general
consent regarded as the father of Greek physical philosophy. Others
before him had attempted to account for the world’s origin, but none
like him had traced it back to a purely natural beginning. According
to Thales all things have come from water. That the earth is entirely
enclosed by water above and below as well as all round was perhaps a
common notion among the Western Asiatics. It was certainly believed
by the Hebrews, as we learn from the accounts of the creation and the
flood contained in Genesis. The Milesian thinker showed his originality
by generalising still further and declaring that not only did water
surround all things, but that all things were derived from it as their
first cause and substance, that water was, so to speak, the material
absolute. Never have more pregnant words been spoken; they acted like
a ferment on the Greek mind; they were the grain whence grew a tree
that has overshadowed the whole earth. At one stroke they substituted
a comparatively scientific, because a verifiable principle for the
confused fancies of mythologising poets. Not that Thales was an
atheist, or an agnostic, or anything of that sort. On the contrary, he
is reported to have said that all things were full of gods; and the
report sounds credible enough. Most probably the saying was a protest
against the popular limitation of divine agencies to certain special
occasions and favoured localities. A true thinker seeks above all for
consistency and continuity. He will more readily accept a perpetual
stream of creative energy than a series of arbitrary and isolated
interferences with the course of Nature. For the rest, Thales made
no attempt to explain how water came to be transformed into other
substances, nor is it likely that the necessity of such an explanation
had ever occurred to him. We may suspect that he and others after him
were not capable of distinguishing very clearly between such notions
as space, time, cause, substance, and limit. It is almost as difficult
for us to enter into the thoughts of these primitive philosophers as it
would have been for them to comprehend processes of reasoning already
familiar to Plato and Aristotle. Possibly the forms under which we
arrange our conceptions may become equally obsolete at a more advanced
stage of intellectual evolution, and our sharp distinctions may prove
to be not less artificial than the confused identifications which they
have superseded.

The next great forward step in speculation was taken by Anaximander,
another Milesian, also of distinguished attainments in mathematics
and astronomy. We have seen that to Thales water, the all-embracing
element, became, as such, the first cause of all things, the absolute
principle of existence. His successor adopted the same general point
of view, but looked out from it with a more penetrating gaze. Beyond
water lay something else which he called the Infinite. He did not mean
the empty abstraction which has stalked about in modern times under
that ill-omened name, nor yet did he mean infinite space, but something
richer and more concrete than either; a storehouse of materials whence
the waste of existence could be perpetually made good. The growth
and decay of individual forms involve a ceaseless drain on Nature,
and the deficiency must be supplied by a corresponding influx from
without.[A] For, be it observed that, although the Greek thinkers were
at this period well aware that nothing can come from nothing, they had
not yet grasped the complementary truth inalienably wedded to it by
Lucretius in one immortal couplet, that nothing can return to nothing;
and Kant is quite mistaken when he treats the two as historically
inseparable. Common experience forces the one on our attention much
sooner than the other. Our incomings are very strictly measured out and
accounted for without difficulty, while it is hard to tell what becomes
of all our expenditure, physical and economical. Yet, although the
indestructibility of matter was a conception which had not yet dawned
on Anaximander, he seems to have been feeling his way towards the
recognition of a circulatory movement pervading all Nature. Everything,
he says, must at last be reabsorbed in the Infinite as a punishment for
the sin of its separate existence.[10] Some may find in this sentiment
a note of Oriental mysticism. Rather does its very sadness illustrate
the healthy vitality of Greek feeling, to which absorption seemed like
the punishment of a crime against the absolute, and not, as to so many
Asiatics, the crown and consummation of spiritual perfection. Be this
as it may, a doctrine which identified the death of the whole world
with its reabsorption into a higher reality would soon suggest the idea
that its component parts vanish only to reappear in new combinations.

Anaximander’s system was succeeded by a number of others which cannot
be arranged according to any order of linear progression. Such
arrangements are, indeed, false in principle. Intellectual life, like
every other life, is a product of manifold conditions, and their varied
combinations are certain to issue in a corresponding multiplicity of
effects. Anaximenes, a fellow-townsman of Anaximander, followed most
closely in the footsteps of the master. Attempting, as it would appear,
to mediate between his two predecessors, he chose air for a primal
element. Air is more omnipresent than water, which, as well as earth,
is enclosed within its plastic sphere. On the other hand, it is more
tangible and concrete than the Infinite, or may even be substituted for
that conception by supposing it to extend as far as thought can reach.
As before, cosmogony grows out of cosmography; the enclosing element is
the parent of those embraced within it.

Speculation now leaves its Asiatic cradle and travels with the Greek
colonists to new homes in Italy and Sicily, where new modes of thought
were fostered by a new environment. A name, round which mythical
accretions have gathered so thickly that the original nucleus of fact
almost defies definition, first claims our attention. Aristotle, as
is well known, avoids mentioning Pythagoras, and always speaks of the
Pythagoreans when he is discussing the opinions held by a certain
Italian school. Their doctrine, whoever originated it, was that all
things are made out of number. Brandis regards Pythagoreanism as an
entirely original effort of speculation, standing apart from the main
current of Hellenic thought, and to be studied without reference to
Ionian philosophy. Zeller, with more plausibility, treats it as an
outgrowth of Anaximander’s system. In that system the finite and the
infinite remained opposed to one another as unreconciled moments of
thought. Number, according to the Greek arithmeticians, was a synthesis
of the two, and therefore superior to either. To a Pythagorean the
finite and the infinite were only one among several antithetical
couples, such as odd and even, light and darkness, male and female,
and, above all, the one and the many whence every number after unity
is formed. The tendency to search for antitheses everywhere, and to
manufacture them where they do not exist, became ere long an actual
disease of the Greek mind. A Thucydides could no more have dispensed
with this cumbrous mechanism than a rope-dancer could get on without
his balancing pole; and many a schoolboy has been sorely puzzled by the
fantastic contortions which Italiote reflection imposed for a time on
Athenian oratory.

Returning to our more immediate subject, we must observe that the
Pythagoreans did not maintain, in anticipation of modern quantitative
science, that all things are determined by number, but that all
things are numbers, or are made out of numbers, two propositions not
easily distinguished by unpractised thinkers. Numbers, in a word,
were to them precisely what water had been to Thales, what air was to
Anaximenes, the absolute principle of existence; only with them the
idea of a limit, the leading inspiration of Greek thought, had reached
a higher degree of abstraction. Number was, as it were, the exterior
limit of the finite, and the interior limit of the infinite. Add to
this that mathematical studies, cultivated in Egypt and Phoenicia
for their practical utility alone, were being pursued in Hellas with
ever-increasing ardour for the sake of their own delightfulness, for
the intellectual discipline that they supplied—a discipline even
more valuable then than now, and for the insight which they bestowed,
or were believed to bestow, into the secret constitution of Nature;
and that the more complicated arithmetical operations were habitually
conducted with the aid of geometrical diagrams, thus suggesting
the possibility of applying a similar treatment to every order of
relations. Consider the lively emotions excited among an intelligent
people at a time when multiplication and division, squaring and cubing,
the rule of three, the construction and equivalence of figures, with
all their manifold applications to industry, commerce, fine art, and
tactics, were just as strange and wonderful as electrical phenomena are
to us; consider also the magical influence still commonly attributed to
particular numbers, and the intense eagerness to obtain exact numerical
statements, even when they are of no practical value, exhibited by all
who are thrown back on primitive ways of living, as, for example, in
Alpine travelling, or on board an Atlantic steamer, and we shall cease
to wonder that a mere form of thought, a lifeless abstraction, should
once have been regarded as the solution of every problem, the cause of
all existence; or that these speculations were more than once revived
in after ages, and perished only with Greek philosophy itself.

We have not here to examine the scientific achievements of Pythagoras
and his school; they belong to the history of science, not to that
of pure thought, and therefore lie outside the present discussion.
Something, however, must be said of Pythagoreanism as a scheme of
moral, religious, and social reform. Alone among the pre-Socratic
systems, it undertook to furnish a rule of conduct as well as a theory
of being. Yet, as Zeller has pointed out,[11] it was only an apparent
anomaly, for the ethical teaching of the Pythagoreans was not based
on their physical theories, except in so far as a deep reverence for
law and order was common to both. Perhaps, also, the separation of
soul and body, with the ascription of a higher dignity to the former,
which was a distinctive tenet of the school, may be paralleled with
the position given to number as a kind of spiritual power creating
and controlling the world of sense. So also political power was to be
entrusted to an aristocracy trained in every noble accomplishment,
and fitted for exercising authority over others by self-discipline,
by mutual fidelity, and by habitual obedience to a rule of right.
Nevertheless, we must look, with Zeller, for the true source of
Pythagoreanism as a moral movement in that great wave of religious
enthusiasm which swept over Hellas during the sixth century before
Christ, intimately associated with the importation of Apollo-worship
from Lycia, with the concentration of spiritual authority in the
oracular shrine of Delphi, and the political predominance of the
Dorian race, those Normans of the ancient world. Legend has thrown
this connexion into a poetical form by making Pythagoras the son of
Apollo; and the Samian sage, although himself an Ionian, chose the
Dorian cities of Southern Italy as a favourable field for his new
teaching, just as Calvinism found a readier acceptance in the advanced
posts of the Teutonic race than among the people whence its founder
sprang. Perhaps the nearest parallel, although on a far more extensive
scale, for the religious movement of which we are speaking, is the
spectacle offered by mediaeval Europe during the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries of our era, when a series of great Popes had concentrated
all spiritual power in their own hands, and were sending forth army
after army of Crusaders to the East; when all Western Europe had
awakened to the consciousness of its common Christianity, and each
individual was thrilled by a sense of the tremendous alternatives
committed to his choice; when the Dominican and Franciscan orders
were founded; when Gothic architecture and Florentine painting arose;
when the Troubadours and Minnesängers were pouring out their notes
of scornful or tender passion, and the love of the sexes had become a
sentiment as lofty and enduring as the devotion of friend to friend
had been in Greece of old. The bloom of Greek religious enthusiasm
was more exquisite and evanescent than that of feudal Catholicism;
inferior in pure spirituality and of more restricted significance as
a factor in the evolution of humanity, it at least remained free from
the ecclesiastical tyranny, the murderous fanaticism, and the unlovely
superstitions of mediaeval faith. But polytheism under any form was
fatally incapable of coping with the new spirit of enquiry awakened by
philosophy, and the old myths, with their naturalistic crudities, could
not long satisfy the reason and conscience of thinkers who had learned
in another school to seek everywhere for a central unity of control,
and to bow their imaginations before the passionless perfection of
eternal law.


III.

Such a thinker was Xenophanes, of Colophon. Driven, like Pythagoras,
from his native city by civil discords, he spent the greater part of
an unusually protracted life wandering through the Greek colonies of
Sicily and Southern Italy, and reciting his own verses, not always,
as it would appear, to a very attentive audience. Elea, an Italiote
city, seems to have been his favourite resort, and the school of
philosophy which he founded there has immortalised the name of this
otherwise obscure Phocaean settlement. Enough remains of his verses to
show with what terrible strength of sarcasm he assailed the popular
religion of Hellas. ‘Homer and Hesiod,’ he exclaims, ‘have attributed
to the gods everything that is a shame and reproach among men—theft,
adultery, and mutual deception.’[12] Nor is Xenophanes content with
attacking these unedifying stories, he strikes at the anthropomorphic
conceptions which lay at their root. ‘Mortals think that the gods have
senses, and a voice and a body like their own. The negroes fancy that
their deities are black-skinned and snub-nosed, the Thracians give
theirs fair hair and blue eyes; if horses or lions had hands and could
paint, they too would make gods in their own image.’[13] It was, he
declared, as impious to believe in the birth of a god as to believe
in the possibility of his death. The current polytheism was equally
false. ‘There is one Supreme God among gods and men, unlike mortals
both in mind and body.’[14] There can be only one God, for God is
Omnipotent, so that there must be none to dispute his will. He must
also be perfectly homogeneous, shaped like a sphere, seeing, hearing,
and thinking with every part alike, never moving from place to place,
but governing all things by an effortless exercise of thought. Had such
daring heresies been promulgated in democratic Athens, their author
would probably have soon found himself and his works handed over to the
tender mercies of the Eleven. Happily at Elea, and in most other Greek
states, the gods were left to take care of themselves.

Xenophanes does not seem to have been ever molested on account of
his religious opinions. He complains bitterly enough that people
preferred fiction to philosophy, that uneducated athletes engrossed
far too much popular admiration, that he, Xenophanes, was not
sufficiently appreciated;[B] but of theological intolerance, so
far as our information goes, he says not one single word. It will
easily be conceived that the rapid progress of Greek speculation
was singularly favoured by such unbounded freedom of thought and
speech. The views just set forth have often been regarded as a step
towards spiritualistic monotheism, and so, considered in the light of
subsequent developments, they unquestionably were. Still, looking at
the matter from another aspect, we may say that Xenophanes, when he
shattered the idols of popular religion, was returning to the past
rather than anticipating the future; feeling his way back to the
deeper, more primordial faith of the old Aryan race, or even of that
still older stock whence Aryan and Turanian alike diverged. He turns
from the brilliant, passionate, fickle Dyaus, to Zên, or Ten, the
ever-present, all-seeing, all-embracing, immovable vault of heaven.
Aristotle, with a sympathetic insight unfortunately too rare in his
criticisms on earlier systems, observes that Xenophanes did not make
it clear whether the absolute unity he taught was material or ideal,
but simply looked up at the whole heaven and declared that the One
was God.[15] Aristotle was himself the real creator of philosophic
monotheism, just because the idea of living, self-conscious personality
had a greater value, a profounder meaning for him than for any other
thinker of antiquity, one may almost say than for any other thinker
whatever. It is, therefore, a noteworthy circumstance that, while
warmly acknowledging the anticipations of Anaxagoras, he nowhere speaks
of Xenophanes as a predecessor in the same line of enquiry. The latter
might be called a pantheist were it not that pantheism belongs to a
much later stage of speculation, one, in fact, not reached by the Greek
mind at any period of its development. His leading conception was
obscured by a confusion of mythological with purely physical ideas, and
could only bear full fruit when the religious element had been entirely
eliminated from its composition. This elimination was accomplished
by a far greater thinker, one who combined poetic inspiration with
philosophic depth; who was penetrating enough to discern the logical
consequences involved in a fundamental principle of thought, and bold
enough to push them to their legitimate conclusions without caring for
the shock to sense and common opinion that his merciless dialectic
might inflict.

Parmenides, of Elea, flourished towards the beginning of the fifth
century B.C. We know very little about his personal history.
According to Plato, he visited Athens late in life, and there made
the acquaintance of Socrates, at that time a very young man. But an
unsupported statement of Plato’s must always be received with extreme
caution; and this particular story is probably not less fictitious than
the dialogue which it serves to introduce. Parmenides embodied his
theory of the world in a poem, the most important passages of which
have been preserved. They show that, while continuing the physical
studies of his predecessors, he proceeded on an entirely different
method. Their object was to deduce every variety of natural phenomena
from a fundamental unity of substance. He declared that all variety and
change were a delusion, and that nothing existed but one indivisible,
unalterable, absolute reality; just as Descartes’ antithesis of thought
and extension disappeared in the infinite substance of Spinoza, or as
the Kantian dualism of object and subject was eliminated in Hegel’s
absolute idealism. Again, Parmenides does not dogmatise to the same
extent as his predecessors; he attempts to demonstrate his theory by
the inevitable necessities of being and thought. Existence, he tells
us over and over again, _is_, and non-existence is not, cannot even
be imagined or thought of as existing, for thought is the same as
being. This is not an anticipation of Hegel’s identification of being
with thought; it only amounts to the very innocent proposition that
a thought is something and about something—enters, therefore, into
the general undiscriminated mass of being. He next proceeds to prove
that what is can neither come into being nor pass out of it again.
It cannot come out of the non-existent, for that is inconceivable;
nor out of the existent, for nothing exists but being itself; and the
same argument proves that it cannot cease to exist. Here we find the
indestructibility of matter, a truth which Anaximander had not yet
grasped, virtually affirmed for the first time in history. We find
also that our philosopher is carried away by the enthusiasm of a new
discovery, and covers more ground than he can defend in maintaining
the permanence of all existence whatever. The reason is that to him,
as to every other thinker of the pre-Socratic period, all existence
was material, or, rather, all reality was confounded under one vague
conception, of which visible resisting extension supplied the most
familiar type. To proceed: Being cannot be divided from being, nor is
it capable of condensation or expansion (as the Ionians had taught);
there is nothing by which it can be separated or held apart; nor is it
ever more or less existent, but all is full of being. Parmenides goes
on in his grand style:—

    ‘Therefore the whole extends continuously,
    Being by Being set; immovable,
    Subject to the constraint of mighty laws;
    Both increate and indestructible,
    Since birth and death have wandered far away
    By true conviction into exile driven;
    The same, in self-same place, and by itself
    Abiding, doth abide most firmly fixed,
    And bounded round by strong Necessity.
    Wherefore a holy law forbids that Being
    Should be without an end, else want were there,
    And want of that would be a want of all.’[16]

Thus does the everlasting Greek love of order, definition, limitation,
reassert its supremacy over the intelligence of this noble thinker,
just as his almost mystical enthusiasm has reached its highest pitch
of exaltation, giving him back a world which thought can measure,
circumscribe, and control.

Being, then, is finite in extent, and, as a consequence of its absolute
homogeneity, spherical in form. There is good reason for believing that
the earth’s true figure was first discovered in the fifth century B.C.,
but whether it was suggested by the _à priori_ theories of Parmenides,
or was generalised by him into a law of the whole universe, or whether
there was more than an accidental connexion between the two hypotheses,
we cannot tell. Aristotle, at any rate, was probably as much indebted
to the Eleatic system as to contemporary astronomy for his theory
of a finite spherical universe. It will easily be observed that the
distinction between space and matter, so obvious to us, and even to
Greek thinkers of a later date, had not yet dawned upon Parmenides.
As applied to the former conception, most of his affirmations are
perfectly correct, but his belief in the finiteness of Being can only
be justified on the supposition that Being is identified with matter.
For it must be clearly understood (and Zeller has the great merit of
having proved this fact by incontrovertible arguments)[17] that the
Eleatic Being was not a transcendental conception, nor an abstract
unity, as Aristotle erroneously supposed, nor a Kantian noumenon, nor
a spiritual essence of any kind, but a phenomenal reality of the most
concrete description. We can only not call Parmenides a materialist,
because materialism implies a negation of spiritualism, which in his
time had not yet come into existence. He tells us plainly that a man’s
thoughts result from the conformation of his body, and are determined
by the preponderating element in its composition. Not much, however,
can be made of this rudimentary essay in psychology, connected as it
seems to be with an appendix to the teaching of our philosopher, in
which he accepts the popular dualism, although still convinced of its
falsity, and uses it, under protest, as an explanation of that very
genesis which he had rejected as impossible.

As might be expected, the Parmenidean paradoxes provoked a considerable
amount of contradiction and ridicule. The Reids and Beatties of that
time drew sundry absurd consequences from the new doctrine, and offered
them as a sufficient refutation of its truth. Zeno, a young friend and
favourite of Parmenides, took up arms in his master’s defence, and
sought to prove with brilliant dialectical ability that consequences
still more absurd might be deduced from the opposite belief. He
originated a series of famous puzzles respecting the infinite
divisibility of matter and the possibility of motion, subsequently
employed as a disproof of all certainty by the Sophists and Sceptics,
and occasionally made to serve as arguments on behalf of agnosticism
by writers of our own time. Stated generally, they may be reduced to
two. A whole composed of parts and divisible _ad infinitum_ must be
either infinitely great or infinitely little; infinitely great if its
parts have magnitude, infinitely little if they have not. A moving body
can never come to the end of a given line, for it must first traverse
half the line, then half the remainder, and so on for ever. Aristotle
thought that the difficulty about motion could be solved by taking the
infinite divisibility of time into account; and Coleridge, according to
his custom, repeated the explanation without acknowledgment. But Zeno
would have refused to admit that any infinite series could come to an
end, whether it was composed of successive or of co-existent parts. So
long as the abstractions of our understanding are treated as separate
entities, these and similar puzzles will continue to exercise the
ingenuity of metaphysicians. Our present business, however, is not to
solve Zeno’s difficulties, but to show how they illustrate a leading
characteristic of Greek thought, its tendency to perpetual analysis,
a tendency not limited to the philosophy of the Greeks, but pervading
the whole of their literature and even of their art. Homer carefully
distinguishes the successive steps of every action, and leads up to
every catastrophe by a series of finely graduated transitions. Like
Zeno, again, he pursues a system of dichotomy, passing rapidly over the
first half of his subject, and relaxes the speed of his narrative by
going into ever-closer detail until the consummation is reached. Such
a poem as the ‘Achilleis’ of modern critics would have been perfectly
intolerable to a Greek, from the too rapid and uniform march of its
action. Herodotus proceeds after a precisely similar fashion, advancing
from a broad and free treatment of history to elaborate minuteness of
detail. So, too, a Greek temple divides itself into parts so distinct,
yet so closely connected, that the eye, after separating, as easily
recombines them into a whole. The evolution of Greek music tells the
same tale of progressive subdivision, which is also illustrated by the
passage from long speeches to single lines, and from these again to
half lines in the dialogue of a Greek drama. No other people could have
created mathematical demonstration, for no other would have had skill
and patience enough to discover the successive identities interposed
between and connecting the sides of an equation. The dialectic of
Socrates and Plato, the somewhat wearisome distinctions of Aristotle,
and, last of all, the fine-spun series of triads inserted by Proclus
between the superessential One and the fleeting world of sense,—were
all products of the same fundamental tendency, alternately most
fruitful and most barren in its results. It may be objected that Zeno,
so far from obeying this tendency, followed a diametrically opposite
principle, that of absolutely unbroken continuity. True; but the
‘Eleatic Palamedes’ fought his adversaries with a weapon wrested out
of their own hands; rejecting analysis as a law of real existence, he
continued to employ it as a logical artifice with greater subtlety than
had ever yet been displayed in pure speculation.[18]

Besides Zeno, Parmenides seems to have had only one disciple of
note, Melissus, the Samian statesman and general; but under various
modifications and combined with other elements, the Eleatic absolute
entered as a permanent factor into Greek speculation. From it were
lineally descended the Sphairos of Empedocles, the eternal atoms of
Leucippus, the Nous of Anaxagoras, the Megaric Good, the supreme
solar idea of Plato, the self-thinking thought of Aristotle, the
imperturbable tranquillity attributed to their model sage by Stoics
and Epicureans alike, the sovereign indifference of the Sceptics, and
finally, the Neo-platonic One. Modern philosophers have sought for
their supreme ideal in power, movement, activity, life, rather than in
any stationary substance; yet even among them we find Herbart partially
reviving the Eleatic theory, and confronting Hegel’s fluent categories
with his own inflexible monads.

We have now to study an analogous, though far less complicated,
antagonism in ancient Greece, and to show how her most brilliant period
of physical philosophy arose from the combination of two seemingly
irreconcilable systems. Parmenides, in an address supposed to be
delivered by Wisdom to her disciple, warns us against the method
pursued by ‘ignorant mortals, the blind, deaf, stupid, confused
tribes, who hold that to be and not to be are the same, and that all
things move round by an inverted path.’[19] What Parmenides denounced
as arrant nonsense was deliberately proclaimed to be the highest
truth by his illustrious contemporary, Heracleitus, of Ephesus. This
wonderful thinker is popularly known as the weeping philosopher,
because, according to a very silly tradition, he never went abroad
without shedding tears over the follies of mankind. No such mawkish
sentimentality, but bitter scorn and indignation, marked the attitude
of Heracleitus towards his fellows. A self-taught sage, he had no
respect for the accredited instructors of Hellas. ‘Much learning,’
he says, ‘does not teach reason, else it would have taught Hesiod
and Pythagoras, Xenophanes and Hecataeus.’[20] Homer, he declares,
ought to be flogged out of the public assemblages, and Archilochus
likewise. When the highest reputations met with so little mercy,
it will readily be imagined what contempt he poured on the vulgar
herd. The feelings of a high-born aristocrat combine with those of a
lofty genius to point and wing his words. ‘The many are bad and few
are the good. The best choose one thing instead of all, a perpetual
well-spring of fame, while the many glut their appetites like beasts.
One man is equal to ten thousand if he is the best.’ This contempt
was still further intensified by the very excusable incapacity of the
public to understand profound thought conveyed in a style proverbial
for its obscurity. ‘Men cannot comprehend the eternal law; when I
have explained the order of Nature they are no wiser than before.’
What, then, was this eternal law, a knowledge of which Heracleitus
found so difficult to popularise? Let us look back for a moment at
the earlier Ionian systems. They had taught that the universe arose
either by differentiation or by condensation and expansion from a
single primordial substance, into which, as Anaximander, at least,
held, everything, at last returned. Now, Heracleitus taught that this
transformation is a universal, never-ending, never-resting process;
that all things are moving; that Nature is like a stream in which no
man can bathe twice; that rest and stability are the law, not of life,
but of death. Again, the Pythagorean school, as we have seen, divided
all things into a series of sharply distinguished antithetical pairs.
Heracleitus either directly identified the terms of every opposition,
or regarded them as necessarily combined, or as continually passing
into one another. Perhaps we shall express his meaning most thoroughly
by saying that he would have looked on all three propositions as
equivalent statements of a single fact. In accordance with this
principle he calls war the father and king and lord of all, and
denounces Homer’s prayer for the abolition of strife as an unconscious
blasphemy against the universe itself. Yet, even his powerful
intellect could not grasp the conception of a shifting relativity
as the law and life of things without embodying it in a particular
material substratum. Following the Ionian tradition, he sought for a
world-element, and found it in that cosmic fire which enveloped the
terrestrial atmosphere, and of which the heavenly luminaries were
supposed to be formed. ‘Fire,’ says the Ephesian philosopher, no doubt
adapting his language to the comprehension of a great commercial
community, ‘is the general medium of exchange, as gold is given for
everything, and everything for gold.’ ‘The world was not created by any
god or any man, but always was, and is, and shall be, an ever-living
fire, periodically kindled and quenched.‘ By cooling and condensation,
water is formed from fire, and earth from water; then, by a converse
process called the way up as the other was the way down, earth again
passes into water and water into fire. At the end of certain stated
periods the whole world is to be reconverted into fire, but only to
enter on a new cycle in the series of its endless revolutions—a
conception, so far, remarkably confirmed by modern science. The whole
theory, including a future world conflagration, was afterwards adopted
by the Stoics, and probably exercised a considerable influence on the
eschatology of the early Christian Church. Imagination is obliged to
work under forms which thought has already superseded; and Heracleitus
as a philosopher had forestalled the dazzling consummation to which as
a prophet he might look forward in wonder and hope. For, his elemental
fire was only a picturesque presentation indispensable to him, but
not to us, of the sovereign law wherein all things live and move and
have their being. To have introduced such an idea into speculation
was his distinctive and inestimable achievement, although it may have
been suggested by the εἱμαρμένη or destiny of the theological poets,
a term occasionally employed in his writings. It had a moral as well
as a physical meaning, or rather it hovers ambiguously between the
two. ‘The sun shall not transgress his bounds, or the Erinyes who help
justice will find him out.’ It is the source of human laws, the common
reason which binds men together, therefore they should hold by it even
more firmly than by the laws of the State. It is not only all-wise but
all-good, even where it seems to be the reverse; for our distinctions
between good and evil, just and unjust, vanish in the divine harmony of
Nature, the concurrent energies and identifying transformations of her
universal life.

According to Aristotle, the Heracleitean flux was inconsistent with
the highest law of thought, and made all predication impossible. It
has been shown that the master himself recognised a fixed recurring
order of change which could be affirmed if nothing else could. But the
principle of change, once admitted, seemed to act like a corrosive
solvent, too powerful for any vessel to contain. Disciples were
soon found who pushed it to extreme consequences with the effect of
abolishing all certainty whatever. In Plato’s time it was impossible
to argue with a Heracleitean; he could never be tied down to a
definite statement. Every proposition became false as soon as it was
uttered, or rather before it was out of the speaker’s mouth. At last,
a distinguished teacher of the school declined to commit himself
by using words, and disputed exclusively in dumb show. A dangerous
speculative crisis had set in. At either extremity of the Hellenic
world the path of scientific inquiry was barred; on the one hand by
a theory eliminating non-existence from thought, and on the other
hand by a theory identifying it with existence. The luminous beam
of reflection had been polarised into two divergent rays, each light
where the other was dark and dark where the other was light, each
denying what the other asserted and asserting what the other denied.
For a century physical speculation had taught that the universe was
formed by the modification of a single eternal substance, whatever
that substance might be. By the end of that period, all becoming was
absorbed into being at Elea, and all being into becoming at Ephesus.
Each view contained a portion of the truth, and one which perhaps
would never have been clearly perceived if it had not been brought
into exclusive prominence. But further progress was impossible until
the two half-truths had been recombined. We may compare Parmenides and
Heracleitus to two lofty and precipitous peaks on either side of an
Alpine pass. Each commands a wide prospect, interrupted only on the
side of its opposite neighbour. And the fertilising stream of European
thought originates with neither of them singly, but has its source
midway between.


IV.

We now enter on the last period of purely objective philosophy, an
age of mediating and reconciling, but still profoundly original
speculation. Its principal representatives, with whom alone we have
to deal, are Empedocles, the Atomists, Leucippus and Democritus, and
Anaxagoras. There is considerable doubt and difficulty respecting the
order in which they should be placed. Anaxagoras was unquestionably the
oldest and Democritus the youngest of the four, the difference between
their ages being forty years. It is also nearly certain that the
Atomists came after Empedocles. But if we take a celebrated expression
of Aristotle’s[21] literally (as there is no reason why it should not
be taken), Anaxagoras, although born before Empedocles, published
his views at a later period. Was he also anticipated by Leucippus? We
cannot tell with certainty, but it seems likely from a comparison of
their doctrines that he was; and in all cases the man who naturalised
philosophy in Athens, and who by his theory of a creative reason
furnishes a transition to the age of subjective speculation, will be
most conveniently placed at the close of the pre-Socratic period.

A splendid tribute has been paid to the fame of Empedocles by
Lucretius, the greatest didactic poet of all time, and by a great
didactic poet of our own time, Mr. Matthew Arnold. But the still more
rapturous panegyric pronounced by the Roman enthusiast on Epicurus
makes his testimony a little suspicious, and the lofty chant of
our own contemporary must be taken rather as an expression of his
own youthful opinions respecting man’s place in Nature, than as a
faithful exposition of the Sicilian thinker’s creed. Many another
name from the history of philosophy might with better reason have
been prefixed to that confession of resigned and scornful scepticism
entitled _Empedocles on Etna_. The real doctrines of an essentially
religious teacher would hardly have been so cordially endorsed by
Mr. Swinburne. But perhaps no other character could have excited the
deep sympathy felt by one poetic genius for another, when with both
of them thought is habitually steeped in emotion. Empedocles was the
last Greek of any note who threw his philosophy into a metrical form.
Neither Xenophanes nor Parmenides had done this with so much success.
No less a critic than Aristotle extols the Homeric splendour of his
verses, and Lucretius, in this respect an authority, speaks of them
as almost divine. But, judging from the fragments still extant, their
speculative content exhibits a distinct decline from the height reached
by his immediate predecessors. Empedocles betrays a distrust in man’s
power of discovering truth, almost, although not quite, unknown to
them. Too much certainty would be impious. He calls on the ‘much-wooed
white-armed virgin muse’ to—

    ‘Guide from the seat of Reverence thy bright car,
    And bring to us the creatures of a day,
    What without sin we may aspire to know.’[22]

We also miss in him their single-minded devotion to philosophy and
their rigorous unity of doctrine. The Acragantine sage was a party
leader (in which capacity, to his great credit, he victoriously upheld
the popular cause), a rhetorician, an engineer, a physician, and a
thaumaturgist. The well-known legend relating to his death may be
taken as a not undeserved satire on the colossal self-conceit of the
man who claimed divine honours during his lifetime. Half-mystic and
half-rationalist, he made no attempt to reconcile the two inconsistent
sides of his intellectual character. It may be compared to one of
those grotesque combinations in which, according to his morphology,
the heads and bodies of widely different animals were united during
the beginnings of life before they had learned to fall into their
proper places. He believed in metempsychosis, and professed to remember
the somewhat miscellaneous series of forms through which his own
personality had already run. He had been a boy, a girl, a bush, a
bird, and a fish. Nevertheless, as we shall presently see, his theory
of Nature altogether excluded such a notion as the soul’s separate
existence. We have now to consider what that theory actually was. It
will be remembered that Parmenides had affirmed the perpetuity and
eternal self-identity of being, but that he had deprived this profound
divination of all practical value by interpreting it in a sense which
excluded diversity and change. Empedocles also declares creation and
destruction to be impossible, but explains that the appearances so
denominated arise from the union and separation of four everlasting
substances—earth, air, fire, and water. This is the famous doctrine
of the four elements, which, adopted by Plato and Aristotle, was
long regarded as the last word of chemistry, and still survives in
popular phraseology. Its author may have been guided by an unconscious
reflection on the character of his own philosophical method, for was
not he, too, constructing a new system out of the elements supplied
by his predecessors? They had successively fixed on water, air, and
fire as the primordial form of existence; he added a fourth, earth,
and effected a sort of reconciliation by placing them all on an equal
footing. Curiously enough, the earlier monistic system had a relative
justification which his crude eclecticism lacked. All matter may exist
either in a solid, a liquid, or a gaseous form; and all solid matter
has reached its present condition after passing through the two other
degrees of consistency. That the three modifications should be found
coexisting in our own experience is a mere accident of the present
régime, and to enumerate them is to substitute a description for an
explanation, the usual fault of eclectic systems. Empedocles, however,
besides his happy improvement on Parmenides, made a real contribution
to thought when, as Aristotle puts it, he sought for a moving as well
as for a material cause; in other words, when he asked not only of
what elements the world is composed, but also by what forces were they
brought together. He tells us of two such causes, Love and Strife,
the one a combining, the other a dissociating power. If for these
half-mythological names we read attractive and repulsive forces, the
result will not be very different from our own current cosmologies.
Such terms, when so used as to assume the existence of occult qualities
in matter, driving its parts asunder or drawing them close together,
are, in truth, as completely mythological as any figments of Hellenic
fancy. Unlike their modern antitypes, the Empedoclean goddesses did
not reign together, but succeeded one another in alternate dominion
during protracted periods of time. The victory of Love was complete
when all things had been drawn into a perfect sphere, evidently the
absolute Eleatic Being subjected to a Heracleitean law of vicissitude
and contradiction. For Strife lays hold on the consolidated orb, and
by her disintegrating action gradually reduces it to a formless chaos,
till, at the close of another world-period, the work of creation begins
again. Yet growth and decay are so inextricably intertwined that
Empedocles failed to keep up this ideal separation, and was compelled
to admit the simultaneous activity of both powers in our everyday
experience, so that Nature turns out to be composed of six elements
instead of four, the mind which perceives it being constituted in a
precisely similar manner. But Love, although on the whole victorious,
can only gradually get the better of her retreating enemy, and Nature,
as we know it, is the result of their continued conflict. Empedocles
described the process of evolution, as he conceived it, in somewhat
minute detail. Two points only are of much interest to us, his alleged
anticipation of the Darwinian theory and his psychology. The former,
such as it was, has occasionally been attributed to Lucretius, but
the Roman poet most probably copied Epicurus, although the very brief
summary of that philosopher’s physical system preserved by Diogenes
Laertius contains no allusion to such a topic. We know, however, that
in Aristotle’s time a theory identical with that of Lucretius was
held by those who rejected teleological explanations of the world in
general and of living organisms in particular. All sorts of animals
were produced by spontaneous generation; only those survived which
were accidentally furnished with appliances for procuring nourishment
and for propagating their kind. The notion itself originated with
Empedocles, whose fanciful suppositions have already been mentioned
in a different connexion. Most assuredly he did not offer it as a
solution of problems which in his time had not yet been mooted, but as
an illustration of the confusion which prevailed when Love had only
advanced a little way in her ordering, harmonising, unifying task.
Prantl, writing a few years before the appearance of Mr. Darwin’s
book on the Origin of Species, and therefore without any prejudice
on the subject, observes with truth that this theory of Empedocles
was deeply rooted in the mythological conceptions of the time.[23]
Perhaps he was seeking for a rationalistic explanation of the centaurs,
minotaurs, hundred-handed giants, and so forth, in whose existence he
had not, like Lucretius, learned completely to disbelieve. His strange
supposition was afterwards freed from its worst extravagances; but
even as stated in the _De Rerum Naturâ_, it has no claim whatever
to rank as a serious hypothesis. Anything more unlike the Darwinian
doctrine, according to which all existing species have been evolved
from less highly-organized ancestors by the gradual accumulation of
minute differences, it would be difficult to conceive. Every thinker of
antiquity, with one exception, believed in the immutability of natural
species. They had existed unchanged from all eternity, or had sprung
up by spontaneous generation from the earth’s bosom in their present
form. The solitary dissentient was Anaximander, who conjectured that
man was descended from an aquatic animal.[24] Strange to say, this
lucky guess has not yet been quoted as an argument against the Ascidian
pedigree. It is chiefly the enemies of Darwinism who are eager to find
it anticipated in Empedocles or Lucretius. By a curious inversion of
traditionalism, it is fancied that a modern discovery can be upset
by showing that somebody said something of the kind more than two
thousand years ago. Unfortunately authority has not the negative value
of disproving the principles which it supports. We must be content
to accept the truths brought to light by observation and reasoning,
even at the risk of finding ourselves in humiliating agreement with a
philosopher of antiquity.[25]

Passing from life to mind, we find Empedocles teaching an even more
pronounced materialism than Parmenides, inasmuch as it is stated in
language of superior precision. Our souls are, according to him,
made up of elements like those which constitute the external world,
each of these being perceived by a corresponding portion of the same
substances within ourselves—fire by fire, water by water, and so on
with the rest. It is a mistake to suppose that speculation begins from
a subjective standpoint, that men start with a clear consciousness of
their own personality, and proceed to construct an objective universe
after the same pattern. Doubtless they are too prone to personify the
blind forces of Nature, and Empedocles himself has just supplied us
with an example of this tendency, but they err still more by reading
outward experience into their own souls, by materialising the processes
of consciousness, and resolving human personality into a loose
confederacy of inorganic units. Even Plato, who did more than anyone
else towards distinguishing between mind and body, ended by laying down
his psychology on the lines of an astronomical system. Meanwhile, to
have separated the perception of an object from the object itself, in
ever so slight a degree, was an important gain to thought. We must not
omit to notice a hypothesis by which Empedocles sought to elucidate
the mechanism of sensation, and which was subsequently adopted by the
atomic school; indeed, as will presently be shown, we have reason to
believe that the whole atomic theory was developed out of it. He held
that emanations were being continually thrown off from the surfaces of
bodies, and that they penetrated into the organs of sense through fine
passages or pores. This may seem a crude guess, but it is at any rate
much more scientific than Aristotle’s explanation. According to the
latter, possibilities of feeling are converted into actualities by the
presence of an object. In other words, we feel when and because we do;
a safe assertion, but hardly an addition to our positive knowledge of
the subject.

We have seen how Greek thought had arrived at a perfectly just
conception of the process by which all physical transformations are
effected. The whole extended universe is an aggregate of bodies, while
each single body is formed by a combination of everlasting elements,
and is destroyed by their separation. But if Empedocles was right, if
these primary substances were no other than the fire, air, water, and
earth of everyday experience, what became of the Heracleitean law,
confirmed by common observation, that, so far from remaining unaltered,
they were continually passing into one another? To this question the
atomic theory gave an answer so conclusive, that, although ignored or
contemned by later schools, it was revived with the great revival of
science in the sixteenth century, was successfully employed in the
explanation of every order of phenomena, and still remains the basis
of all physical enquiry. The undulatory theory of light, the law
of universal gravitation, and the laws of chemical combination can
only be expressed in terms implying the existence of atoms; the laws
of gaseous diffusion, and of thermodynamics generally, can only be
understood with their help; and the latest developments of chemistry
have tended still further to establish their reality, as well as to
elucidate their remarkable properties. In the absence of sufficient
information, it is difficult to determine by what steps this admirable
hypothesis was evolved. Yet, even without external evidence, we may
fairly conjecture that, sooner or later, some philosopher, possessed of
a high generalising faculty, would infer that if bodies are continually
throwing off a flux of infinitesimal particles from their surfaces,
they must be similarly subdivided all through; and that if the organs
of sense are honeycombed with imperceptible pores, such may also be
the universal constitution of matter.[26] Now, according to Aristotle,
Leucippus, the founder of atomism, did actually use the second of these
arguments, and employed it in particular to prove the existence of
indivisible solids.[27] Other considerations equally obvious suggested
themselves from another quarter. If all change was expressible in
terms of matter and motion, then gradual change implied interstitial
motion, which again involved the necessity of fine pores to serve as
channels for the incoming and outgoing molecular streams. Nor, as was
supposed, could motion of any kind be conceived without a vacuum,
the second great postulate of the atomic theory. Here its advocates
directly joined issue with Parmenides. The chief of the Eleatic school
had, as we have seen, presented being under the form of a homogeneous
sphere, absolutely continuous but limited in extent. Space dissociated
from matter was to him, as afterwards to Aristotle, non-existent and
impossible. It was, he exclaimed, inconceivable, nonsensical. Unhappily
inconceivability is about the worst negative criterion of truth ever
yet invented. His challenge was now taken up by the Atomists, who
boldly affirmed that if non-being meant empty space, it was just as
conceivable and just as necessary as being. A further stimulus may have
been received from the Pythagorean school, whose doctrines had, just
at this time, been systematised and committed to writing by Philolaus,
its most eminent disciple. The hard saying that all things were made
out of number might be explained and confirmed if the integers were
interpreted as material atoms.

It will have been observed that, so far, the merit of originating
atomism has been attributed to Leucippus, instead of to the more
celebrated Democritus, with whose name it is usually associated. The
two were fast friends, and seem always to have worked together in
perfect harmony. But Leucippus, although next to nothing is known of
his life, was apparently the older man, and from him, so far as we
can make out, emanated the great idea, which his brilliant coadjutor
carried into every department of enquiry, and set forth in works
which are a loss to literature as well as to science, for the poetic
splendour of their style was not less remarkable than the encyclopaedic
range of their contents. Democritus was born at Abdêra, a Thracian
city, 470 B.C., a year before Socrates, and lived to a very advanced
age—more than a hundred, according to some accounts. However this
may be, he was probably, like most of his great countrymen, possessed
of immense vitality. His early manhood was spent in Eastern travel,
and he was not a little proud of the numerous countries which he had
visited, and the learned men with whom he had conversed. His time was
mostly occupied in observing Nature, and in studying mathematics;
the sages of Asia and Egypt may have acquainted him with many useful
scientific facts, but we have seen that his philosophy was derived from
purely Hellenic sources. A few fragments of his numerous writings still
survive—the relics of an intellectual Ozymandias. In them are briefly
shadowed forth the conceptions which Lucretius, or at least his modern
English interpreters, have made familiar to all educated men and women.
Everything is the result of mechanical causation. Infinite worlds are
formed by the collision of infinite atoms falling for ever downward
through infinite space. No place is left for supernatural agency;
nor are the unaided operations of Nature disguised under Olympian
appellations. Democritus goes even further than Epicurus in his
rejection of the popular mythology. His system provides no interstellar
refuge for abdicated gods. He attributed a kind of objective existence
to the apparitions seen in sleep, and even a considerable influence for
good or for evil, but denied that they were immortal. The old belief in
a Divine Power had arisen from their activity and from meteorological
phenomena of an alarming kind, but was destitute of any stronger
foundation. For his own part, he looked on the fiery spherical atoms as
a universal reason or soul of the world, without, however, assigning
to them the distinct and commanding position occupied by a somewhat
analogous principle in the system which we now proceed to examine, and
with which our survey of early Greek thought will most fitly terminate.


V.

Reasons have already been suggested for placing Anaxagoras last in
order among the physical philosophers, notwithstanding his priority in
point of age to more than one of them. He was born, according to the
most credible accounts, 500 B.C., at Clazomenae, an Ionian city, and
settled in Athens when twenty years of age. There he spent much the
greater part of a long life, illustrating the type of character which
Euripides—expressly referring, as is supposed, to the Ionian sage—has
described in the following choric lines:

    ‘Happy is he who has learned
    To search out the secret of things,
    Not to the townsmen’s bane,
    Neither for aught that brings
    An unrighteous gain.
    But the ageless order he sees
    Of nature that cannot die,
    And the causes whence it springs,
    And the how and the why.
    Never have thoughts like these
    To a deed of dishonour been turned.’[28]

The dishonour was for the townsmen who, in an outbreak of insane
fanaticism, drove the blameless truthseeker from his adopted home.
Anaxagoras was the intimate companion of Pericles, and Pericles had
made many enemies by his domestic as well as by his foreign policy.
A coalition of harassed interests and offended prejudices was formed
against him. A cry arose that religion and the constitution were in
danger. The Athenians had too much good sense to dismiss their great
democratic Minister, but they permitted the illustrious statesman’s
political opponents to strike at him through his friends.[29] Aspasia
was saved only by the tears of her lover. Pheidias, the grandest,
most spiritual-minded artist of all time, was arrested on a charge
of impiety, and died in a prison of the city whose temples were
adorned with the imperishable monuments of his religious inspiration.
A decree against ‘astronomers and atheists’ was so evidently aimed
at Anaxagoras that the philosopher retired to Lampsacus, where he
died at the age of seventy-two, universally admired and revered.
Altars dedicated to Reason and Truth were erected in his honour, and
for centuries his memory continued to be celebrated by an annual
feast.[30] His whole existence had been devoted to science. When
asked what made life worth living, he answered, ‘The contemplation of
the heavens and of the universal cosmic order.’ The reply was like a
title-page to his works. We can see that specialisation was beginning,
that the positive sciences were separating themselves from general
theories about Nature, and could be cultivated independently of them.
A single individual might, indeed, combine philosophy of the most
comprehensive kind with a detailed enquiry into some particular order
of phenomena, but he could do this without bringing the two studies
into any immediate connexion with each other. Such seems to have been
the case with Anaxagoras. He was a professional astronomer and also
the author of a modified atomic hypothesis. This, from its greater
complexity, seems more likely to have been suggested by the purely
quantitative conception of Leucippus than to have preceded it in the
order of evolution. Democritus, and probably his teacher also, drew a
very sharp distinction between what were afterwards called the primary
and secondary qualities of matter. Extension and resistance alone
had a real existence in Nature, while the attributes corresponding
to our special sensations, such as temperature, taste, and colour,
were only subjectively, or, as he expressed it, conventionally true.
Anaxagoras affirmed no less strongly than his younger contemporaries
that the sum of being can neither be increased nor diminished, that
all things arise and perish by combination and division, and that
bodies are formed out of indestructible elements; like the Atomists,
again, he regarded these elementary substances as infinite in number
and inconceivably minute; only he considered them as qualitatively
distinct, and as resembling on an infinitesimal scale the highest
compounds that they build up. Not only were gold, iron, and the other
metals formed of homogeneous particles, but such substances as flesh,
bone, and blood were, according to him, equally simple, equally
decomposable, into molecules of like nature with themselves. Thus, as
Aristotle well observes, he reversed the method of Empedocles, and
taught that earth, air, fire, and water were really the most complex
of all bodies, since they supplied nourishment to the living tissues,
and therefore must contain within themselves the multitudinous variety
of units by whose aggregation individualised organic substance is
made up.[31] Furthermore, our philosopher held that originally this
intermixture had been still more thoroughgoing, all possible qualities
being simultaneously present in the smallest particles of matter. The
resulting state of chaotic confusion lasted until Nous, or Reason, came
and segregated the heterogeneous elements by a process of continuous
differentiation leading up to the present arrangement of things. Both
Plato and Aristotle have commended Anaxagoras for introducing into
speculation the conception of Reason as a cosmic world-ordering power;
both have censured him for making so little use of his own great
thought, for attributing almost everything to secondary, material,
mechanical causes; for not everywhere applying the teleological method;
in fact, for not anticipating the Bridgewater Treatises and proving
that the world is constructed on a plan of perfect wisdom and goodness.
Less fortunate than the Athenians, we cannot purchase the work of
Anaxagoras on Nature at an orchestral book-stall for the moderate price
of a drachma; but we know enough about its contents to correct the
somewhat petulant and superficial criticism of a school perhaps less in
sympathy than we are with its author’s method of research. Evidently
the Clazomenian philosopher did not mean by Reason an ethical force, a
power which makes for human happiness or virtue, nor yet a reflecting
intelligence, a designer adapting means to ends. To all appearances the
Nous was not a spirit in the sense which we attach, or which Aristotle
attached to the term. It was, according to Anaxagoras, the subtlest
and purest of all things, totally unmixed with other substances, and
therefore able to control and bring them into order. This is not how
men speak of an immaterial inextended consciousness. The truth is that
no amount of physical science could create, although it might lead
towards a spiritualistic philosophy. Spiritualism first arose from
the sophistic negation of an external world, from the exclusive study
of man, from the Socratic search after general definitions. Yet, if
Nous originally meant intelligence, how could it lose this primary
signification and become identified with a mere mode of matter? The
answer is, that Anaxagoras, whose whole life was spent in tracing out
the order of Nature, would instinctively think of his own intelligence
as a discriminating, identifying faculty; would, consequently, conceive
its objective counterpart under the form of a differentiating and
integrating power. All preceding thinkers had represented their supreme
being under material conditions, either as one element singly or as a
sum total where elemental differences were merged. Anaxagoras differed
from them chiefly by the very sharp distinction drawn between his
informing principle and the rest of Nature. The absolute intermixture
of qualities which he presupposes bears a very strong resemblance
both to the Sphairos of Empedocles and to the fiery consummation of
Heracleitus, it may even have been suggested by them. Only, what with
them was the highest form of existence becomes with him the lowest;
thought is asserting itself more and more, and interpreting the law of
evolution in accordance with its own imperious demands.

A world where ordering reason was not only raised to supreme power,
but also jealously secluded from all communion with lower forms of
existence, meant to popular imagination a world from which divinity
had been withdrawn. The astronomical teaching of Anaxagoras was well
calculated to increase a not unfounded alarm. Underlying the local
tribal mythology of Athens and of Greece generally, was an older,
deeper Nature-worship, chiefly directed towards those heavenly
luminaries which shone so graciously on all men, and to which all
men yielded, or were supposed to yield, grateful homage in return.
_Securus judicat orbis terrarum._ Every Athenian citizen from Nicias to
Strepsiades would feel his own belief strengthened by such a universal
concurrence of authority. Two generations later, Plato held fast to
the same conviction, severely denouncing its impugners, whom he would,
if possible, have silenced with the heaviest penalties. To Aristotle,
also, the heavenly bodies were something far more precious and perfect
than anything in our sublunary sphere, something to be spoken of
only in language of enthusiastic and passionate love. At a far later
period Marcus Aurelius could refer to them as visible gods;[32] and
just before the final extinction of Paganism highly-educated men still
offered up their orisons in silence and secresy to the moon.[33]
Judge, then, with what horror an orthodox public received Anaxagoras’s
announcement that the moon shone only by reflected light, that she was
an earthy body, and that her surface was intersected with mountains and
ravines, besides being partially built over. The bright Selênê, the
Queen of Heaven, the most interesting and sympathetic of goddesses,
whose phases so vividly recalled the course of human life, who was
firmly believed to bring fine weather at her return and to take it away
at her departure, was degraded into a cold, dark, senseless clod.[34]
Democritus observed that all this had been known a long time in the
Eastern countries where he had travelled.[C] Possibly; but fathers of
families could not have been more disturbed if it had been a brand-new
discovery. The sun, too, they were told, was a red-hot stone larger
than Peloponnesus—a somewhat unwieldy size even for a Homeric god.
Socrates, little as he cared about physical investigations generally,
took this theory very seriously to heart, and attempted to show by a
series of distinctions that sun-heat and fire-heat were essentially
different from each other. A duller people than the Athenians would
probably have shown far less suspicion of scientific innovations. Men
who were accustomed to anticipate the arguments of an orator before
they were half out of his mouth, with whom the extraction of reluctant
admissions by cross-examination was habitually used as a weapon of
attack and defence in the public law courts and practised as a game in
private circles—who were perpetually on their guard against insidious
attacks from foreign and domestic foes—had minds ready trained to
the work of an inquisitorial priesthood. An Athenian, moreover, had
mythology at his fingers’ ends; he was accustomed to see its leading
incidents placed before him on the stage not only with intense realism,
but with a systematic adaptation to the demands of common experience
and a careful concatenation of cause and effect, which gave his belief
in them all the force of a rational conviction while retaining all the
charm of a supernatural creed. Then, again, the constitution of Athens,
less than that of any other Greek State, could be worked without the
devoted, self-denying co-operation of her citizens, and in their
minds sense of duty was inseparably associated with religious belief,
based in its turn on mythological traditions. A great poet has said,
and said truly, that Athens was ‘on the will of man as on a mount of
diamond set,’ but the crystallising force which gave that collective
human will such clearness and keenness and tenacity was faith in the
protecting presence of a diviner Will at whose withdrawal it would have
crumbled into dust. Lastly, the Athenians had no genius for natural
science; none of them were ever distinguished as savants. They looked
on the new knowledge much as Swift looked on it two thousand years
afterwards. It was, they thought, a miserable trifling waste of time,
not productive of any practical good, breeding conceit in young men,
and quite unworthy of receiving any attention from orators, soldiers,
and statesmen. Pericles, indeed, thought differently, but Pericles was
as much beyond his age when he talked about Nature with Anaxagoras as
when he charged Aspasia with the government of his household and the
entertainment of his guests.

These reflections are offered, not in excuse but in explanation of
Athenian intolerance, a phenomenon for the rest unparalleled in ancient
Greece. We cannot say that men were then, or ever have been, logically
obliged to choose between atheism and superstition. If instead of using
Nous as a half-contemptuous nickname for the Clazomenian stranger,[D]
his contemporaries had taken the trouble to understand what Nous really
meant, they might have found in it the possibility of a deep religious
significance; they might have identified it with all that was best
and purest in their own guardian goddess Athênê; have recognised it
as the very foundation of their own most characteristic excellences.
But vast spiritual revolutions are not so easily accomplished; and
when, before the lapse of many years, Nous was again presented to the
Athenian people, this time actually personified as an Athenian citizen,
it was again misunderstood, again rejected, and became the occasion for
a display of the same persecuting spirit, unhappily pushed to a more
fatal extreme.

Under such unfavourable auspices did philosophy find a home in Athens.
The great maritime capital had drawn to itself every other species
of intellectual eminence, and this could not fail to follow with the
rest. But philosophy, although hitherto identified with mathematical
and physical science, held unexhausted possibilities of development in
reserve. According to a well-known legend, Thales once fell into a tank
while absorbed in gazing at the stars. An old woman advised him to look
at the tank in future, for there he would see the water and the stars
as well. Others after him had got into similar difficulties, and might
seek to evade them by a similar artifice. While busied with the study
of cosmic evolution, they had stumbled unawares on some perplexing
mental problems. Why do the senses suggest beliefs so much at variance
with those arrived at by abstract reasoning? Why should reason be more
trustworthy than sense? Why are the foremost Hellenic thinkers so
hopelessly disagreed? What is the criterion of truth? Of what use are
conclusions which cannot command universal assent? Or, granting that
truth is discoverable, how can it be communicated to others? Such were
some of the questions now beginning urgently to press for a solution.
‘I sought for myself,’ said Heracleitus in his oracular style. His
successors had to do even more—to seek not only for themselves but for
others; to study the beliefs, habits, and aptitudes of their hearers
with profound sagacity, in order to win admission for the lessons they
were striving to impart. And when a systematic investigation of human
nature had once begun, it could not stop short with a mere analysis
of the intellectual faculties; what a man did was after all so very
much more important than what he knew, was, in truth, that which alone
gave his knowledge any practical value whatever. Moral distinctions,
too, were beginning to grow uncertain. When every other traditional
belief had been shaken to its foundations, when men were taught to
doubt the evidence of their own senses, it was not to be expected that
the conventional laws of conduct, at no time very exact or consistent,
would continue to be accepted on the authority of ancient usage.
Thus, every kind of determining influences, internal and external,
conspired to divert philosophy from the path which it had hitherto
pursued, and to change it from an objective, theoretical study into an
introspective, dialectic, practical discipline.


VI.

And now, looking back at the whole course of early Greek thought,
presenting as it does a gradual development and an organic unity
which prove it to be truly a native growth, a spontaneous product
of the Greek mind, let us take one step further and enquire whether
before the birth of pure speculation, or parallel with but apart from
its rudimentary efforts, there were not certain tendencies displayed
in the other great departments of intellectual activity, fixed forms
as it were in which the Hellenic genius was compelled to work, which
reproduce themselves in philosophy and determine its distinguishing
characteristics. Although the materials for a complete Greek ethology
are no longer extant, it can be shown that such tendencies did actually
exist.

It is a familiar fact, first brought to light by Lessing, and
generalised by him into a law of all good literary composition, that
Homer always throws his descriptions into a narrative form. We are not
told what a hero wore, but how he put on his armour; when attention is
drawn to a particular object we are made acquainted with its origin
and past history; even the reliefs on a shield are invested with life
and movement. Homer was not impelled to adopt this method either by
conscious reflection or by a profound poetic instinct. At a certain
stage of intellectual development, every Greek would find it far easier
to arrange the data of experience in successive than in contemporaneous
order; the one is fixed, the other admits of indefinite variation.
Pictorial and plastic art also begin with serial presentations, and
only arrive at the construction of large centralised groups much later
on. We have next to observe that, while Greek reflection at first
followed the order of time, it turned by preference not to present or
future, but to past time. Nothing in Hellenic literature reminds us of
Hebrew prophecy. To a Greek all distinct prevision was merged in the
gloom of coming death or the glory of anticipated fame. Of course, at
every great crisis of the national fortunes much curiosity prevailed
among the vulgar as to what course events would take; but it was
sedulously discouraged by the noblest minds. Herodotus and Sophocles
look on even divine predictions as purposely ambiguous and misleading.
Pindar often dwells on the hopeless uncertainty of life.[35] Thucydides
treats all vaticination as utterly delusive. So, when a belief in
the soul’s separate existence first obtained acceptance among the
Greeks, it interested them far less as a pledge of never-ending life
and progress hereafter, than as involving a possible revelation of
past history, of the wondrous adventures which each individual had
passed through before assuming his present form. Hence the peculiar
force of Pindar’s congratulation to the partaker in the Eleusinian
mysteries; after death he knows not only ‘the end of life,’ but also
‘its god-given beginning.’[36] Even the present was not intelligible
until it had been projected back into the past, or interpreted by the
light of some ancient tale. Sappho, in her famous ode to Aphroditê,
recalls the incidents of a former passion precisely similar to the
unrequited love which now agitates her heart, and describes at length
how the goddess then came to her relief as she is now implored to come
again. Modern critics have spoken of this curious literary artifice as
a sign of delicacy and reserve. We may be sure that Sappho was an utter
stranger to such feelings; she ran her thoughts into a predetermined
mould just as a bee builds its wax into hexagonal cells. Curtius,
the German historian, has surmised with much plausibility that the
entire legend of Troy owes its origin to this habit of throwing back
contemporary events into a distant past. According to his view, the
characters and scenes recorded by Homer, although unhistorical as
they now stand, had really a place in the Achaean colonisation of
Asia Minor.[37] But, apart from any disguised allusions, old stories
had an inexhaustible charm for the Greek imagination. Even during the
stirring events of the Peloponnesian war, elderly Athenian citizens
in their hours of relaxation talked of nothing but mythology.[38] When
a knowledge of reading became universally diffused, and books could
be had at a moderate price, ancient legends seem to have been the
favourite literature of the lower classes, just as among ourselves in
Caxton’s time. Still more must the same taste have prevailed a century
earlier. A student who opens Pindar’s epinician odes for the first
time is surprised to find so little about the victorious combatants
and the struggles in which they took part, so much about mythical
adventures seemingly unconnected with the ostensible subject of the
poem. Furthermore, we find that genealogies were the framework by which
these distant recollections were held together. Most noble families
traced their descent back to a god or to a god-like hero. The entire
interval separating the historical period from the heroic age was
filled up with more or less fictitious pedigrees. A man’s ancestry
was much the most important part of his biography. It is likely that
Herodotus had just as enthusiastic an admiration as we can have for
Leonidas. Yet one fancies that a historian of later date would have
shown his appreciation of the Spartan king in a rather different
fashion. We should have been told something about the hero’s personal
appearance, and perhaps some characteristic incidents from his earlier
career would have been related. Not so with Herodotus. He pauses in
the story of Thermopylae to give us the genealogy of Leonidas up to
Heraclês; no more and no less. That was the highest compliment he could
pay, and it is repeated for Pausanias, the victor of Plataea.[39] The
genealogical method was capable of wide extension, and could be applied
to other than human or animal relationships. Hesiod’s Theogony is a
genealogy of heaven and earth, and all that in them is. According to
Aeschylus, gain is bred from gain, slaughter from slaughter, woe from
woe. Insolence bears a child like unto herself, and this in turn gives
birth to a still more fatal progeny.[40] The same poet terminates his
enumeration of the flaming signals that sped the message of victory
from Troy to Argos, by describing the last beacon as ‘not ungrandsired
by the Idaean fire.’[41] Now, when the Greek genius had begun to move
in any direction, it rushed forward without pausing until arrested by
an impassable limit, and then turned back to retraverse at leisure
the whole interval separating that limit from its point of departure.
Thus, the ascending lines of ancestry were followed up until they led
to a common father of all; every series of outrages was traced through
successive reprisals back to an initial crime; and more generally every
event was affiliated to a preceding event, until the whole chain had
been attached to an ultimate self-existing cause. Hence the records
of origination, invention, spontaneity were long sought after with
an eagerness which threw almost every other interest into the shade.
‘Glory be to the inventor,’ sings Pindar, in his address to victorious
Corinth; ‘whence came the graces of the dithyrambic hymn, who first
set the double eagle on the temples of the gods?’[42] The _Prometheus_
of Aeschylus tells how civilisation began, and the trilogy to which it
belongs was probably intended to show how the supremacy of Zeus was
first established and secured. A great part of the _Agamemnon_ deals
with events long anterior to the opening of the drama, but connected
as ultimate causes with the terrible catastrophe which it represents.
In the _Eumenides_ we see how the family, as it now exists, was first
constituted by the substitution of paternal for maternal headship, and
also how the worship of the Avenging Goddesses was first introduced
into Athens, as well as how the Areopagite tribunal was founded. It
is very probable that Sophocles’s earliest work, the _Triptolemus_,
represented the origin of agriculture under a dramatic form; and if
the same poet’s later pieces, as well as all those of Euripides,
stand on quite different ground, occupied as they are with subjects of
contemporaneous, or rather of eternal interest, we must regard this
as a proof that the whole current of Greek thought had taken a new
direction, corresponding to that simultaneously impressed on philosophy
by Socrates and the Sophists. We may note further that the Aeginetan
sculptures, executed soon after Salamis, though evidently intended to
commemorate that victory, represent a conflict waged long before by
the tutelary heroes of Aegina against an Asiatic foe. We may also see
in our own British Museum how the birth of Athênê was recorded in a
marble group on one pediment of the Parthenon, and the foundation of
her chosen city on the other. The very temple which these majestic
sculptures once adorned was a petrified memorial of antiquity, and,
by the mere form of its architecture, must have carried back men’s
thoughts to the earliest Hellenic habitation, the simple structure in
which a gabled roof was supported by cross-beams on a row of upright
wooden posts.

Turning back once more from art and literature to philosophy, is
it not abundantly clear that if the Greeks speculated at all, they
must at first have speculated according to some such method as that
which history proves them to have actually followed? They must have
begun by fixing their thoughts, as Thales and his successors did, on
the world’s remotest past; they must have sought for a first cause
of things, and conceived it, not as any spiritual power, but as a
kind of natural ancestor homogeneous with the forms which issued
from it, although greater and more comprehensive than they were; in
short, as an elemental body—water, air, fire, or, more vaguely, as
an infinite substance. Did not the steady concatenation of cause and
effect resemble the unrolling of a heroic genealogy? And did not the
reabsorption of every individual existence in a larger whole translate
into more general terms that subordination of personal to family and
civic glory which is the diapason of Pindar’s music?

Nor was this all. Before philosophising, the Greeks did not think only
in the order of time; they learned at a very early period to think
also in the order of space, their favourite idea of a limit being
made especially prominent here. Homer’s geographical notions, however
erroneous, are, for his age, singularly well defined. Aeschylus has a
wide knowledge of the earth’s surface, and exhibits it with perhaps
unnecessary readiness. Pindar delights to follow his mythological
heroes about on their travels. The same tendency found still freer
scope when prose literature began. Hecataeus, one of the earliest
prose-writers, was great both as a genealogist and as a geographer;
and in this respect also Herodotus carried out on a great scale the
enquiries most habitually pursued by his countrymen. Now, it will be
remembered that we have had occasion to characterise early Ionian
speculation as being, to a great extent, cosmography. The element from
which it deduced all things was, in fact, that which was supposed to
lie outside and embrace the rest. The geographical limit was conceived
as a genealogical ancestor. Thus, the studies which men like Hecataeus
carried on separately, were combined, or rather confused, in a single
bold generalisation by Anaximenes and Heracleitus.

Yet, however much may be accounted for by these considerations, they
still leave something unexplained. Why should one thinker after
another so unhesitatingly assume that the order of Nature as we know
it has issued not merely from a different but from an exactly opposite
condition, from universal confusion and chaos? Their experience was
far too limited to tell them anything about those vast cosmic changes
which we know by incontrovertible evidence to have already occurred,
and to be again in course of preparation. We can only answer this
question by bringing into view what may be called the negative moment
of Greek thought. The science of contraries is one, says Aristotle, and
it certainly was so to his countrymen. Not only did they delight to
bring together the extremes of weal and woe, of pride and abasement,
of security and disaster, but whatever they most loved and clung to in
reality seemed to interest their imagination most powerfully by its
removal, its reversal, or its overthrow. The Athenians were peculiarly
intolerant of regal government and of feminine interference in
politics. In Athenian tragedy the principal actors are kings and royal
ladies. The Athenian matrons occupied a position of exceptional dignity
and seclusion. They are brought upon the comic stage to be covered with
the coarsest ridicule, and also to interfere decisively in the conduct
of public affairs. Aristophanes was profoundly religious himself, and
wrote for a people whose religion, as we have seen, was pushed to
the extreme of bigotry. Yet he shows as little respect for the gods
as for the wives and sisters of his audience. To take a more general
example still, the whole Greek tragic drama is based on the idea of
family kinship, and that institution was made most interesting to Greek
spectators by the violation of its eternal sanctities, by unnatural
hatred, and still more unnatural love; or by a fatal misconception
which causes the hands of innocent persons, more especially of tender
women, to be armed against their nearest and dearest relatives in
utter unconsciousness of the awful guilt about to be incurred. By an
extension of the same psychological law to abstract speculation we are
enabled to understand how an early Greek philosopher who had come to
look on Nature as a cosmos, an orderly whole, consisting of diverse but
connected and interdependent parts, could not properly grasp such a
conception until he had substituted for it one of a precisely opposite
character, out of which he reconstructed it by a process of gradual
evolution. And if it is asked how in the first place did he come by the
idea of a cosmos, our answer must be that he found it in Greek life,
in societies distinguished by a many-sided but harmonious development
of concurrent functions, and by voluntary obedience to an impersonal
law. Thus, then, the circle is complete; we have returned to our point
of departure, and again recognise in Greek philosophy a systematised
expression of the Greek national genius.

We must now bring this long and complicated, but it is hoped not
uninteresting, study to a close. We have accompanied philosophy to a
point where it enters on a new field, and embraces themes sufficiently
important to form the subject of a separate chapter. The contributions
made by its first cultivators to our positive knowledge have already
been summarised. It remains to mention that there was nothing of a
truly transcendental character about their speculations. Whatever
extension we may give to that terrible bugbear, the Unknowable, they
did not trespass on its domain. Heracleitus and his compeers, while
penetrating far beyond the horizon of their age and country, kept very
nearly within the limits of a possible experience. They confused some
conceptions which we have learned to distinguish, and separated others
which we have learned to combine; but they were the lineal progenitors
of our highest scientific thought; and they first broke ground on a
path where we must continue to advance, if the cosmos which they won
for us is not to be let lapse into chaos and darkness again.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Plato, _Rep._ IV., 435, E; Aristotle, _Pol._ VII., 1327, b., 29.

[6] _Nem._ III. 40-42. (Donaldson.)

[7] _Nem._ VI. _sub in._

[8] The word differentiation (ἑτεροίωσις) seems to have been first used
by Diogenes Apolloniates. Simpl. _Phys._ fol. 326 ff., quoted by Ritter
and Preller, _Hist. Phil._, p. 126 (6th ed.)

[9] Ritter and Preller, p. 112.

[10] Ritter and Preller p. 8.

[11] _Die Philosophie der Griechen_, I. p. 401 (3rd ed.)

[12] Ritter and Preller, p. 54.

[13] Ritter and Preller, p. 54.

[14] _Ib._

[15] _Metaph._ I. v.

[16] Ritter and Preller, p. 63.

[17] _Op. cit._ p. 475.

[18] The tendency which it has been attempted to characterise as a
fundamental moment of Greek thought can only be called analytical in
default of a better word. It is a process by which two related terms
are at once parted and joined together by the insertion of one or
more intermediary links; as, for instance, when a capital is inserted
between column and architrave, or when a proposition is demonstrated by
the interposition of a middle term between its subject and predicate.
The German words Vermitteln and Vermittelung express what is meant with
sufficient exactitude. They play a great part in Hegel’s philosophy,
and it will be remembered that Hegel was the most Hellenic of modern
thinkers. So understood, there will cease to be any contradiction
between the Eleates and Greek thought generally, at least from one
point of view, as their object was to fill up the vacant spaces
supposed to separate one mode of existence from another.

[19] Ritter and Preller, p. 62.

[20] For the originals of this and the succeeding quotations from
Heracleitus, see Ritter and Preller, pp. 14-23.

[21] Τῇ μὲν ἡλικίᾳ πρότερος ὢν, τοῖς δ’ ἔργοις ὕστερος. _Metaph._ I.
iii.

[22] Ritter and Preller, p. 90.

[23] Prantl, _Aristoteles’ Physik_, p. 484.

[24] Ritter and Preller, p. 11.

[25] Since the above remarks were first published, Mr. Wallace, in
his work on Epicureanism, has stated that, according to Epicurus,
‘the very animals which are found upon the earth have been made what
they are by slow processes of selection and adaptation through the
experience of life;’ and he proceeds to call the theory in question,
‘ultra-Darwinian’ (_Epicureanism_, p. 114). Lucretius—the authority
quoted—says nothing about ‘slow processes of adaptation,’ nor yet does
he say that the animals were ‘made what they are’ by ‘selection,’ but
by the procreative power of the earth herself. Picking out a ready-made
pair of boots from among a number which do not fit is a very different
process from manufacturing the same pair by measure, or wearing it into
shape. To call the Empedoclean theory ultra-Darwinian, is like calling
the Democritean or Epicurean theory of gravitation ultra-Newtonian. And
Mr. Wallace seems to admit as much, when he proceeds to say on the very
same page, ‘Of course in this there is no implication of the peculiarly
Darwinian doctrine of descent or development of kind from kind with
structure modified and complicated to meet changing circumstances.’
(By the way, this is _not_ a peculiarly Darwinian doctrine, for it
originated with Lamarck, spontaneous variation and selection being the
additions made by the English naturalists). But what becomes then of
the ‘slow processes of adaptation’ and the ‘ultra-Darwinian theory’
spoken of just before?

[26] By a curious coincidence, the atomic constitution of matter still
finds its strongest proof in optical phenomena. Light is propagated by
transverse waves, and such waves are only possible in a discontinuous
medium. But if the luminiferous ether is composed of discrete
particles, so also must be the matter which it penetrates in all
directions.

[27] Ar. _De Gen. et Corr._, I., viii., 325, b, 5.

[28] Eurip. _Frag. Incert. Fab._, CXXXVI. Didot, p. 850. [I am indebted
for this version to Miss A. M. F. Robinson, the translator of the
_Crowned Hippolytus_.]

[29] Curtius, _Griechische Geschichte_, 342-5 (3rd ed.).

[30] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 791.

[31] Ar. _De Coelo_, III., iii., 302, a, 28.

[32] M. Antoninus, XII., 28.

[33] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, III., b, p. 669.

[34] Even regulating the calendar by the sun instead of by the moon
seems to have been regarded as a dangerous and impious innovation by
the more conservative Athenians—at least judging from the half-serious
pleasantry of Aristophanes, _Nub._, 608-26. (Dindorf.)

[35] σύμβολον δ’ οὔ πώ τις ἐπιχθονίων
     πιστὸν ἀμφὶ πράξιος ἐσσομένας εὗρεν θεόθεν.—_Ol._, XII., 8-9.

[36] _Frag._, 102.

[37] _Griechische Geschichte_, ii., 112-3 (3rd ed.).

[38] Aristophanes, _Vesp._, 1176.

[39] Herod., VII., 204; IX., 64.

[40] _Agam._, 750-71.

[41] _Ib._, 311.

[42] _Ol._, XIII., 17 (Donaldson).




CHAPTER II.

THE GREEK HUMANISTS: NATURE AND LAW.


I.

In the preceding chapter we traced the rise and progress of physical
philosophy among the ancient Greeks. We showed how a few great
thinkers, borne on by an unparalleled development of intellectual
activity, worked out ideas respecting the order of nature and the
constitution of matter which, after more than two thousand years, still
remain as fresh and fruitful as ever; and we found that, in achieving
these results, Greek thought was itself determined by ascertainable
laws. Whether controlling artistic imagination or penetrating to the
objective truth of things, it remained always essentially homogeneous,
and worked under the same forms of circumscription, analysis, and
opposition. It began with external nature, and with a far distant past;
nor could it begin otherwise, for only so could the subjects of its
later meditations be reached. Only after less sacred beliefs have been
shaken can ethical dogmas be questioned. Only when discrepancies of
opinion obtrude themselves on man’s notice is the need of an organising
logic experienced. And the mind’s eye, originally focussed for distant
objects alone, has to be gradually restricted in its range by the
pressure of accumulated experience before it can turn from past to
present, from successive to contemporaneous phenomena. We have now to
undertake the not less interesting task of showing how the new culture,
the new conceptions, the new power to think obtained through those
earliest speculations, reacted on the life from which they sprang,
transforming the moral, religious, and political creeds of Hellas, and
preparing, as nothing else could prepare, the vaster revolution which
has given a new dignity to existence, and substituted, in however
imperfect a form, for the adoration of animalisms which lie below man,
the adoration of an ideal which rises above him, but only personifies
the best elements of his own nature, and therefore is possible for a
perfected humanity to realise.

While most educated persons will admit that the Greeks are our masters
in science and literature, in politics and art, some even among those
who are free from theological prejudices will not be prepared to grant
that the principles which claim to guide our conduct are only a wider
extension or a more specific application of Greek ethical teaching.
Hebraism has been opposed to Hellenism as the educating power whence
our love of righteousness is derived, and which alone prevents the
foul orgies of a primitive nature-worship from being still celebrated
in the midst of our modern civilisation. And many look on old Roman
religion as embodying a sense of duty higher than any bequeathed
to us by Greece. The Greeks have, indeed, suffered seriously from
their own sincerity. Their literature is a perfect image of their
life, reflecting every blot and every flaw, unveiled, uncoloured,
undisguised. It was, most fortunately, never subjected to the revision
of a jealous priesthood, bent on removing every symptom inconsistent
with the hypothesis of a domination exercised by themselves through
all the past. Nor yet has their history been systematically falsified
to prove that they never wrongfully attacked a neighbour, and were
invariably obliged to conquer in self-defence. Still, even taking
the records as they stand, it is to Greek rather than to Hebrew or
Roman annals that we must look for examples of true virtue; and in
Greek literature, earlier than in any other, occur precepts like
those which are now held to be most distinctively characteristic of
Christian ethics. Let us never forget that only by Stoical teaching
was the narrow and cruel formalism of ancient Roman law elevated into
the ‘written reason’ of the imperial jurists; only after receiving
successive infiltrations of Greek thought was the ethnic monotheism of
Judaea expanded into a cosmopolitan religion. Our popular theologians
are ready enough to admit that Hellenism was providentially the means
of giving Christianity a world-wide diffusion; they ignore the fact
that it gave the new faith not only wings to fly, but also eyes to
see and a soul to love. From very early times there was an intuition
of humanity in Hellas which only needed dialectical development to
become an all-sufficient law of life. Homer sympathises ardently with
his own countrymen, but he never vilifies their enemies. He did not,
nor did any Greek, invent impure legends to account for the origin of
hostile tribes whose kinship could not be disowned; unlike Samuel, he
regards the sacrifice of prisoners with unmixed abhorrence. What would
he, whose Odysseus will not allow a shout of triumph to be raised
over the fallen, have said to Deborah’s exultation at the murder of a
suppliant fugitive? Courage was, indeed, with him the highest virtue,
and Greek literature abounds in martial spirit-stirring tones, but
it is nearly always by the necessities of self-defence that this
enthusiasm is invoked; with Pindar and Simonides, with Aeschylus and
Sophocles, it is resistance to an invader that we find so proudly
commemorated; and the victories which make Greek history so glorious
were won in fighting to repel an unjust aggression perpetrated either
by the barbarians or by a tyrant state among the Greeks themselves.
There was, as will be shown hereafter, an unhappy period when right was
either denied, or, what comes to the same thing, identified with might;
but this offensive paradox only served to waken true morality into a
more vivid self-consciousness, and into the felt need of discovering
for itself a stronger foundation than usage and tradition, a loftier
sanction than mere worldly success could afford. The most universal
principle of justice, to treat others as we should wish to be treated
ourselves, seems before the Rabbi Hillel’s time to have become almost
a common-place of Greek ethics;[43] difficulties left unsolved by the
Book of Job were raised to a higher level by Greek philosophy; and long
before St. Paul, a Plato reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and
judgment to come.

No one will deny that the life of the Greeks was stained with foul
vices, and that their theory sometimes fell to the level of their
practice. No one who believes that moral truth, like all truth, has
been gradually discovered, will wonder at this phenomenon. If moral
conduct is a function of social life, then, like other functions, it
will be subject, not only to growth, but also to disease and decay. An
intense and rapid intellectual development may have for its condition
a totally abnormal state of society, where certain vices, unknown to
ruder ages, spring up and flourish with rank luxuriance. When men have
to take women along with them on every new path of enquiry, progress
will be considerably retarded, although its benefits will ultimately
be shared among a greater number, and will be better insured against
the danger of a violent reaction. But the work that Hellas was
commissioned to perform could not wait; it had to be accomplished in
a few generations, or not at all. The barbarians were forcing their
way in on every side, not merely with the weight of invading armies,
but with the deadlier pressure of a benumbing superstition, with the
brute-worship of Egypt and the devil-worship of Phoenicia, with their
delirious orgies, their mutilations, their crucifixions, and their
gladiatorial contests. Already in the later dramas of Euripides and
in the Rhodian school of sculpture, we see the awful shadow coming
nearer, and feel the poisonous breath of Asia on our faces. Reason,
the reason by which these terrors have been for ever exorcised, could
only arrive at maturity under the influence of free and uninterrupted
discussion carried on by men among themselves in the gymnasium, the
agora, the ecclêsia, and the dicastery. The resulting and inevitable
separation of the sexes bred frightful disorders, which through all
changes of creed have clung like a moral pestilence to the shores of
the Aegean, and have helped to complicate political problems by joining
to religious hatred the fiercer animosity of physical disgust. But
whatever were the corruptions of Greek sentiment, Greek philosophy had
the power to purge them away. ‘Follow nature’ became the watchword
of one school after another; and a precept which at first may have
meant only that man should not fall below the brutes, was finally
so interpreted as to imply an absolute control of sense by reason.
No loftier standard of sexual purity has ever been inculcated than
that fixed by Plato in his latest work, the _Laws_. Isocrates bids
husbands set an example of conjugal fidelity to their wives. Socrates
had already declared that virtue was the same for both sexes. Xenophon
interests himself in the education of women. Plato would give them the
same training, and everywhere associate them in the same functions with
men. Equally decisive evidence of a theoretical opposition to slavery
is not forthcoming, and we know that it was unfortunately sanctioned by
Plato and Aristotle, in this respect no better inspired than the early
Christians; nevertheless, the germ of such an opposition existed, and
will hereafter be pointed out.

It has been said that the Greeks only worshipped beauty; that they
cultivated morality from the aesthetic side; that virtue was with
them a question, not of duty, but of taste. Some very strong texts
might be quoted in support of this judgment. For example, we find
Isocrates saying, in his encomium on Helen, that ‘Beauty is the first
of all things in majesty, and honour, and divineness. It is easy to
see its power: there are many things which have no share of courage,
or wisdom, or justice, which yet will be found honoured above things
which have each of these, but nothing which is devoid of beauty is
prized; all things are scorned which have not been given their part of
that attribute; the admiration for virtue itself comes to this, that
of all manifestations of life virtue is the most _beautiful_.’[44] And
Aristotle distinguishes the highest courage as willingness to die for
the καλόν. So also Plato describes philosophy as a love ‘that leads
one from fair forms to fair practices, and from fair practices to fair
notions, until from fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute
beauty, and at last knows what the essence of beauty is. And this is
that life beyond all others which man should live in the contemplation
of beauty absolute.’[45] Now, first of all, we must observe that, while
loveliness has been worshipped by many others, none have conceived
it under a form so worthy of worship as the Greeks. Beauty with them
was neither little, nor fragile, nor voluptuous; the soul’s energies
were not relaxed but exalted by its contemplation; there was in it an
element of austere and commanding dignity. The Argive Hêrê, though
revealed to us only through a softened Italian copy, has more divinity
in her countenance than any Madonna of them all; and the Melian
Aphroditê is distinguished by majesty of form not less than by purity
and sweetness of expression. This beauty was the unreserved information
of matter by mind, the visible rendering of absolute power, wisdom,
and goodness. Therefore, what a Greek worshipped was the perpetual
and ever-present energising of mind; but he forgot that beauty can
only exist as a combination of spirit with sense; and, after detaching
the higher element, he continued to call it by names and clothe it
in attributes proper to its earthly manifestations alone. Yet such
an extension of the aesthetic sentiment involved no weakening of the
moral fibre. A service comprehending all idealisms in one demanded the
self-effacement of a laborious preparation and the self-restraint of
a gradual achievement. They who pitched the goal of their aspiration
so high, knew that the paths leading up to it were rough, and steep,
and long; they felt that perfect workmanship and perfect taste, being
supremely precious, must be supremely difficult as well; χαλεπὰ τὰ
καλά they said, the beautiful is hard—hard to judge, hard to win,
and hard to keep. He who has passed through that stern discipline
need tremble at no other task; nor has duty anything to fear from a
companionship whose ultimate requirements are coincident with her own,
and the abandonment of which for a joyless asceticism can only lead to
the reappearance as an invading army of forces that should have been
cherished as indispensable allies.

It may be urged that beauty, however difficult of attainment or severe
in form, is, after all, essentially superficial; and that a morality
elaborated on the same principles will be equally superficial—will,
in fact, be little more than the art of keeping up appearances, of
displaying fine sentiments, of avoiding those actions the consequences
of which are immediately felt to be disagreeable, and, above all, of
not needlessly wounding anyone’s sensibilities. Such an imitation of
morality—which it would be a mistake to call hypocrisy—has no doubt
been common enough among all civilised nations; but there is no reason
to believe that it was in any way favoured by the circumstances of
Greek life. There is even evidence of a contrary tendency, as, indeed,
might be expected among a people whose most important states were saved
from the corrupting influences of a court. Where the sympathetic
admiration of shallow and excitable spectators is the effect chiefly
sought after, the showy virtues will be preferred to the solid, and the
appearance to the reality of all virtue; while brilliant and popular
qualities will be allowed to atone for the most atrocious crimes.
But, among the Greeks of the best period, courage and generosity rank
distinctly lower than temperance and justice; their poets and moralists
alike inculcate the preference of substance to show; and in no single
instance, so far as we can judge, did they, as modern nations often do,
for the sake of great achievements condone great wrongs. It was said of
a Greek and by a Greek that he did not wish to seem but to be just.[46]
We follow the judgment of the Greeks themselves in preferring Leonidas
to Pausanias, Aristeides to Themistocles, and Socrates to Alcibiades.
And we need only compare Epameinondas with David or Pericles with
Solomon as national heroes, to perceive at once how much nearer the two
Greeks come to our own standard of perfection, and how futile are the
charges sometimes brought against those from whose traditions we have
inherited their august and stainless fame.

Moreover, we have not here to consider what was the average level
of sentiment and practice among the Greeks; we have to study what
alone was of importance for the races which came under their tuition,
and that is the highest moral judgment to which they rose. Now, the
deliberate verdict of their philosophy on the relation between beauty
and virtue is contained in the following passage from Plato’s _Laws_:—

 ‘When anyone prefers beauty to virtue, what is this but the real and
 utter dishonour of the soul? For such a preference implies that the
 body is more honourable than the soul; and this is false, for there is
 nothing of earthly birth which is more honourable than the heavenly,
 and he who thinks otherwise of the soul has no idea how greatly he
 undervalues this wonderful possession.’[47]


II.

Thus much for the current prejudices which seemed likely to interfere
with a favourable consideration of our subject. We have next to study
the conditions by which the form of Greek ethical philosophy was
originally determined. Foremost among these must be placed the moral
conceptions already current long before systematic reflection could
begin. What they were may be partly gathered from some wise saws
attributed by the Greeks themselves to their Seven Sages, but probably
current at a much earlier period. The pith of these maxims, taken
collectively, is to recommend the qualities attributed by our own
philosophic poet to his perfect woman:—

    ‘The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill.’

We may say almost as briefly that they inculcate complete independence
both of our own passions and of external circumstances, with a
corresponding respect for the independence of others, to be shown by
using persuasion instead of force. Their tone will perhaps be best
understood by contrast with that collection of Hebrew proverbs which
has come down to us under the name of Solomon, but which Biblical
critics now attribute to a later period and a divided authorship. While
these regularly put forward material prosperity as the chief motive to
good conduct, Hellenic wisdom teaches indifference to the variations of
fortune. To a Greek, ‘the power that makes for righteousness,’ so far
from being, ‘not ourselves,’ was our own truest self, the far-seeing
reason which should guard us from elation and from depression, from
passion and from surprise. Instead of being offered old age as a
reward, we are told to be equally prepared for a long and for a short
life.

Two precepts stand out before all others, which, trivial as they
may seem, are uttered from the very soul of Greek experience, ‘Be
moderate,’ and, ‘Know thyself.’ Their joint observance constitutes the
characteristic virtue of Sôphrosynê, which means all that we understand
by temperance, and a great deal more besides; so much, in fact, that
very clever Greeks were hard set to define it, and very wise Greeks
could pray for it as the fairest gift of the gods.[48] Let us suppose
that each individual has a sphere of activity marked out for him by
his own nature and his special environment; then to discern clearly
the limits of that sphere and to keep within them would be Sôphrosynê,
while the discernment, taken alone, would be wisdom. The same
self-restraint operating as a check on interference with other spheres
would be justice; while the expansive force by which a man fills up
his entire sphere and guards it against aggressions may be called
courage. Thus we are enabled to comprehend the many-sided significance
of Sôphrosynê, to see how it could stand both for a particular virtue
and for all virtuousness whatever. We need only glance at Homer’s
poems, and in particular at the _Iliad_—a much deeper as well as a
more brilliant work than the _Odyssey_—to perceive how very early this
demand for moderation combined with self-knowledge had embodied itself
in Greek thought. Agamemnon violates the rights of Achilles under the
influence of immoderate passion, and through ignorance of how little
we can accomplish without the hero’s assistance. Achilles, again,
carries his vindictiveness too far, and suffers in consequence. But
his self-knowledge is absolutely perfect; conscious that he is first
in the field while others are better in council, he never undertakes
a task to which his powers are not fully adequate; nor does he enter
on his final work of vengeance without a clear consciousness of the
speedy death which its completion will entail on himself. Hector,
too, notwithstanding ominous forebodings, knows his duty and does it,
but with much less just an estimate of his own powers, leading him to
pursue his success too far, and then, when the tide has turned, not
permitting him to make a timely retreat within the walls of Troy. So
with the secondary characters. Patroclus also oversteps the limits
of moderation, and pays the penalty with his life. Diomed silently
bears the unmerited rebuke of Agamemnon, but afterwards recalls it at
a most effective moment, when rising to oppose the craven counsels
of the great king. This the Greeks called observing opportunity,
and opportunism was with them, as with French politicians, a form
of moderation.[49] Down at the very bottom of the scale Thersites
and Dolon are signal examples of men who do not know their sphere
and suffer for their folly. In the _Odyssey_, Odysseus is a nearly
perfect type of wisdom joined with self-control, erring, if we remember
rightly, only once, when he insults Polyphemus before the ship is out
of danger; while his comrades perish from want of these same gifts.

So far, virtue was with the Greeks what it must inevitably be with
all men at first, chiefly self-regarding, a refined form of prudence.
Moreover, other-regarding virtues gave less scope for reflection, being
originally comprehended under obedience to the law. But there were
two circumstances which could not long escape their notice; first,
that fraud and violence are often, at least apparently, profitable to
those who perpetrate them, a fact bitterly remarked by Hesiod;[50]
and secondly, that society cannot hold together without justice.
It was long before Governments grew up willing and able to protect
their subjects from mutual aggressions, nor does positive law create
morality, but implies it, and could not be worked without it. Nor could
international obligations be enforced by a superior tribunal; hence
they have remained down to the present day a fertile theme for ethical
discussion. It is at this point that morality forms a junction with
religion, the history of which is highly interesting, but which can
here be only briefly traced. The Olympian divinities, as placed before
us by Homer, are anything but moral. Their conduct towards each other
is that of a dissolute nobility; towards men it is that of unscrupulous
partisans and patrons. A loyal adherence to friends and gratitude for
sacrificial offerings are their most respectable characteristics,
raising them already a little above the nature-powers whence they were
derived. Now, mark how they first become moralised. It is by being made
witnesses to an oath. Any one who is called in to testify to a promise
feels aggrieved if it is broken, looking on the breach as an insult
to his own dignity. As the Third Commandment well puts it, his name
has been taken in vain. Thus it happened that the same gods who left
every other crime unpunished, visited perjury with severe and speedy
retribution, continued even after the offender’s death.[51] Respect for
a contract is the primary form of moral obligation, and still seems to
possess a peculiar hold over uneducated minds. We see every day how
many persons will abstain from actions which they know to be immoral
because they have given their word to that effect, not because the
actions themselves are wrong. And for that reason law courts would be
more willing to enforce contracts than to redress injuries. If, then,
one person inflicted damage on another, he might afterwards, in order
to escape retaliation from the injured party, or from his family,
engage to give satisfaction, and the court would compel him to redeem
his promise.[52] Thus contract, by procuring redress for every species
of wrong, would gradually extend its own obligatory character to
abstinence from injury in general, and the divine sanctions primarily
invoked on behalf of oaths would be extended, with them, over the whole
domain of moral conduct.

Nor was this all. Laws and justice once established would require
to have their origin accounted for, and, according to the usual
genealogical method of the early Greeks, would be described as children
of the gods, who would thus be interested in their welfare, and would
avenge their violation—a stage of reflection already reached in the
_Works and Days_ of Hesiod.

Again, when oracles like that at Delphi had obtained wide-spread
renown and authority, they would be consulted, not only on ceremonial
questions and matters of policy, but also on debateable points of
morality. The divine responses, being unbiassed by personal interest,
would necessarily be given in accordance with received rules of
rectitude, and would be backed by all the terrors of a supernatural
sanction. It might even be dangerous to assume that the god could
possibly give his support to wrong-doing. A story told by Herodotus
proves that such actually was the case.[E] There lived once at Sparta a
certain man named Glaucus, who had acquired so great a reputation for
probity that, during the troublous times of the Persian conquest, a
wealthy Milesian thought it advisable to deposit a large sum of money
with him for safe keeping. After a considerable time the money was
claimed by his children, but the honesty of Glaucus was not proof
against temptation. He pretended to have forgotten the whole affair,
and required a delay of three months before making up his mind with
regard to the validity of their demand. During that interval he
consulted the Delphic oracle to know whether he might possess himself
of the money by a false oath. The answer was that it would be for
his immediate advantage to do so; all must die, the faithful and the
perjured alike; but Horcus (oath) had a nameless son swift to pursue
without feet, strong to grasp without hands, who would destroy the
whole race of the sinner. Glaucus craved forgiveness, but was informed
that to tempt the god was equivalent to committing the crime. He went
home and restored the deposit, but his whole family perished utterly
from the land before three generations had passed by.

Yet another step remained to take. Punishment must be transferred from
a man’s innocent children to the man himself in a future life. But the
Olympian theology was, originally at least, powerless to effect this
revolution. Its gods, being personifications of celestial phenomena,
had nothing to do with the dark underworld whither men descended
after death. There existed, however, side by side with the brilliant
religion of courts and camps which Greek poetry has made so familiar
to us, another religion more popular with simple country-folk,[53] to
whom war meant ruin, courts of justice a means invented by kings for
exacting bribes, sea-voyages a senseless imprudence, chariot-racing a
sinful waste of money, and beautiful women drones in the human hive,
demons of extravagance invented by Zeus for the purpose of venting his
spite against mankind. What interest could these poor people take in
the resplendent guardians of their hereditary oppressors, in Hêrê and
Athênê, Apollo and Poseidôn, Artemis and Aphroditê? But they had other
gods peculiar to themselves, whose worship was wrapped in mystery,
partly that its objects need not be lured away by the attraction of
richer offerings elsewhere, partly because the activity of these
Chthonian deities, as they were called, was naturally associated with
darkness and secresy. Presiding over birth and death, over seed-time
and harvest and vintage, they personified the frost-bound sleep of
vegetation in winter and its return from a dark underworld in spring.
Out of their worship grew stories which told how Persephonê, the
fair daughter of Dêmêtêr, or Mother Earth, was carried away by Pluto
to reign with him over the shades below, but after long searching
was restored to her mother for eight months in every year; and how
Dionysus, the wine-god, was twice born, first from the earth burned up
and fainting under the intolerable fire of a summer sky, respectively
personified as Semelê and her lover Zeus, then from the protecting
mist wrapped round him by his divine father, of whom it formed a part.
Dionysus, too, was subject to alternations of depression and triumph,
from the recital of which Attic drama was developed, and gained a
footing in the infernal regions, whither we accompany him in the
_Frogs_ of Aristophanes. Another country god was Hermês, who seems to
have been associated with planting and possession as well as with the
demarcation and exchange of property, and who was also a conductor of
souls to Hades. Finally, there were the Erinyes, children of night and
dwellers in subterranean darkness; they could breed pestilence and
discord, but could also avert them; they could blast the produce of the
soil or increase its luxuriance and fertility; when blood was spilt on
the ground, they made it blossom up again in a harvest of retributive
hatred; they pursued the guilty during life, and did not relax their
grasp after death; all law, whether physical or moral, was under their
protection; the same Erinyes who, in the _Odyssey_, avenge on Oedipus
the suicide of his mother, in the _Iliad_ will not allow the miraculous
speaking of a horse to continue; and we have seen in the last chapter
how, according to Heracleitus, it is they who also prevent the sun
from transgressing his appointed limits.[54] Dêmêtêr and Persephonê,
too, seem to have been law-giving goddesses, as their great festival,
celebrated by women alone, was called the Thesmophoria, while eternal
happiness was promised to those who had been initiated into their
mysteries at Eleusis; and we also find that moral maxims were graven on
the marble busts of Hermês placed along every thoroughfare in Athens.
We can thus understand why the mutilation of these Hermae caused
such rage and terror, accompanied, as it was rumoured to be, by a
profanation of the Eleusinian mysteries; for any attack on the deities
in question would seem to prefigure an attack on the settled order of
things, the popular rights which they both symbolised and protected.

Here, then, we find, chiefly among the rustic population, a religion
intimately associated with morality, and including the doctrine of
retribution after death. But this simple faith, though well adapted
to the few wants of its original votaries, could not be raised to
the utmost expansion and purity of which it was susceptible without
being brought into vivifying contact with that other Olympian
religion which, as we have seen, belonged more peculiarly to the
ruling aristocracy. The poor may be more moral than the rich, and the
country than the town; nevertheless it is from dwellers in cities, and
from the higher classes, including as they do a large percentage of
educated, open-minded individuals, that the impulses to moral progress
always proceed. If the narrowness and hardness of primitive social
arrangements were overcome; if justice was disengaged from the ties
of blood-relationship, and tempered with consideration for inevitable
error; if deadly feuds were terminated by a habitual appeal to
arbitration; if the worship of one supreme ideal was substituted for a
blind sympathy with the ebb and flow of life on earth; if the numerical
strength of states was increased by giving shelter to fugitives; if a
Hellenic nation was created and held together by a common literature
and a common civilisation, by oracles accessible to all, and by
periodical games in which every free-born Greek could take part; and,
lastly, if a brighter abode than the slumberous garden of Persephonê
was assigned after death to the godlike heroes who had come forth
from a thrice repeated ordeal with souls unstained by sin;[55]—all
this was due to the military rather than to the industrial classes,
to the spirit that breathes through Homer rather than to the tamer
inspiration of Hesiod’s muse. But if justice was raised to an Olympian
throne; if righteous providence, no less than creative power, became
an inalienable attribute of Zeus; if lyric poetry, from Archilochus to
Simonides and Pindar, is one long hymn of prayer and praise ever turned
upward in adoring love to the Divine; we must remember that Themis
was a synonyme for Earth, and that Prometheus, the original friend
of humanity, for whose benefit he invented every useful art, augury
included, was her son. The seeds of immortal hope were first planted
in the fructifying bosom of Dêmêtêr, and life, a forsaken Ariadnê,
took refuge in the mystical embraces of Dionysus from the memory of a
promise that had allured her to betray. Thus, we may conjecture that
between hall and farm-house, between the Olympian and the Chthonian
religions, there was a constant reaction going on, during which ethical
ideas were continually expanding, and extricating themselves from the
superstitious elements associated with their earliest theological
expression.


III.

This process was conceived by Aeschylus as a conflict between two
generations of gods, ending with their complete reconciliation. In the
_Prometheus Bound_ we have the commencement of the conflict, in the
_Eumenides_ its close. Our sympathies are apparently at first intended
to be enlisted on behalf of the older divinities, but at last are
claimed exclusively by the younger. As opposed to Prometheus, Zeus is
evidently in the wrong, and seeks to make up for his deficiencies by
arbitrary violence. In the _Oresteia_ he is the champion of justice
against iniquity, and through his interpreter, Apollo, he enforces a
revised moral code against the antiquated claims of the Erinyes; these
latter, however, ultimately consenting to become guardians of the new
social order. The Aeschylean drama shows us Greek religion at the
highest level it could reach, unaided by philosophical reflection.
With Sophocles a perceptible decline has already begun. We are loth to
say anything that may sound like disparagement of so noble a poet. We
yield to none in admiration for one who has combined the two highest
qualities of art—sweetness and strength—more completely than any
other singer, Homer alone excepted, and who has given the primordial
affections their definitive expression for all time. But we cannot
help perceiving an element of superstition in his dramas, which,
so far, distinguishes them unfavourably from those of his Titanic
predecessor. With Sophocles, when the gods interfere, it is to punish
disrespect towards themselves, not to enforce justice between man and
man. Ajax perishes by his own hand because he has neglected to ask
for divine assistance in battle. Laius and Jocastê come to a tragic
end through disobedience to a perfectly arbitrary oracle; and as a
part of the same divine purpose Oedipus encounters the most frightful
calamities by no fault of his own. The gods are, moreover, exclusively
objects of fear; their sole business is to enforce the fulfilment of
enigmatic prophecies; they give no assistance to the pious and virtuous
characters. Antigonê is allowed to perish for having performed the last
duties to her brother’s corpse. Neoptolemus receives no aid in that
struggle between ambition on the one hand with truthfulness and pity
on the other which makes his character one of the most interesting in
all imaginative literature. When Athênê bids Odysseus exult over the
degradation of Ajax, the generous Ithacan refuses to her face, and
falls back on the consciousness of a common humanity uniting him in
sympathy with his prostrate foe.

The rift within the lute went on widening till all its music was turned
to jarring discord. With the third great Attic dramatist we arrive at
a period of complete dissolution. Morality is not only separated from
mythological tradition, but is openly at war with it. Religious belief,
after becoming almost monotheistic, has relapsed into polytheism. With
Euripides the gods do not, as with his predecessors, form a common
council. They lead an independent existence, not interfering with each
other, and pursuing private ends of their own—often very disreputable
ones. Aphrodite inspires Phaedra with an incestuous passion for her
stepson. Artemis is propitiated by human sacrifices. Hêrê causes
Heraclês to kill his children in a fit of delirium. Zeus and Poseidôn
are charged with breaking their own laws, and setting a bad example to
mortals. Apollo, once so venerated, fares the worst of any. He outrages
a noble maiden, and succeeds in palming off her child on the man whom
she subsequently marries. He instigates the murder of a repentant enemy
who has come to seek forgiveness at his shrine. He fails to protect
Orestes from the consequences of matricide, committed at his own
unwise suggestion. Political animosity may have had something to do
with these attacks on a god who was believed to side with the Dorian
confederacy against Athens. Doubtless, also, Euripides disbelieved many
of the scandalous stories which he selected as appropriate materials
for dramatic representation. But a satire on immoral beliefs would
have been unnecessary had they not been generally accepted. Nor was
the poet himself altogether a freethinker. One of his latest and most
splendid works, the _Bacchae_, is a formal submission to the orthodox
creed. Under the stimulus of an insane delusion, Pentheus is torn
to pieces by his mother Agavê and her attendant Maenads, for having
presumed to oppose the introduction of Dionysus-worship into Thebes.
The antecedents of the new divinity are questionable, and the nature of
his influence on the female population extremely suspicious. Yet much
stress is laid on the impiety of Pentheus, and we are clearly intended
to consider his fate as well-deserved.

Euripides is not a true thinker, and for that very reason fitly
typifies a period when religion had been shaken to its very foundation,
but still retained a strong hold on men’s minds, and might at any time
reassert its ancient authority with unexpected vigour. We gather, also,
from his writings, that ethical sentiment had undergone a parallel
transformation. He introduces characters and actions which the elder
dramatists would have rejected as unworthy of tragedy, and not only
introduces them, but composes elaborate speeches in their defence. Side
by side with examples of devoted heroism we find such observations as
that everyone loves himself best, and that those are most prosperous
who attend most exclusively to their own interests. It so happens that
in one instance where Euripides has chosen a subject already handled
by Aeschylus, the difference of treatment shows how great a moral
revolution had occurred in the interim. The conflict waged between
Eteoclês and Polyneicês for their father’s throne is the theme both
of the _Seven against Thebes_ and of the _Phoenician Women_. In both,
Polyneicês bases his claim on grounds of right. It had been agreed that
he and his brother should alternately hold sway over Thebes. His turn
has arrived, and Eteoclês refuses to give way. Polyneicês endeavours
to enforce his pretensions by bringing a foreign army against Thebes.
Aeschylus makes him appear before the walls with an allegorical figure
of Justice on his shield, promising to restore him to his father’s
seat. On hearing this, Eteoclês exclaims:—

    ‘Aye, if Jove’s virgin daughter Justice shared
    In deed or thought of his, then it might be.
    But neither when he left the darkling womb,
    Nor in his childhood, nor in youth, nor when
    The clustering hair first gathered round his chin,
    Hath Justice turned approving eyes on him;
    Nor deem I that she comes as his ally,
    Now that he wastes his native land with war,
    Or Justice most unjustly were she called
    If ruthless hearts could claim her fellowship.’[56]

Euripides, with greater dramatic skill, brings the two brothers
together in presence of their mother, Jocastê. When Polyneicês has
spoken, Eteoclês replies:—

    ‘Honour and wisdom are but empty names
    That mortals use, each with a different meaning,
    Agreeing in the sound, not in the sense.
    Hear, mother, undisguised my whole resolve!
    Were Sovereignty, chief goddess among gods,
    Far set as is the rising of a star,
    Or buried deep in subterranean gloom,
    There I would seek and win her for mine own.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Come fire, come sword, yoke horses to the car,
    And fill the plain with armed men, for I
    Will not give up my royalty to him!
    Let all my life be guiltless save in this:
    I dare do any wrong for sovereign power—
    The splendid guerdon of a splendid sin.’[57]

The contrast is not only direct, but designed, for Euripides had the
work of his predecessor before him, and no doubt imagined that he was
improving on it.

We perceive a precisely similar change of tone on comparing the two
great historians who have respectively recorded the struggle of Greece
against Persia, and the struggle of imperial Athens against Sparta
and her allies. Though born within fifteen years of one another,
Herodotus and Thucydides are virtually separated by an interval of two
generations, for while the latter represents the most advanced thought
of his time, the former lived among traditions inherited from the
age preceding his own. Now, Herodotus is not more remarkable for the
earnest piety than for the clear sense of justice which runs through
his entire work. He draws no distinction between public and private
morality. Whoever makes war on his neighbours without provocation, or
rules without the consent of the governed, is, according to him, in
the wrong, although he is well aware that such wrongs are constantly
committed. Thucydides knows nothing of supernatural interference in
human affairs. After relating the tragical end of Nicias, he observes,
not without a sceptical tendency, that of all the Greeks then living,
this unfortunate general least deserved such a fate, so far as piety
and respectability of character went. If there are gods they hold
their position by superior strength. That the strong should enslave
the weak is a universal and necessary law of Nature. The Spartans,
who among themselves are most scrupulous in observing traditional
obligations, in their dealings with others most openly identify gain
with honour, and expediency with right. Even if the historian himself
did not share these opinions, it is evident that they were widely
entertained by his contemporaries, and he expressly informs us that
Greek political morality had deteriorated to a frightful extent in
consequence of the civil discords fomented by the conflict between
Athens and Sparta; while, in Athens at least, a similar corruption of
private morality had begun with the great plague of 430, its chief
symptom being a mad desire to extract the utmost possible enjoyment
from life, for which purpose every means was considered legitimate. On
this point Thucydides is confirmed and supplemented by the evidence of
another contemporary authority. According to Aristophanes, the ancient
discipline had in his time become very much relaxed. The rich were idle
and extravagant; the poor mutinous; young men were growing more and
more insolent to their elders; religion was derided; all classes were
animated by a common desire to make money and to spend it on sensual
enjoyment. Only, instead of tracing back this profound demoralisation
to a change in the social environment, Aristophanes attributes it to
demagogues, harassing informers, and popular poets, but above all to
the new culture then coming into vogue. Physical science had brought
in atheism; dialectic training had destroyed the sanctity of ethical
restraints. When, however, the religious and virtuous Socrates is put
forward as a type of both tendencies, our confidence in the comic
poet’s accuracy, if not in his good faith, becomes seriously shaken;
and his whole tone so vividly recalls the analogous invectives now
hurled from press and pulpit against every philosophic theory, every
scientific discovery, every social reform at variance with traditional
beliefs or threatening the sinister interests which have gathered round
iniquitous institutions, that at first we feel tempted to follow Grote
in rejecting his testimony altogether. So far, however, as the actual
phenomena themselves are concerned, and apart from their generating
antecedents, Aristophanes does but bring into more picturesque
prominence what graver observers are content to indicate, and what
Plato, writing a generation later, treats as an unquestionable reality.
Nor is the fact of a lowered moral tone going along with accelerated
mental activity either incredible or unparalleled. Modern history
knows of at least two periods remarkable for such a conjunction,
the Renaissance and the eighteenth century, the former stained with
every imaginable crime, the latter impure throughout, and lapsing
into blood-thirsty violence at its close. Moral progress, like every
other mode of motion, has its appropriate rhythm—its epochs of severe
restraint followed by epochs of rebellious license. And when, as an
aggravation of the reaction from which they periodically suffer,
ethical principles have become associated with a mythology whose decay,
at first retarded, is finally hastened by their activity, it is still
easier to understand how they may share in its discredit, and only
regain their ascendency by allying themselves with a purified form of
the old religion, until they can be disentangled from the compromising
support of all unverified theories whatever. We have every reason to
believe that Greek life and thought did pass through such a crisis
during the second half of the fifth century B.C., and we have now to
deal with the speculative aspects of that crisis, so far as they are
represented by the Sophists.


IV.

The word Sophist in modern languages means one who purposely uses
fallacious arguments. Our definition was probably derived from that
given by Aristotle in his _Topics_, but does not entirely reproduce
it. What we call sophistry was with him eristic, or the art of unfair
disputation; and by Sophist he means one who practises the eristic
art for gain. He also defines sophistry as the appearance without the
reality of wisdom. A very similar account of the Sophists and their
art is given by Plato in what seems to be one of his later dialogues;
and another dialogue, probably composed some time previously, shows
us how eristic was actually practised by two Sophists, Euthydêmus and
Dionysodôrus, who had learned the art, which is represented as a very
easy accomplishment, when already old men. Their performance is not
edifying; and one only wonders how any Greek could have been induced to
pay for the privilege of witnessing such an exhibition. But the word
Sophist, in its original signification, was an entirely honourable
name. It meant a sage, a wise and learned man, like Solon, or, for that
matter, like Plato and Aristotle themselves. The interval between these
widely-different connotations is filled up and explained by a number
of individuals as to whom our information is principally, though by
no means entirely, derived from Plato. All of them were professional
teachers, receiving payment for their services; all made a particular
study of language, some aiming more particularly at accuracy, others
at beauty of expression. While no common doctrine can be attributed
to them as a class, as individuals they are connected by a series of
graduated transitions, the final outcome of which will enable us to
understand how, from a title of respect, their name could be turned
into a byword of reproach. The Sophists, concerning whom some details
have been transmitted to us, are Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus,
Hippias, Pôlus, Thrasymachus, and the Eristics already mentioned.
We have placed them, so far as their ages can be determined, in
chronological order, but their logical order is somewhat different.
The first two on the list were born about 480 B.C., and the second
pair possibly twenty years later. But neither Protagoras nor Gorgias
seems to have published his most characteristic theories until a
rather advanced time of life, for they are nowhere alluded to by the
Xenophontic Socrates, who, on the other hand, is well acquainted with
both Prodicus and Hippias, while, conversely, Plato is most interested
in the former pair. We shall also presently see that the scepticism
of the elder Sophists can best be explained by reference to the more
dogmatic theories of their younger contemporaries, which again easily
fit on to the physical speculations of earlier thinkers.

Prodicus was born in Ceos, a little island belonging to the Athenian
confederacy, and seems to have habitually resided at Athens. His
health was delicate, and he wrapped up a good deal, as we learn from
the ridicule of Plato, always pitiless to a valetudinarian.[F] Judging
from two allusions in Aristophanes, he taught natural science in
such a manner as to conciliate even that unsparing enemy of the
new learning.[58] He also gave moral instruction grounded on the
traditional ideas of his country, a pleasing specimen of which
has been preserved. It is conveyed under the form of an apologue,
entitled the Choice of Heraclês, and was taken down in its present
form by Xenophon from the lips of Socrates, who quoted it, with full
approval, for the benefit of his own disciples. Prodicus also lectured
on the use of words, laying especial emphasis on the distinction of
synonyms. We hear, not without sympathy, that he tried to check the
indiscriminate employment of ‘awful’ (δεινός), which was even more rife
at Athens than among ourselves.[G] Finally, we are told that, like many
moderns, he considered the popular divinities to be personifications
of natural phenomena. Hippias, who was a native of Elis, seems to
have taught on very much the same system. It would appear that he
lectured principally on astronomy and physics, but did not neglect
language, and is said to have invented an art of memory. His restless
inquisitiveness was also exercised on ancient history, and his
erudition in that subject was taxed to the utmost during a visit to
Sparta, where the unlettered people still delighted in old stories,
which among the more enlightened Greeks had been superseded by topics
of livelier and fresher interest. At Sparta, too, he recited, with
great applause, an ethical discourse under the form of advice given
by Nestor to Neoptolemus after the capture of Troy. We know, on good
authority, that Hippias habitually distinguished between natural and
customary law, the former being, according to him, everywhere the
same, while the latter varied from state to state, and in the same
state at different times. Natural law he held to be alone binding and
alone salutary. On this subject the following expressions, evidently
intended to be characteristic, are put into his mouth by Plato:—‘All
of you who are here present I reckon to be kinsmen and friends and
fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like is akin
to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to
do many things which are against Nature.’[59] Here two distinct ideas
are implied, the idea that Nature is a moral guide, and, further,
the idea that she is opposed to convention. The habit of looking for
examples and lessons to some simpler life than their own prevailed
among the Greeks from a very early period, and is, indeed, very common
in primitive societies. Homer’s similes are a case in point; while all
that we are told about the innocence and felicity of the Aethiopians
and Hyperboreans seems to indicate a deep-rooted belief in the moral
superiority of savage to civilised nations; and Hesiod’s fiction of
the Four Ages, beginning with a golden age, arises from a kindred
notion that intellectual progress is accompanied by moral corruption.
Simonides of Amorgus illustrates the various types of womankind by
examples from the animal world; and Aesop’s fables, dating from the
first half of the sixth century, give ethical instruction under the
same disguise. We have already pointed out how Greek rural religion
established a thorough-going connexion between physical and moral
phenomena, and how Heracleitus followed in the same track. Now, one
great result of early Greek thought, as described in our first chapter,
was to combine all these scattered fugitive incoherent ideas under a
single conception, thus enabling them to elucidate and support one
another. This was the conception of Nature as a universal all-creative
eternal power, first superior to the gods, then altogether superseding
them. When Homer called Zeus the father of gods and men; when Pindar
said that both races, the divine and the human, are sprung from one
mother (Earth);[60] when, again, he spoke of law as an absolute king;
or when Aeschylus set destiny above Zeus himself;[61] they were but
foreshadowing a more despotic authority, whose dominion is even now not
extinct, is perhaps being renewed under the title of Evolution. The
word Nature was used by most philosophers, and the thing was implied
by all. They did not, indeed, commit the mistake of personifying a
convenient abstraction; but a conception which they substituted for the
gods would soon inherit every attribute of divine agency. Moreover,
the Nature of philosophy had three fundamental attributes admitting of
ready application as ethical standards. She was everywhere the same;
fire burned in Greece and Persia alike. She tended towards an orderly
system where every agent or element is limited to its appropriate
sphere. And she proceeded on a principle of universal compensation,
all gains in one direction being paid for by losses in another, and
every disturbance being eventually rectified by a restoration of
equilibrium. It was, indeed, by no means surprising that truths which
were generalised from the experience of Greek social life should now
return to confirm the orderliness of that life with the sanction of an
all-pervading law.

Euripides gives us an interesting example of the style in which this
ethical application of physical science could be practised. We have
seen how Eteoclês expresses his determination to do and dare all for
the sake of sovereign power. His mother, Jocastê, gently rebukes him as
follows:—

    ‘Honour Equality who binds together
    Both friends and cities and confederates,
    For equity is law, law equity;
    The lesser is the greater’s enemy,
    And disadvantaged aye begins the strife.
    From her our measures, weights, and numbers come,
    Defined and ordered by Equality;
    So do the night’s blind eye and sun’s bright orb
    Walk equal courses in their yearly round,
    And neither is embittered by defeat;
    And while both light and darkness serve mankind
    Wilt thou not bear an equal in thy house?’[62]

On examining the apologue of Prodicus, we find it characterised by
a somewhat similar style of reasoning. There is, it is true, no
reference to physical phenomena, but Virtue dwells strongly on the
truth that nothing can be had for nothing, and that pleasure must
either be purchased by toil or atoned for by languor, satiety, and
premature decay. We know also that the Cynical school, as represented
by Antisthenês, rejected all pleasure on the ground that it was always
paid for by an equal amount of pain; and Heraclês, the Prodicean type
of a youth who follows virtue in preference to vice disguised as
happiness, was also the favourite hero of the Cynics. Again, Plato
alludes, in the _Philêbus_, to certain thinkers, reputed to be ‘great
on the subject of physics,’ who deny the very existence of pleasure.
Critics have been at a loss to identify these persons, and rather
reluctantly put up with the explanation that Antisthenês and his school
are referred to. Antisthenês was a friend of Prodicus, and may at one
time have shared in his scientific studies, thus giving occasion to
the association touched on by Plato. But is it not equally possible
that Prodicus left behind disciples who, like him, combined moral with
physical teaching; and, going a little further, may we not conjecture
that their opposition to Hedonism was inherited from the master
himself, who, like the Stoics afterwards, may have based it on an
application of physical reasoning to ethics?

Still more important was the antithesis between Nature and convention,
which, so far as we know, originated exclusively with Hippias. We
have already observed that universality and necessity were, with
the Greeks, standing marks of naturalness. The customs of different
countries were, on the other hand, distinguished by extreme variety,
amounting sometimes to diametrical opposition. Herodotus was fond
of calling attention to such contrasts; only, he drew from them the
conclusion that law, to be so arbitrary, must needs possess supreme
and sacred authority. According to the more plausible interpretation
of Hippias, the variety, and at least in Greek democracies, the
changeability of law proved that it was neither sacred nor binding.
He also looked on artificial social institutions as the sole cause of
division and discord among mankind. Here we already see the dawn of a
cosmopolitanism afterwards preached by Cynic and Stoic philosophers.
Furthermore, to discover the natural rule of right, he compared the
laws of different nations, and selected those which were held by
all in common as the basis of an ethical system.[63] Now, this is
precisely what was done by the Roman jurists long afterwards under
the inspiration of Stoical teaching. We have it on the high authority
of Sir Henry Maine that they identified the _Jus Gentium_, that is,
the laws supposed to be observed by all nations alike, with the _Jus
Naturale_, that is, the code by which men were governed in their
primitive condition of innocence. It was by a gradual application of
this ideal standard that the numerous inequalities between different
classes of persons, enforced by ancient Roman law, were removed, and
that contract was substituted for status. Above all, the abolition of
slavery was, if not directly caused, at any rate powerfully aided,
by the belief that it was against Nature. At the beginning of the
fourteenth century we find Louis Hutin, King of France, assigning
as a reason for the enfranchisement of his serfs, that, ‘according
to natural law, everybody ought to be born free,’ and although Sir
H. Maine holds this to have been a mistaken interpretation of the
juridical axiom ‘omnes homines naturâ aequales sunt,’ which means
not an ideal to be attained, but a primitive condition from which we
have departed: nevertheless it very faithfully reproduces the theory
of those Greek philosophers from whom the idea of a natural law was
derived. That, in Aristotle’s time at least, a party existed who were
opposed to slavery on theoretical grounds of right is perfectly evident
from the language of the _Politics_. ‘Some persons,’ says Aristotle,
‘think that slave-holding is against nature, for that one man is a
slave and another free by law, while by nature there is no difference
between them, for which reason it is unjust as being the result of
force.’[64] And he proceeds to prove the contrary at length. The same
doctrine of natural equality led to important political consequences,
having, again according to Sir H. Maine, contributed both to the
American Declaration of Independence and to the French Revolution.

There is one more aspect deserving our attention, under which the
theory of Nature has been presented both in ancient and modern times.
A dialogue which, whether rightly or wrongly attributed to Plato, may
be taken as good evidence on the subject it relates to,[65] exhibits
Hippias in the character of a universal genius, who can not only
teach every science and practise every kind of literary composition,
but has also manufactured all the clothes and other articles about
his person. Here we have precisely the sort of versatility which
characterises uncivilised society, and which believers in a state of
nature love to encourage at all times. The division of labour, while
it carries us ever farther from barbarism, makes us more dependent on
each other. An Odysseus is master of many arts, a Themistocles of two,
a Demosthenes of only one. A Norwegian peasant can do more for himself
than an English countryman, and therefore makes a better colonist. If
we must return to Nature, our first step should be to learn a number
of trades, and so be better able to shift for ourselves. Such was the
ideal of Hippias, and it was also the ideal of the eighteenth century.
Its literature begins with _Robinson Crusoe_, the story of a man who
is accidentally compelled to provide himself, during many years, with
all the necessaries of life. Its educational manuals are, in France,
Rousseau’s _Émile_; in England, Day’s _Sandford and Merton_, both
teaching that the young should be thrown as much as possible on their
own resources. One of its types is Diderot, who learns handicrafts that
he may describe them in the _Encyclopédie_. Its two great spokesmen
are Voltaire and Goethe, who, after cultivating every department
of literature, take in statesmanship as well. And its last word is
Schiller’s _Letters on Aesthetic Culture_, holding up totality of
existence as the supreme ideal to be sought after.

There is no reason to believe that Hippias used his distinction between
Nature and convention as an argument for despotism. It would rather
appear that, if anything, he and his school desired to establish a more
complete equality among men. Others, however, both rhetoricians and
practical statesmen, were not slow to draw an opposite conclusion. They
saw that where no law was recognised, as between different nations,
nothing but violence and the right of the stronger prevailed. It was
once believed that aggressions which human law could not reach found
no favour with the gods, and dread of the divine displeasure may have
done something towards restraining them. But religion had partly been
destroyed by the new culture, partly perverted into a sanction for
wrong-doing. By what right, it was asked, did Zeus himself reign? Had
he not unlawfully dethroned his father, Cronos, and did he not now hold
power simply by virtue of superior strength? Similar reasonings were
soon applied to the internal government of each state. It was alleged
that the ablest citizens could lay claim to uncontrolled supremacy by
a title older than any social fiction. Rules of right meant nothing
but a permanent conspiracy of the weak to withdraw themselves from the
legitimate dominion of their born master, and to bamboozle him into
a voluntary surrender of his natural privileges. Sentiments bearing
a superficial resemblance to these have occasionally found utterance
among ourselves. Nevertheless, it would be most unjust to compare
Carlyle and Mr. Froude with Critias and Calliclês. We believe that
their preference of despotism to representative government is an entire
mistake. But we know that with them as with us the good of the governed
is the sole end desired. The gentlemen of Athens sought after supreme
power only as a means for gratifying their worst passions without let
or hindrance; and for that purpose they were ready to ally themselves
with every foreign enemy in turn, or to flatter the caprices of the
Dêmos, if that policy promised to answer equally well. The antisocial
theories of these ‘young lions,’ as they were called by their enemies
and sometimes by themselves also, do not seem to have been supported
by any public teacher. If we are to believe Plato, Pôlus, a Sicilian
rhetor, did indeed regard Archelaus, the abler Louis Napoleon of his
time, with sympathy and envious admiration, but without attempting
to justify the crimes of his hero by an appeal to natural law. The
corruption of theoretical morality among the paid teachers took a more
subtle form. Instead of opposing one principle to another, they held
that all law had the same source, being an emanation from the will
of the stronger, and exclusively designed to promote his interest.
Justice, according to Thrasymachus in the _Republic_, is another’s
good, which is true enough, and to practise it except under compulsion
is foolish, which, whatever Grote may say, is a grossly immoral
doctrine.


V.

We have seen how the idea of Nature, first evolved by physical
philosophy, was taken by some, at least, among the Sophists as a
basis for their ethical teaching; then how an interpretation utterly
opposed to theirs was put on it by practical men, and how this second
interpretation was so generalised by the younger rhetoricians as to
involve the denial of all morality whatever. Meanwhile, another equally
important conception, destined to come into speedy and prolonged
antagonism with the idea of Nature, and like it to exercise a powerful
influence on ethical reflection, had almost contemporaneously been
elaborated out of the materials which earlier speculation supplied.
From Parmenides and Heracleitus down, every philosopher who had
propounded a theory of the world, had also more or less peremptorily
insisted on the fact that his theory differed widely from common
belief. Those who held that change is impossible, and those who
taught that everything is incessantly changing; those who asserted the
indestructibility of matter, and those who denied its continuity; those
who took away objective reality from every quality except extension
and resistance, and those who affirmed that the smallest molecules
partook more or less of every attribute that is revealed to sense—all
these, however much they might disagree among themselves, agreed in
declaring that the received opinions of mankind were an utter delusion.
Thus, a sharp distinction came to be drawn between the misleading
sense-impressions and the objective reality to which thought alone
could penetrate. It was by combining these two elements, sensation
and thought, that the idea of mind was originally constituted. And
mind when so understood could not well be accounted for by any of the
materialistic hypotheses at first proposed. The senses must differ
profoundly from that of which they give such an unfaithful report;
while reason, which Anaxagoras had so carefully differentiated from
every other form of existence, carried back its distinction to the
subjective sphere, and became clothed with a new spirituality when
reintegrated in the consciousness of man.

The first result of this separation between man and the world was a
complete breach with the old physical philosophy, shown, on the one
hand, by an abandonment of speculative studies, on the other, by a
substitution of convention for Nature as the recognised standard of
right. Both consequences were drawn by Protagoras, the most eminent
of the Sophists. We have now to consider more particularly what was
his part in the great drama of which we are attempting to give an
intelligible account.

Protagoras was born about 480 B.C. He was a fellow-townsman of
Democritus, and has been represented, though not on good authority,
as a disciple of that illustrious thinker. It was rather by a study
of Heracleitus that his philosophical opinions, so far as they were
borrowed from others, seem to have been most decisively determined.
In any case, practice, not theory, was the principal occupation of
his life. He gave instruction for payment in the higher branches of a
liberal education, and adopted the name of Sophist, which before had
simply meant a wise man, as an honourable title for his new calling.
Protagoras was a very popular teacher. The news of his arrival in a
strange city excited immense enthusiasm, and he was followed from place
to place by a band of eager disciples. At Athens he was honoured by
the friendship of such men as Pericles and Euripides. It was at the
house of the great tragic poet that he read out a work beginning with
the ominous declaration, ‘I cannot tell whether the gods exist or not;
life is too short for such difficult investigations.’[66] Athenian
bigotry took alarm directly. The book containing this frank confession
of agnosticism was publicly burned, all purchasers being compelled to
give up the copies in their possession. The author himself was either
banished or took flight, and perished by shipwreck on the way to Sicily
before completing his seventieth year.

The scepticism of Protagoras went beyond theology and extended to all
science whatever. Such, at least, seems to have been the force of his
celebrated declaration that ‘man is the measure of all things, both
as regards their existence and their non-existence.’[67] According to
Plato, this doctrine followed from the identification of knowledge
with sensible perception, which in its turn was based on a modified
form of the Heracleitean theory of a perpetual flux. The series of
external changes which constitutes Nature, acting on the series of
internal changes which constitutes each man’s personality, produces
particular sensations, and these alone are the true reality. They vary
with every variation in the factors, and therefore are not the same
for separate individuals. Each man’s perceptions are true for himself,
but for himself alone. Plato easily shows that such a theory of truth
is at variance with ordinary opinion, and that if all opinions are
true, it must necessarily stand self-condemned. We may also observe
that if nothing can be known but sensation, nothing can be known of
its conditions. It would, however, be unfair to convict Protagoras of
talking nonsense on the unsupported authority of the _Theaetêtus_.
Plato himself suggests that a better case might have been made out
for the incriminated doctrine could its author have been heard in
self-defence. We may conjecture that Protagoras did not distinguish
very accurately between existence, knowledge, and applicability to
practice. If we assume, what there seems good reason to believe, that
in the great controversy of Nature _versus_ Law, Protagoras sided with
the latter, his position will at once become clear. When the champions
of Nature credited her with a stability and an authority greater than
could be claimed for merely human arrangements, it was a judicious step
to carry the war into their territory, and ask, on what foundation then
does Nature herself stand? Is not she, too, perpetually changing, and
do we not become acquainted with her entirely through our own feelings?
Ought not those feelings to be taken as the ultimate standard in all
questions of right and wrong? Individual opinion is a fact which must
be reckoned with, but which can be changed by persuasion, not by
appeals to something that we none of us know anything about. _Man_ is
the measure of all things, not the will of gods whose very existence
is uncertain, nor yet a purely hypothetical state of Nature. Human
interests must take precedence of every other consideration. Hector
meant nothing else when he preferred the obvious dictates of patriotism
to inferences drawn from the flight of birds.

We now understand why Protagoras, in the Platonic dialogue bearing his
name, should glance scornfully at the method of instruction pursued by
Hippias, with his lectures on astronomy, and why he prefers to discuss
obscure passages in the poets. The quarrel between a classical and a
scientific education was just then beginning, and Protagoras, as a
Humanist, sided with the classics. Again, he does not think much of
the ‘great and sane and noble race of brutes.’ He would not, like the
Cynics, take them as examples of conduct. Man, he says, is naturally
worse provided for than any animal; even the divine gift of wisdom
would not save him from extinction without the priceless social virtues
of justice and reverence, that is, the regard for public opinion
which Mr. Darwin, too, has represented as the strongest moralising
power in primitive society. And, as the possession of these qualities
constituted the fundamental distinction between men and brutes, so also
did the advantage of civilisation over barbarism rest on their superior
development, a development due to the ethical instruction received by
every citizen from his earliest infancy, reinforced through after-life
by the sterner correction of legal punishments, and completed by the
elimination of all individuals demonstrably unfitted for the social
state. Protagoras had no sympathy with those who affect to prefer the
simplicity of savages to the fancied corruption of civilisation. Hear
how he answers the Rousseaus and Diderots of his time:—

 ‘I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst
 of those who have been brought up in laws and humanities would appear
 to be a just man and a master of justice if he were to be compared
 with men who had no education, or courts of justice, or laws, or any
 restraints upon them which compelled them to practise virtue—with
 the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the
 stage at the last year’s Lenaean festival. If you were living among
 men such as the man-haters in his chorus, you would be only too glad
 to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long
 to revisit the rascality of this part of the world.’[68]

We find the same theory reproduced and enforced with weighty
illustrations by the great historian of that age. It is not known
whether Thucydides owed any part of his culture to Protagoras, but
the introduction to his history breathes the same spirit as the
observations which we have just transcribed. He, too, characterises
antiquity as a scene of barbarism, isolation, and lawless violence,
particularly remarking that piracy was not then counted a dishonourable
profession. He points to the tribes outside Greece, together with the
most backward among the Greeks themselves, as representing the low
condition from which Athens and her sister states had only emerged
within a comparatively recent period. And in the funeral oration which
he puts into the mouth of Pericles, the legendary glories of Athens
are passed over without the slightest allusion,[69] while exclusive
prominence is given to her proud position as the intellectual centre of
Greece. Evidently a radical change had taken place in men’s conceptions
since Herodotus wrote. They were learning to despise the mythical
glories of their ancestors, to exalt the present at the expense of the
past, to fix their attention exclusively on immediate human interests,
and, possibly, to anticipate the coming of a loftier civilisation than
had as yet been seen.

The evolution of Greek tragic poetry bears witness to the same
transformation of taste. On comparing Sophocles with Aeschylus, we
are struck by a change of tone analogous to that which distinguishes
Thucydides from Herodotus. It has been shown in our first chapter how
the elder dramatist delights in tracing events and institutions back to
their first origin, and in following derivations through the steps of
a genealogical sequence. Sophocles, on the other hand, limits himself
to a close analysis of the action immediately represented, the motives
by which his characters are influenced, and the arguments by which
their conduct is justified or condemned. We have already touched on the
very different attitude assumed towards religion by these two great
poets. Here we have only to add that while Aeschylus fills his dramas
with supernatural beings, and frequently restricts his mortal actors
to the interpretation or execution of a divine mandate, Sophocles,
representing the spirit of Greek Humanism, only once brings a god on
the stage, and dwells exclusively on the emotions of pride, ambition,
revenge, terror, pity, and affection, by which men and women of a lofty
type are actuated. Again (and this is one of his poetic superiorities),
Aeschylus has an open sense for the external world; his imagination
ranges far and wide from land to land; his pages are filled with the
fire and light, the music and movement of Nature in a Southern country.
He leads before us in splendid procession the starry-kirtled night;
the bright rulers that bring round winter and summer; the dazzling
sunshine; the forked flashes of lightning; the roaring thunder; the
white-winged snow-flakes; the rain descending on thirsty flowers; the
sea now rippling with infinite laughter, now moaning on the shingle,
growing hoary under rough blasts, with its eastern waves dashing
against the new-risen sun, or, again, lulled to waveless, windless,
noonday sleep; the volcano with its volleys of fire-breathing spray
and fierce jaws of devouring lava; the eddying whorls of dust; the
resistless mountain-torrent; the meadow-dews; the flowers of spring
and fruits of summer; the evergreen olive, and trees that give leafy
shelter from dogstar heat. For all this world of wonder and beauty
Sophocles offers only a few meagre allusions to the phenomena presented
by sunshine and storm. No poet has ever so entirely concentrated
his attention on human deeds and human passions. Only the grove of
Colônus, interwoven with his own earliest recollections, had power
to draw from him, in extreme old age, a song such as the nightingale
might have warbled amid those inviolable recesses where the ivy and
laurel, the vine and olive gave a never-failing shelter against sun and
wind alike. Yet even this leafy covert is but an image of the poet’s
own imagination, undisturbed by outward influences, self-involved,
self-protected, and self-sustained. Of course, we are only restating
in different language what has long been known, that the epic element
of poetry, before so prominent, was with Sophocles entirely displaced
by the dramatic; but if Sophocles became the greatest dramatist of
antiquity, it was precisely because no other writer could, like him,
work out a catastrophe solely through the action of mind on mind,
without any intervention of physical force; and if he possessed this
faculty, it was because Greek thought as a whole had been turned
inward; because he shared in the devotion to psychological studies
equally exemplified by his younger contemporaries, Protagoras,
Thucydides, and Socrates, all of whom might have taken for their motto
the noble lines—

    ‘On earth there is nothing great but man,
    In man there is nothing great but mind.’

We have said that Protagoras was a partisan of Nomos, or convention,
against Nature. That was the conservative side of his character.
Still, Nomos was not with him what it had been with the older Greeks,
an immutable tradition indistinguishable from physical law. It was a
human creation, and represented the outcome of inherited experience,
admitting always of change for the better. Hence the vast importance
which he attributed to education. This, no doubt, was magnifying
his own office, for the training of youth was his profession. But,
unquestionably, the feelings of his more liberal contemporaries
went with him. A generation before, Pindar had spoken scornfully of
intellectual culture as a vain attempt to make up for the absence of
genius which the gods alone could give. Yet Pindar himself was always
careful to dwell on the services rendered by professional trainers to
the victorious athletes whose praises he sang, and there was really
no reason why genius and culture should be permanently dissociated. A
Themistocles might decide offhand on the questions brought before him;
a Pericles, dealing with much more complex interests, already needed a
more careful preparation.

On the other hand, conservatives like Aristophanes continued to oppose
the spread of education with acrimonious zeal. Some of their arguments
have a curiously familiar ring. Intellectual pursuits, they said, were
bad for the health, led to irreligion and immorality, made young people
quite unlike their grandfathers, and were somehow or other connected
with loose company and a fast life. This last insinuation was in one
respect the very reverse of true. So far as personal morality went,
nothing could be better for it than the change introduced by Protagoras
from amateur to paid teaching. Before this time, a Greek youth who
wished for something better than the very elementary instruction given
at school, could only attach himself to some older and wiser friend,
whose conversation might be very improving, but who was pretty sure
to introduce a sentimental element into their relationship equally
discreditable to both.[70] A similar danger has always existed with
regard to highly intelligent women, although it may have threatened
a smaller number of individuals; and the efforts now being made to
provide them with a systematic education under official superintendence
will incidentally have the effect of saving our future Héloises and
Julies from the tuition of an Abélard or a Saint-Preux.

It was their habit of teaching rhetoric as an art which raised the
fiercest storm of indignation against Protagoras and his colleagues.
The endeavour to discover rules for addressing a tribunal or a popular
assembly in the manner best calculated to win their assent had
originated quite independently of any philosophical theory. On the
re-establishment of order, that is to say of popular government, in
Sicily, many lawsuits arose out of events which had happened years
before; and, owing to the lapse of time, demonstrative evidence was not
available. Accordingly, recourse was had on both sides to arguments
possessing a greater or less degree of probability. The art of putting
such probable inferences so as to produce persuasion demanded great
technical skill; and two Sicilians, Corax and Tisias by name, composed
treatises on the subject. It would appear that the new-born art was
taken up by Protagoras and developed in the direction of increased
dialectical subtlety. We are informed that he undertook to make the
worse appear the better reason; and this very soon came to be popularly
considered as an accomplishment taught by all philosophers, Socrates
among the rest. But if Protagoras merely meant that he would teach the
art of reasoning, one hardly sees how he could have expressed himself
otherwise, consistently with the antithetical style of his age. We
should say more simply that a case is strengthened by the ability to
argue it properly. It has not been shown that the Protagorean dialectic
offered exceptional facilities for maintaining unjust pretensions.
Taken, however, in connexion with the humanistic teaching, it had an
unsettling and sceptical tendency. All belief and all practice rested
on law, and law was the result of a convention made among men and
ultimately produced by individual conviction. What one man had done
another could undo. Religious tradition and natural right, the sole
external standards, had already disappeared. There remained the test
of self-consistency, and against this all the subtlety of the new
dialectic was turned. The triumph of Eristic was to show that a speaker
had contradicted himself, no matter how his statements might be worded.
Moreover, now that reference to an objective reality was disallowed,
words were put in the place of things and treated like concrete
realities. The next step was to tear them out of the grammatical
construction, where alone they possessed any truth or meaning, each
being simultaneously credited with all the uses which at any time it
might be made to fulfil. For example, if a man knew one thing he knew
all, for he had knowledge, and knowledge is of everything knowable.
Much that seems to us tedious or superfluous in Aristotle’s expositions
was intended as a safeguard against this endless cavilling. Finally,
negation itself was eliminated along with the possibility of falsehood
and contradiction. For it was argued that ‘nothing’ had no existence
and could not be an object of thought.[71]


VI.

From utter confusion to extreme nihilism there was but a single step.
This step was taken by Gorgias, the Sicilian rhetorician, who held
the same relation towards western Hellas and the Eleatic school as
that which Protagoras held towards eastern Hellas and the philosophy
of Heracleitus. He, like his eminent contemporary, was opposed to the
thinkers whom, borrowing a useful term from the nomenclature of the
last century, we may call the Greek physiocrats. To confute them,
he wrote a book with the significant title, _On Nature or Nothing_:
maintaining, first, that nothing exists; secondly, that if anything
exists, we cannot know it; thirdly, that if we know it, there is no
possibility of communicating our knowledge to others. The first thesis
was established by pushing the Eleatic arguments against movement
and change a little further; the second by showing that thought and
existence are different, or else everything that is thought of would
exist; the third by establishing a similar incommensurability between
words and sensations. Grote has attempted to show that Gorgias was
only arguing against the existence of a noumenon underlying phenomena,
such as all idealists deny. Zeller has, however, convincingly proved
that Gorgias, in common with every other thinker before Plato, was
ignorant of this distinction;[72] and we may add that it would leave
the second and third theses absolutely unimpaired. We must take the
whole together as constituting a declaration of war against science,
an assertion, in still stronger language, of the agnosticism taught
by Protagoras. The truth is, that a Greek controversialist generally
overproved his case, and in order to overwhelm an adversary pulled
down the whole house, even at the risk of being buried among the ruins
himself. A modern reasoner, taking his cue from Gorgias, without
pushing the matter to such an extreme, might carry on his attack on
lines running parallel with those laid down by the Sicilian Sophist. He
would begin by denying the existence of a ‘state of Nature’; for such a
state must be either variable or constant. If it is constant, how could
civilisation ever have arisen? If it is variable, what becomes of the
fixed standard appealed to? Then, again, supposing such a state ever
to have existed, how could authentic information about it have come
down to us through the ages of corruption which are supposed to have
intervened? And, lastly, granting that a state of Nature accessible to
enquiry has ever existed, how can we reorganise society on the basis of
such discordant data as are presented to us by the physiocrats, no two
of whom agree with regard to the first principles of natural order; one
saying that it is equality, another aristocracy, and a third despotism?
We do not say that these arguments are conclusive, we only mean that
in relation to modern thought they very fairly represent the dialectic
artillery brought to bear by Greek humanism against its naturalistic
opponents.

We have seen how Prodicus and Hippias professed to teach all science,
all literature, and all virtuous accomplishments. We have seen how
Protagoras rejected every kind of knowledge unconnected with social
culture. We now find Gorgias going a step further. In his later years,
at least, he professes to teach nothing but rhetoric or the art of
persuasion. We say in his later years, for at one time he seems to have
taught ethics and psychology as well.[73] But the Gorgias of Plato’s
famous dialogue limits himself to the power of producing persuasion
by words on all possible subjects, even those of whose details he is
ignorant. Wherever the rhetorician comes into competition with the
professional he will beat him on his own ground, and will be preferred
to him for every public office. The type is by no means extinct, and
flourishes like a green bay-tree among ourselves. Like Pendennis, a
writer of this kind will review any book from the height of superior
knowledge acquired by two hours’ reading in the British Museum; or,
if he is adroit enough, will dispense with even that slender amount
of preparation. He need not even trouble himself to read the book
which he criticises. A superficial acquaintance with magazine articles
will qualify him to pass judgment on all life, all religion, and all
philosophy. But it is in politics that the finest career lies before
him. He rises to power by attacking the measures of real statesmen, and
remains there by adopting them. He becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer
by gross economical blundering, and Prime Minister by a happy mixture
of epigram and adulation.

Rhetoric conferred even greater power in old Athens than in modern
England. Not only did mastery of expression lead to public employment;
but also, as every citizen was permitted by law to address his
assembled fellow-countrymen and propose measures for their acceptance,
it became a direct passport to supreme political authority. Nor was
this all. At Athens the employment of professional advocates was
not allowed, and it was easy to prosecute an enemy on the most
frivolous pretexts. If the defendant happened to be wealthy, and
if condemnation involved a loss of property, there was a prejudice
against him in the minds of the jury, confiscation being regarded as
a convenient resource for replenishing the national exchequer. Thus
the possession of rhetorical ability became a formidable weapon in
the hands of unscrupulous citizens, who were enabled to extort large
sums by the mere threat of putting rich men on their trial for some
real or pretended offence. This systematic employment of rhetoric for
purposes of self-aggrandisement bore much the same relation to the
teaching of Protagoras and Gorgias as the open and violent seizure of
supreme power on the plea of natural superiority bore to the theories
of their rivals, being the way in which practical men applied the
principle that truth is determined by persuasion. It was also attended
by considerably less danger than a frank appeal to the right of the
stronger, so far at least as the aristocratic party were concerned.
For they had been taught a lesson not easily forgotten by the downfall
of the oligarchies established in 411 and 404; and the second
catastrophe especially proved that nothing but a popular government
was possible in Athens. Accordingly, the nobles set themselves to
study new methods for obtaining their ultimate end, which was always
the possession of uncontrolled power over the lives and fortunes of
their fellow-citizens. With wealth to purchase instruction from the
Sophists, with leisure to practise oratory, and with the ability often
accompanying high birth, there was no reason why the successors of
Charmides and Critias should not enjoy all the pleasures of tyranny
unaccompanied by any of its drawbacks. Here, again, a parallel suggests
itself between ancient Greece and modern Europe. On the Continent,
where theories of natural law are far more prevalent than with us, it
is by brute force that justice is trampled down: the one great object
of every ambitious intriguer is to possess himself of the military
machine, his one great terror, that a stronger man may succeed in
wresting it from him; in England the political adventurer looks to
rhetoric as his only resource, and at the pinnacle of power has to
dread the hailstorm of epigrammatic invective directed against him by
abler or younger rivals.[74]

Besides its influence on the formation and direction of political
eloquence, the doctrine professed by Protagoras had a far-reaching
effect on the subsequent development of thought. Just as Cynicism was
evolved from the theory of Hippias, so also did the teaching which
denied Nature and concentrated all study on subjective phenomena, with
a tendency towards individualistic isolation, lead on to the system of
Aristippus. The founder of the Cyrenaic school is called a Sophist by
Aristotle, nor can the justice of the appellation be doubted. He was,
it is true, a friend and companion of Socrates, but intellectually
he is more nearly related to Protagoras. Aristippus rejected
physical studies, reduced all knowledge to the consciousness of our
own sensations, and made immediate gratification the end of life.
Protagoras would have objected to the last principle, but it was only
an extension of his own views, for all history proves that Hedonism is
constantly associated with sensationalism. The theory that knowledge is
built up out of feelings has an elective affinity for the theory that
action is, or ought to be, determined in the last resort by the most
prominent feelings, which are pleasure and pain. Both theories have
since been strengthened by the introduction of a new and more ideal
element into each. We have come to see that knowledge is constituted
not by sensations alone, but by sensations grouped according to
certain laws which seem to be inseparable from the existence of any
consciousness whatever. And, similarly, we have learned to take into
account, not merely the momentary enjoyments of an individual, but his
whole life’s happiness as well, and not his happiness only, but also
that of the whole community to which he belongs. Nevertheless, in both
cases it is rightly held that the element of feeling preponderates, and
the doctrines of such thinkers as J. S. Mill are legitimately traceable
through Epicurus and Aristippus to Protagoras as their first originator.

Notwithstanding the importance of this impulse, it does not represent
the whole effect produced by Protagoras on philosophy. His eristic
method was taken up by the Megaric school, and at first combined with
other elements borrowed from Parmenides and Socrates, but ultimately
extricated from them and used as a critical solvent of all dogmatism
by the later Sceptics. From their writings, after a long interval of
enforced silence, it passed over to Montaigne, Bayle, Hume, and Kant,
with what redoubtable consequences to received opinions need not here
be specified. Our object is simply to illustrate the continuity of
thought, and the powerful influence exercised by ancient Greece on its
subsequent development.

Every variety of opinion current among the Sophists reduces itself,
in the last analysis, to their fundamental antithesis between Nature
and Law, the latter being somewhat ambiguously conceived by its
supporters as either human reason or human will, or more generally
as both together, combining to assert their self-dependence and
emancipation from external authority. This antithesis was prefigured in
the distinction between Chthonian and Olympian divinities. Continuing
afterwards to inspire the rivalry of opposing schools, Cynic against
Cyrenaic, Stoic against Epicurean, Sceptic against Dogmatist, it was
but partially overcome by the mediatorial schemes of Socrates and his
successors. Then came Catholicism, equally adverse to the pretensions
of either party, and held them down under its suffocating pressure for
more than a thousand years.

    ‘Natur und Geist, so spricht man nicht zu Christen,
    Darum verbrennt man Atheisten;
    Natur ist Sünde, Geist ist Teufel.’

Both slowly struggled back into consciousness in the fitful dreams
of mediaeval sleep. Nature was represented by astrology with its
fatalistic predetermination of events; idealism by the alchemical
lore which was to give its possessor eternal youth and inexhaustible
wealth. With the complete revival of classic literature and the
temporary neutralisation of theology by internal discord, both sprang
up again in glorious life, and produced the great art of the sixteenth
century, the great science and philosophy of the seventeenth. Later
on, becoming self-conscious, they divide, and their partisans draw off
into two opposing armies, Rousseau against Voltaire, Herder against
Kant, Goethe against Schiller, Hume against himself. Together they
bring about the Revolution; but after marching hand in hand to the
destruction of all existing institutions they again part company, and,
putting on the frippery of a dead faith, confront one another, each
with its own ritual, its own acolytes, its own intolerance, with feasts
of Nature and goddesses of Reason, in mutual and murderous hostility.
When the storm subsided, new lines of demarcation were laid down, and
the cause of political liberty was dissociated from what seemed to be
thoroughly discredited figments. Nevertheless, imaginative literature
still preserves traces of the old conflict, and on examining the four
greatest English novelists of the last fifty years we shall find that
Dickens and Charlotte Bronté, though personally most unlike, agree
in representing the arbitrary, subjective, ideal side of life, the
subjugation of things to self, not of self to things; he transfiguring
them in the light of humour, fancy, sentiment; she transforming
them by the alchemy of inward passion; while Thackeray and George
Eliot represent the triumph of natural forces over rebellious
individualities; the one writer depicting an often crude reality at
odds with convention and conceit; while the other, possessing, if
not an intrinsically greater genius, at least a higher philosophical
culture, discloses to us the primordial necessities of existence, the
pitiless conformations of circumstance, before which egoism, ignorance,
illusion, and indecision must bow, or be crushed to pieces if they
resist.


VII.

Our readers have now before them everything of importance that is
known about the Sophists, and something more that is not known for
certain, but may, we think, be reasonably conjectured. Taking the
whole class together, they represent a combination of three distinct
tendencies, the endeavour to supply an encyclopaedic training for
youth, the cultivation of political rhetoric as a special art, and
the search after a scientific foundation for ethics derived from the
results of previous philosophy. With regard to the last point, they
agree in drawing a fundamental distinction between Nature and Law,
but some take one and some the other for their guide. The partisans
of Nature lean to the side of a more comprehensive education, while
their opponents tend more and more to lay an exclusive stress on
oratorical proficiency. Both schools are at last infected by the
moral corruption of the day, natural right becoming identified with
the interest of the stronger, and humanism leading to the denial of
objective reality, the substitution of illusion for knowledge, and the
confusion of momentary gratification with moral good. The dialectical
habit of considering every question under contradictory aspects
degenerates into eristic prize-fighting and deliberate disregard
of the conditions which alone make argument possible. Finally, the
component elements of Sophisticism are dissociated from one another,
and are either separately developed or pass over into new combinations.
Rhetoric, apart from speculation, absorbs the whole time and talent
of an Isocrates; general culture is imparted by a professorial class
without originality, but without reproach; naturalism and sensuous
idealism are worked up into systematic completion for the sake of their
philosophical interest alone; and the name of sophistry is unhappily
fastened by Aristotle on paid exhibitions of verbal wrangling which the
great Sophists would have regarded with indignation and disgust.

It remains for us to glance at the controversy which has long been
carried on respecting the true position of the Sophists in Greek life
and thought. We have already alluded to the by no means favourable
judgment passed on them by some among their contemporaries. Socrates
condemned them severely,[H] but only because they received payment for
their lessons; and the sentiment was probably echoed by many who had
neither his disinterestedness nor his frugality. To make profit by
intellectual work was not unusual in Greece. Pheidias sold his statues;
Pindar spent his life writing for money; Simonides and Sophocles were
charged with showing too great eagerness in the pursuit of gain.[75]
But a man’s conversation with his friends had always been gratuitous,
and the novel idea of charging a high fee for it excited considerable
offence. Socrates called it prostitution—the sale of that which should
be the free gift of love—without perhaps sufficiently considering
that the same privilege had formerly been purchased with a more
dishonourable price. He also considered that a freeman was degraded
by placing himself at the beck and call of another, although it would
appear that the Sophists chose their own time for lecturing, and were
certainly not more slaves than a sculptor or poet who had received an
order to execute. It was also argued that any one who really succeeded
in improving the community benefited so much by the result that it
was unfair on his part to demand any additional remuneration. Suppose
a popular preacher were to come over from New York to England, star
about among the principal cities, charging a high price for admission
to his sermons, and finally return home in possession of a handsome
fortune, we can well imagine that sarcasms at the expense of such
profitable piety would not be wanting. This hypothetical case will help
us to understand how many an honest Athenian must have felt towards the
showy colonial strangers who were making such a lucrative business of
teaching moderation and justice. Plato, speaking for his master but not
from his master’s standpoint, raised an entirely different objection.
He saw no reason why the Sophists should not sell their wisdom if
they had any wisdom to sell. But this was precisely what he denied.
He submitted their pretensions to a searching cross-examination,
and, as he considered, convicted them of being worthless pretenders.
There was a certain unfairness about this method, for neither his
own positive teaching nor that of Socrates could have stood before
a similar test, as Aristotle speedily demonstrated in the next
generation. He was, in fact, only doing for Protagoras and Gorgias
what they had done for early Greek speculation, and what every school
habitually does for its predecessors. It had yet to be learned that
this dissolving dialectic constitutes the very law of philosophical
progress. The discovery was made by Hegel, and it is to him that the
Sophists owe their rehabilitation in modern times. His lectures on
the History of Philosophy contain much that was afterwards urged by
Grote on the same side. Five years before the appearance of Grote’s
famous sixty-seventh chapter, Lewes had also published a vindication
of the Sophists, possibly suggested by Hegel’s work, which he had
certainly consulted when preparing his own History. There is, however,
this great difference, that while the two English critics endeavour
to minimise the sceptical, innovating tendency of the Sophists, it
is, contrariwise, brought into exaggerated prominence by the German
philosopher. We have just remarked that the final dissolution of
Sophisticism was brought about by the separate development given to
each of the various tendencies which it temporarily combined. Now,
each of our three apologists has taken up one of these tendencies, and
treated it as constituting the whole movement under discussion. To
Hegel, the Sophists are chiefly subjective idealists. To Lewes, they
are rhetoricians like Isocrates. To Grote, they are, what in truth the
Sophists of the Roman empire were, teachers representing the standard
opinions of their age. Lewes and Grote are both particularly anxious
to prove that the original Sophists did not corrupt Greek morality.
Thus much has been conceded by contemporary German criticism, and is
no more than was observed by Plato long ago. Grote further asserts
that the implied corruption of morality is an illusion, and that at
the end of the Peloponnesian war the Athenians were no worse than
their forefathers who fought at Marathon. His opinion is shared by
so accomplished a scholar as Prof. Jowett;[76] but here he has the
combined authority of Thucydides, Aristophanes, and Plato against him.
We have, however, examined this question already, and need not return
to it. Whether any of the Sophists themselves can be proved to have
taught immoral doctrines is another moot point. Grote defends them
all, Polus and Thrasymachus included. Here, also, we have expressed
our dissent from the eminent historian, whom we can only suppose to
have missed the whole point of Plato’s argument. Lewes takes different
ground when he accuses Plato of misrepresenting his opponents. It is
true that the Sophists cannot be heard in self-defence, but there is
no internal improbability about the charges brought against them. The
Greek rhetoricians are not accused of saying anything that has not been
said again and again by their modern representatives. Whether the odium
of such sentiments should attach itself to the whole class of Sophists
is quite another question. Grote denies that they held any doctrine in
common. The German critics, on the other hand, insist on treating them
as a school with common principles and tendencies. Brandis calls them
‘a number of men, gifted indeed, but not seekers after knowledge for
its own sake, who made a trade of giving instruction as a means for
the attainment of external and selfish ends, and of substituting mere
technical proficiency for real science.’[77] If our account be the true
one, this would apply to Gorgias and the younger rhetoricians alone.
One does not precisely see what external or selfish ends were subserved
by the physical philosophy which Prodicus and Hippias taught, nor
why the comprehensive enquiries of Protagoras into the conditions of
civilisation and the limits of human knowledge should be contemptuously
flung aside because he made them the basis of an honourable profession.
Zeller, in much the same strain, defines a Sophist as one who professes
to be a teacher of wisdom, while his object is individual culture (die
formelle und praktische Bildung des Subjekts) and not the scientific
investigation of truth.[78] We do not know whether Grote was content
with an explanation which would only have required an unimportant
modification of his own statements to agree precisely with them. It
ought amply to have satisfied Lewes. For ourselves, we must confess to
caring very little whether the Sophists investigated truth for its own
sake or as a means to self-culture. We believe, and in the next chapter
we hope to show, that Socrates, at any rate, did not treat knowledge
apart from practice as an end in itself. But the history of philosophy
is not concerned with such subtleties as these. Our contention is that
the Stoic, Epicurean, and Sceptical schools may be traced back through
Antisthenes and Aristippus to Hippias and Protagoras much more directly
than to Socrates. If Zeller will grant this, then he can no longer
treat Sophisticism as a mere solvent of the old physical philosophy.
If he denies it, we can only appeal to his own history, which here, as
well as in our discussions of early Greek thought, we have found more
useful than any other work on the subject. Our obligations to Grote
are of a more general character. We have learned from him to look at
the Sophists without prejudice. But we think that he, too, underrates
their far-reaching intellectual significance, while his defence of
their moral orthodoxy seems, so far as certain members of the class are
concerned, inconsistent with any belief in Plato’s historical fidelity.
That the most eminent Sophists did nothing to corrupt Greek morality
is now almost universally admitted. If we have succeeded in showing
that they did not corrupt but fruitfully develop Greek philosophy, the
purpose of this study will have been sufficiently fulfilled.

The title of this chapter may have seemed to promise more than a
casual mention of the thinker in whom Greek Humanism attained its
loftiest and purest expression. But in history, no less than in life,
Socrates must ever stand apart from the Sophists. Beyond and above all
specialities of teaching, the transcendent dignity of a character which
personified philosophy itself demands a separate treatment. Readers who
have followed us thus far may feel interested in an attempt to throw
some new light on one who was a riddle to his contemporaries, and has
remained a riddle to after-ages.

FOOTNOTES:

[43] ‘Thou shalt not take that which is mine, and may I do to others as
I would that they should do to me’ (Plato, _Legg._, 913, A. Jowett’s
Transl., vol. V., p. 483). Isocrates makes a king addressing his
governors say: ‘You should be to others what you think I should be to
you’ (_Nicocles_, 49). And again: ‘Do not to others what it makes you
angry to suffer yourselves’ (_Ibid._, 61). A similar observation is
attributed to Thales, doubtless by an anachronism (Diogenes Laertius,
I., i., 36).

[44] We gladly avail ourselves of the masterly translation given by
Prof. Jebb. The whole of this splendid passage will be found in his
_Attic Orators_, vol. II., pp. 78-79.

[45] _Symposium_, 211, C; Jowett’s Transl., vol. II.

[46] Aesch., _Sep. con. Theb._, 592.

[47] _Legg._, 727, E; Jowett’s Transl., V, 299.

[48] See Plato’s _Charmides_; and Euripides’ _Medea_, 635 (Dindorf).

[49] Pindar uses καιρός and μέτρον as synonymous terms.

[50] _Opp. et D._, 271.

[51] Hom. _Il._, IV., 160, 235; VII., 76, 411; XVI., 386. Hes., _Opp.
et D._, 265. These references are copied from Welcker, _Griechische
Götterlehre_, I., p. 178, q. v.

[52] See Maine’s _Ancient Law_, chap. X., _The Early History of Delict
and Crime_.

[53] Preller, _Griechische Mythologie_, I., p. 523 (3rd ed.), with
which cf. Welcker, _op. cit._, I., 234; and Mr. Walter Pater’s _Demeter
and Persephone_, and _A Study of Dionysus_, in the _Fortnightly Review_
for Jan., Feb., and Dec. 1876. From their popular character, the
country gods were favoured by the despots (Curtius, _Gr. Gesch._, I.,
p. 338).

[54] Cf. Wordsworth—

    ‘Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,
    And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.’
                                               _Ode to Duty._

[55] Pindar, _Olymp._, II., 57 ff.; and _Fragm._, 1-4 (Donaldson).

[56] _Sep. con. Theb._, 662-71.

[57] _Phoenissae_, 503-23.

[58]

    Οὐ γὰρ ἄλλῳ γ’ ὑπακούσαιμεν τῶν νῦν μετεωροσοφιστῶν
    πλὴν ἢ Προδίκῳ, τῷ μὲν σοφίας καὶ γνώμης οὕνεκα κ.τ.λ.—
                        _Nub._, 361-2. Cf. _Av._, 692.

[59] Plato, _Protagoras_, 337, D; Jowett’s Transl., vol. I., p. 152.

[60] _Nem._, VI., _sub. in._

[61] _Prom._, 518.

[62] _Phoenissae_, 536-47. There is a delicious parody of this method
in the _Clouds_. A creditor asks Strepsiades, who has been taking
lessons in philosophy, to pay him the interest on a loan. Strepsiades
begs to know whether the sea is any fuller now than it used to be.
‘No,’ replies the other, ‘for it would not be just,’ (οὐ γὰρ δίκαιον
πλείον εἶναι). ‘Then, you wretch,’ rejoins his debtor, ‘do you suppose
that the sea is not to get any fuller although all the rivers are
flowing into it, and that your money is to go on increasing?’ (1290-95.)

[63] Xenophon, _Memor._, IV., iv., 19.

[64] _Pol._, I., ii.

[65] The _Hippias Minor_.

[66] Diog. L., IX., viii., 54.

[67] Diog. L., IX., viii., 51.

[68] Plato, _Protagoras_, 327; Jowett’s Transl., vol. I., p. 140. On
the superior morality which accompanies advancing civilisation, as
evinced by the great increase of mutual trust, see Maine’s _Ancient
Law_, pp. 306-7.

[69] This point is noticed by Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, II., 22.

[70] This phase of Greek life is well illustrated by the addresses of
Theognis to Cyrnus.

[71] Eristicism had also points of contact with the philosophies of
Parmenides and Socrates which will be indicated in a future chapter.

[72] _Ph. d. Gr._, I., 903 (3rd ed.).

[73] See Plato’s _Meno_, _sub. in._

[74] Lord Beaconsfield recently [written in February 1880] spoke of the
Balkans as forming an ‘intelligible’ frontier for Turkey. Continental
telegrams substituted ‘natural frontier.’ The change was characteristic
and significant.

[75] Aristoph., _Pax_, 697.

[76] ‘As Mr. Grote remarks, there is no reason to suspect any greater
moral corruption in the age of Demosthenes than in the age of
Pericles.’ (_The Dialogues of Plato_, vol. IV., p. 380.) We do not
remember that Grote commits himself to such a sweeping statement, nor
was it necessary for his purpose to do so. No one would have been more
surprised than Demosthenes himself to hear that the Athenians of his
generation equalled the contemporaries of Pericles in public virtue.
(Cf. Grote’s _Plato_, II., 148.)

[77] _Geschichte der Entwickelung der Griechischen Philosophie_, I., p.
204.

[78] _Philosophie d. Gr._, I., p. 943 (3rd ed.).

[79] The invention of memoir-writing is claimed by Prof. Mahaffy
(_Hist. Gr. Lit._, II., 42) for Ion of Chios and his contemporary
Stesimbrotus. But—apart from their questionable authenticity—the
sketches attributed to these two writers do not seem to have aimed at
presenting a complete picture of a single individual, which is what was
attempted with considerable success in Xenophon’s _Memorabilia_.




CHAPTER III.

THE PLACE OF SOCRATES IN GREEK PHILOSOPHY.


I.

Apart from legendary reputations, there is no name in the world’s
history more famous than that of Socrates, and in the history of
philosophy there is none so famous. The only thinker that approaches
him in celebrity is his own disciple Plato. Every one who has heard
of Greece or Athens has heard of him. Every one who has heard of him
knows that he was supremely good and great. Each successive generation
has confirmed the reputed Delphic oracle that no man was wiser than
Socrates. He, with one or two others, alone came near to realising the
ideal of a Stoic sage. Christians deem it no irreverence to compare
him with the Founder of their religion. If a few dissentient voices
have broken the general unanimity, they have, whether consciously or
not, been inspired by the Socratic principle that we should let no
opinion pass unquestioned and unproved. Furthermore, it so happens
that this wonderful figure is known even to the multitude by sight as
well as by name. Busts, cameos, and engravings have made all familiar
with the Silenus-like physiognomy, the thick lips, upturned nose,
and prominent eyes which impressed themselves so strangely on the
imagination of a race who are accused of having cared for nothing
but physical beauty, because they rightly regarded it as the natural
accompaniment of moral loveliness. Those who wish to discover what
manner of mind lay hid beneath this uninviting exterior may easily
satisfy their curiosity, for Socrates is personally better known
than any other character of antiquity. Dr. Johnson himself is not
a more familiar figure to the student of literature. Alone among
classical worthies his table-talk has been preserved for us, and the
art of memoir-writing seems to have been expressly created for his
behoof.[79] We can follow him into all sorts of company and test his
behaviour in every variety of circumstances. He conversed with all
classes and on all subjects of human interest, with artisans, artists,
generals, statesmen, professors, and professional beauties. We meet
him in the armourer’s workshop, in the sculptor’s studio, in the
boudoirs of the _demi-monde_, in the banqueting-halls of flower-crowned
and wine-flushed Athenian youth, combining the self-mastery of an
Antisthenes with the plastic grace of an Aristippus; or, in graver
moments, cheering his comrades during the disastrous retreat from
Delium; upholding the sanctity of law, as President of the Assembly,
against a delirious populace; confronting with invincible irony the
oligarchic terrorists who held life and death in their hands; pleading
not for himself, but for reason and justice, before a stupid and
bigoted tribunal; and, in the last sad scene of all, exchanging Attic
courtesies with the unwilling instrument of his death.[80]

Such a character would, in any case, be remarkable; it becomes of
extraordinary, or rather of unique, interest when we consider that
Socrates could be and do so much, not in spite of being a philosopher,
but because he was a philosopher, the chief though not the sole
originator of a vast intellectual revolution; one who, as a teacher,
constituted the supremacy of reason, and as an individual made
reason his sole guide in life. He at once discovered new principles,
popularised them for the benefit of others, and exemplified them in
his own conduct; but he did not accomplish these results separately;
they were only different aspects of the same systematising process
which is identical with philosophy itself. Yet the very success of
Socrates in harmonising life and thought makes it the more difficult
for us to construct a complete picture of his personality. Different
observers have selected from the complex combination that which best
suited their own mental predisposition, pushing out of sight the other
elements which, with him, served to correct and complete it. The very
popularity that has attached itself to his name is a proof of this; for
the multitude can seldom appreciate more than one excellence at a time,
nor is that usually of the highest order. Hegel complains that Socrates
has been made the patron-saint of moral twaddle.[81] We are fifty
years further removed than Hegel from the golden age of platitude; the
twaddle of our own time is half cynical, half aesthetic, and wholly
unmoral; yet there are no signs of diminution in the popular favour
with which Socrates has always been regarded. The man of the world, the
wit, the _viveur_, the enthusiastic admirer of youthful beauty, the
scornful critic of democracy is welcome to many who have no taste for
ethical discourses and fine-spun arguments.

Nor is it only the personality of Socrates that has been so variously
conceived; his philosophy, so far as it can be separated from his
life, has equally given occasion to conflicting interpretations, and
it has even been denied that he had, properly speaking, any philosophy
at all. These divergent presentations of his teaching, if teaching it
can be called, begin with the two disciples to whom our knowledge of
it is almost entirely due. There is, curiously enough, much the same
inner discrepancy between Xenophon’s _Memorabilia_ and those Platonic
dialogues where Socrates is the principal spokesman, as that which
distinguishes the Synoptic from the Johannine Gospels. The one gives
us a report certainly authentic, but probably incomplete; the other
account is, beyond all doubt, a highly idealised portraiture, but seems
to contain some traits directly copied from the original, which may
well have escaped a less philosophical observer than Plato. Aristotle
also furnishes us with some scanty notices which are of use in deciding
between the two rival versions, although we cannot be sure that he had
access to any better sources of information than are open to ourselves.
By variously combining and reasoning from these data modern critics
have produced a third Socrates, who is often little more than the
embodiment of their own favourite opinions.

In England, the most generally accepted method seems to be that
followed by Grote. This consists in taking the Platonic _Apologia_ as a
sufficiently faithful report of the defence actually made by Socrates
on his trial, and piecing it on to the details supplied by Xenophon, or
at least to as many of them as can be made to fit, without too obvious
an accommodation of their meaning. If, however, we ask on what grounds
a greater historical credibility is attributed to the _Apologia_ than
to the _Republic_ or the _Phaedo_, none can be offered except the
seemingly transparent truthfulness of the narrative itself, an argument
which will not weigh much with those who remember how brilliant was
Plato’s talent for fiction, and how unscrupulously it could be employed
for purposes of edification. The _Phaedo_ puts an autobiographical
statement into the mouth of Socrates which we only know to be imaginary
because it involves the acceptance of a theory unknown to the real
Socrates. Why, then, may not Plato have thought proper to introduce
equally fictitious details into the speech delivered by his master
before the dicastery, if, indeed, the speech, as we have it, be not a
fancy composition from beginning to end?

Before we can come to a decision on this point it will be necessary
briefly to recapitulate the statements in question. Socrates is
defending himself against a capital charge. He fears that a prejudice
respecting him may exist in the minds of the jury, and tries to explain
how it arose without any fault of his, as follows:—A certain friend of
his had asked the oracle at Delphi whether there was any man wiser than
Socrates? The answer was that no man was wiser. Not being conscious of
possessing any wisdom, great or small, he felt considerably surprised
on hearing of this declaration, and thought to convince the god of
falsehood by finding out some one wiser than himself. He first went
to an eminent politician, who, however, proved, on examination, to be
utterly ignorant, with the further disadvantage that it was impossible
to convince him of his ignorance. On applying the same test to others a
precisely similar result was obtained. It was only the handicraftsmen
who could give a satisfactory account of themselves, and their
knowledge of one trade made them fancy that they understood everything
else equally well. Thus the meaning of the oracle was shown to be that
God alone is truly wise, and that of all men he is wisest who, like
Socrates, perceives that human wisdom is worth little or nothing. Ever
since then, Socrates has made it his business to vindicate the divine
veracity by seeking out and exposing every pretender to knowledge that
he can find, a line of conduct which has made him extremely unpopular
in Athens, while it has also won him a great reputation for wisdom,
as people supposed that the matters on which he convicted others of
ignorance were perfectly clear to himself.

The first difficulty that strikes one in connexion with this
extraordinary story arises out of the oracle on which it all hinges.
Had such a declaration been really made by the Pythia, would not
Xenophon have eagerly quoted it as a proof of the high favour in which
his hero stood with the gods?[82] And how could Socrates have acquired
so great a reputation before entering on the cross-examining career
which alone made him conscious of any superiority over other men, and
had alone won the admiration of his fellow-citizens? Our doubts are
still further strengthened when we find that the historical Socrates
did not by any means profess the sweeping scepticism attributed to
him by Plato. So far from believing that ignorance was the common and
necessary lot of all mankind, himself included, he held that action
should, so far as possible, be entirely guided by knowledge;[83] that
the man who did not always know what he was about resembled a slave;
that the various virtues were only different forms of knowledge; that
he himself possessed this knowledge, and was perfectly competent to
share it with his friends. We do, indeed, find him very ready to
convince ignorant and presumptuous persons of their deficiencies,
but only that he may lead them, if well disposed, into the path of
right understanding. He also thought that there were certain secrets
which would remain for ever inaccessible to the human intellect,
facts connected with the structure of the universe which the gods
had reserved for their own exclusive cognisance. This, however,
was, according to him, a kind of knowledge which, even if it could
be obtained, would not be particularly worth having, and the search
after which would leave us no leisure for more useful acquisitions.
Nor does the Platonic Socrates seem to have been at the trouble of
arguing against natural science. The subjects of his elenchus are the
professors of such arts as politics, rhetoric, and poetry. Further,
we have something stronger than a simple inference from the facts
recorded by Xenophon; we have his express testimony to the fact that
Socrates did not limit himself to confuting people who fancied they
knew everything; here we must either have a direct reference to the
_Apologia_, or to a theory identical with that which it embodies.[I]
Some stress has been laid on a phrase quoted by Xenophon himself as
having been used by Hippias, which at first sight seems to support
Plato’s view. The Elian Sophist charges Socrates with practising a
continual irony, refuting others and not submitting to be questioned
himself;[84] an accusation which, we may observe in passing, is not
borne out by the discussion that subsequently takes place between
them. Here, however, we must remember that Socrates used to convey
instruction under the form of a series of leading questions, the
answers to which showed that his interlocutor understood and assented
to the doctrine propounded. Such a method might easily give rise to
the misconception that he refused to disclose his own particular
opinions, and contented himself with eliciting those held by others.
Finally, it is to be noted that the idea of fulfilling a religious
mission, or exposing human ignorance _ad majorem Dei gloriam_, on which
Grote lays such stress, has no place in Xenophon’s conception of his
master, although, had such an idea been really present, one can hardly
imagine how it could have been passed over by a writer with whom piety
amounted to superstition. It is, on the other hand, an idea which would
naturally occur to a great religious reformer who proposed to base his
reconstruction of society on faith in a supernatural order, and the
desire to realise it here below.

So far we have contrasted the _Apologia_ with the _Memorabilia_. We
have now to consider in what relation it stands to Plato’s other
writings. The constructive dogmatic Socrates, who is a principal
spokesman in some of them, differs widely from the sceptical Socrates
of the famous _Defence_, and the difference has been urged as an
argument for the historical authenticity of the latter.[85] Plato, it
is implied, would not have departed so far from his usual conception
of the sage, had he not been desirous of reproducing the actual
words spoken on so solemn an occasion. There are, however, several
dialogues which seem to have been composed for the express purpose of
illustrating the negative method supposed to have been described by
Socrates to his judges, investigations the sole result of which is to
upset the theories of other thinkers, or to show that ordinary men
act without being able to assign a reason for their conduct. Even the
_Republic_ is professedly tentative in its procedure, and only follows
out a train of thought which has presented itself almost by accident
to the company. Unlike Charles Lamb’s Scotchman, the leading spokesman
does not bring, but find, and you are invited to cry halves to whatever
turns up in his company.

Plato had, in truth, a conception of science which no knowledge then
attained—perhaps one may add, no knowledge ever attainable—could
completely satisfy. Even the rigour of mathematical demonstration did
not content him, for mathematical truth itself rested on unproved
assumptions, as we also, by the way, have lately discovered. Perhaps
the Hegelian system would have fulfilled his requirements; perhaps
not even that. Moreover, that the new order which he contemplated
might be established, it was necessary to begin by making a clean
sweep of all existing opinions. With the urbanity of an Athenian, the
piety of a disciple, and the instinct of a great dramatic artist, he
preferred to assume that this indispensable task had already been done
by another. And of all preceding thinkers, who was so well qualified
for the undertaking as Socrates? Who else had wielded the weapons of
negative dialectic with such consummate dexterity? Who had assumed such
a critical attitude towards the beliefs of his contemporaries? Who
had been so anxious to find a point of attachment for every new truth
in the minds of his interlocutors? Who therefore could, with such
plausibility, be put forward in the guise of one who laid claim to no
wisdom on his own account? The son of Phaenaretê seemed made to be the
Baptist of a Greek Messiah; but Plato, in treating him as such, has
drawn a discreet veil over the whole positive side of his predecessor’s
teaching, and to discover what this was we must place ourselves under
the guidance of Xenophon’s more faithful report.

Not that Xenophon is to be taken as a perfectly accurate exponent of
the Socratic philosophy. His work, it must be remembered, was primarily
intended to vindicate Socrates from a charge of impiety and immoral
teaching, not to expound a system which he was perhaps incompetent
to appreciate or understand. We are bound to accept everything that
he relates; we are bound to include nothing that he does not relate;
but we may fairly readjust the proportions of his sketch. It is here
that a judicious use of Plato will furnish us with the most valuable
assistance. He grasped Socratism in all its parts and developed it in
all directions, so that by following back the lines of his system to
their origin we shall be put on the proper track and shall know where
to look for the suggestions which were destined to be so magnificently
worked out.[86]


II.

Before entering on our task of reconstruction, we must turn aside to
consider with what success the same enterprise has been attempted
by modern German criticism, especially by its chief contemporary
representative, the last and most distinguished historian of Greek
philosophy. The result at which Zeller, following Schleiermacher,
arrives is that the great achievement of Socrates was to put forward an
adequate idea of knowledge; in other words, to show what true science
ought to be, and what, as yet, it had never been, with the addition
of a demand that all action should be based on such a scientific
knowledge as its only sure foundation.[87] To know a thing was to know
its essence, its concept, the assemblage of qualities which together
constitute its definition, and make it to be what it is. Former
thinkers had also sought for knowledge, but not _as_ knowledge, not
with a clear notion of what it was that they really wanted. Socrates,
on the other hand, required that men should always be prepared to give
a strict account of the end which they had in view, and of the means
by which they hoped to gain it. Further, it had been customary to
single out for exclusive attention that quality of an object by which
the observer happened to be most strongly impressed, passing over
all the others; the consequence of which was that the philosophers
had taken a one-sided view of facts, with the result of falling into
hopeless disagreement among themselves; the Sophists had turned these
contradictory points of view against one another, and thus effected
their mutual destruction; while the dissolution of objective certainty
had led to a corresponding dissolution of moral truth. Socrates accepts
the Sophistic scepticism so far as it applies to the existing state of
science, but does not push it to the same fatal conclusion; he grants
that current beliefs should be thoroughly sifted and, if necessary,
discarded, but only that more solid convictions may be substituted for
them. Here a place is found for his method of self-examination, and
for the self-conscious ignorance attributed to him by Plato. Comparing
his notions on particular subjects with his idea of what knowledge in
general ought to be, he finds that they do not satisfy it; he knows
that he knows nothing. He then has recourse to other men who declare
that they possess the knowledge of which he is in search, but their
pretended certainty vanishes under the application of his dialectic
test. This is the famous Socratic irony. Finally, he attempts to come
at real knowledge, that is to say, the construction of definitions,
by employing that inductive method with the invention of which he
is credited by Aristotle. This method consists in bringing together
a number of simple and familiar examples from common experience,
generalising from them, and correcting the generalisations by
comparison with negative instances. The reasons that led Socrates to
restrict his enquiries to human interests are rather lightly passed
over by Zeller; he seems at a loss how to reconcile the alleged reform
of scientific method with the complete abandonment of those physical
investigations which, we are told, had suffered so severely from being
cultivated on a different system.

There seem to be three principal points aimed at in the very ingenious
theory which we have endeavoured to summarise as adequately as space
would permit. Zeller apparently wishes to bring Socrates into line with
the great tradition of early Greek thought, to distinguish him markedly
from the Sophists, and to trace back to his initiative the intellectual
method of Plato and Aristotle. We cannot admit that the threefold
attempt has succeeded. It seems to us that a picture into which so
much Platonic colouring has been thrown would for that reason alone,
and without any further objection, be open to very grave suspicion.
But even accepting the historical accuracy of everything that Plato
has said, or of as much as may be required, our critic’s inferences
are not justified by his authorities. Neither the Xenophontic nor the
Platonic Socrates seeks knowledge for its own sake, nor does either
of them offer a satisfactory definition of knowledge, or, indeed, any
definition at all. Aristotle was the first to explain what science
meant, and he did so, not by developing the Socratic notion, but by
incorporating it with the other methods independently struck out
by physical philosophy. What would science be without the study of
causation? and was not this ostentatiously neglected by the founder of
conceptualism? Again, Plato, in the _Theaetêtus_, makes his Socrates
criticise various theories of knowledge, but does not even hint that
the critic had himself a better theory than any of them in reserve.
The author of the _Phaedo_ and the _Republic_ was less interested in
reforming the methods of scientific investigation than in directing
research towards that which he believed to be alone worth knowing,
the eternal ideas which underlie phenomena. The historical Socrates
had no suspicion of transcendental realities; but he thought that
a knowledge of physics was unattainable, and would be worthless if
attained. By knowledge he meant art rather than science, and his
method of defining was intended not for the latter but for the former.
Those, he said, who can clearly express what they want to do are best
secured against failure, and best able to communicate their skill to
others. He made out that the various virtues were different kinds of
knowledge, not from any extraordinary opinion of its preciousness,
but because he thought that knowledge was the variable element in
volition and that everything else was constant. Zeller dwells strongly
on the Socratic identification of cognition with conduct; but how
could anyone who fell at the first step into such a confusion of ideas
be fitted either to explain what science meant or to come forward as
the reformer of its methods? Nor is it correct to say that Socrates
approached an object from every point of view, and took note of all
its characteristic qualities. On the contrary, one would be inclined
to charge him with the opposite tendency, with fixing his gaze too
exclusively on some one quality, that to him, as a teacher, was the
most interesting. His identification of virtue with knowledge is an
excellent instance of this habit. So also is his identification of
beauty with serviceableness, and his general disposition to judge
of everything by a rather narrow standard of utility. On the other
hand, Greek physical speculation would have gained nothing by a
minute attention to definitions, and most probably would have been
mischievously hampered by it. Aristotle, at any rate, prefers the
method of Democritus to the method of Plato; and Aristotle himself
is much nearer the truth when he follows on the Ionian or Sicilian
track than when he attempts to define what in the then existing state
of knowledge could not be satisfactorily defined. To talk about the
various elements—earth, air, fire, and water—as things with which
everybody was already familiar, may have been a crude unscientific
procedure; to analyse them into different combinations of the hot and
the cold, the light and the heavy, the dry and the moist, was not
only erroneous but fatally misleading; it was arresting enquiry, and
doing precisely what the Sophists had been accused of doing, that is,
substituting the conceit for the reality of wisdom. It was, no doubt,
necessary that mathematical terms should be defined; but where are we
told that geometricians had to learn this truth from Socrates? The
sciences of quantity, which could hardly have advanced a step without
the help of exact conceptions, were successfully cultivated before
he was born, and his influence was used to discourage rather than
to promote their accurate study. With regard to the comprehensive
all-sided examination of objects on which Zeller lays so much stress,
and which he seems to regard as something peculiar to the conceptual
method, it had unquestionably been neglected by Parmenides and
Heracleitus; but had not the deficiency been already made good by their
immediate successors? What else is the philosophy of Empedocles,
the Atomists, and Anaxagoras, but an attempt—we must add, a by no
means unsuccessful attempt—to recombine the opposing aspects of
Nature which had been too exclusively insisted on at Ephesus and Elea?
Again, to say that the Sophists had destroyed physical speculation
by setting these partial aspects of truth against one another is,
in our opinion, equally erroneous. First of all, Zeller here falls
into the old mistake, long ago corrected by Grote, of treating the
class in question as if they all held similar views. We have shown in
the preceding chapter, if indeed it required to be shown, that the
Sophists were divided into two principal schools, of which one was
devoted to the cultivation of physics. Protagoras and Gorgias were the
only sceptics; and it was not by setting one theory against another,
but by working out a single theory to its last consequences, that
their scepticism was reached; with no more effect, be it observed,
than was exercised by Pyrrho on the science of his day. For the two
great thinkers, with the aid of whose conclusions it was attempted to
discredit objective reality, were already left far behind at the close
of the fifth century; and neither their reasonings nor reasonings based
on theirs, could exercise much influence on a generation which had
Anaxagoras on Nature and the encyclopaedia of Democritus in its hands.
There was, however, one critic who really did what the Sophists are
charged with doing; who derided and denounced physical science on the
ground that its professors were hopelessly at issue with one another;
and this critic was no other than Socrates himself. He maintained, on
purely popular and superficial grounds, the same sceptical attitude
to which Protagoras gave at least the semblance of a psychological
justification. And he wished that attention should be concentrated
on the very subjects which Protagoras undertook to teach—namely,
ethics, politics, and dialectics. Once more, to say that Socrates was
conscious of not coming up to his own standard of true knowledge is
inconsistent with Xenophon’s account, where he is represented as quite
ready to answer every question put to him, and to offer a definition
of everything that he considered worth defining. His scepticism, if it
ever existed, was as artificial and short-lived as the scepticism of
Descartes.

The truth is that no man who philosophised at all was ever more
free from tormenting doubts and self-questionings; no man was ever
more thoroughly satisfied with himself than Socrates. Let us add
that, from a Hellenic point of view, no man had ever more reason
for self-satisfaction. None, he observed in his last days, had ever
lived a better or a happier life. Naturally possessed of a powerful
constitution, he had so strengthened it by habitual moderation and
constant training that up to the hour of his death, at the age of
seventy, he enjoyed perfect bodily and mental health. Neither hardship
nor exposure, neither abstinence nor indulgence in what to other men
would have been excess, could make any impression on that adamantine
frame. We know not how much truth there may be in the story that, at
one time, he was remarkable for the violence of his passions; at any
rate, when our principal informants knew him he was conspicuous for
the ease with which he resisted temptation, and for the imperturbable
sweetness of his temper. His wants, being systematically reduced to
a minimum, were easily satisfied, and his cheerfulness never failed.
He enjoyed Athenian society so much that nothing but military duty
could draw him away from it. For Socrates was a veteran who had served
through three arduous campaigns, and could give lectures on the
duties of a general, which so high an authority as Xenophon thought
worth reporting. He seems to have been on excellent terms with his
fellow-citizens, never having been engaged in a lawsuit, either as
plaintiff or defendant, until the fatal prosecution which brought his
career to a close. He could, on that occasion, refuse to prepare a
defence, proudly observing that his whole life had been a preparation,
that no man had ever seen him commit an unjust or impious deed. The
anguished cries of doubt uttered by Italian and Sicilian thinkers could
have no meaning for one who, on principle, abstained from ontological
speculations; the uncertainty of human destiny which hung like a
thunder-cloud over Pindar and the tragic poets had melted away under
the sunshine of arguments, demonstrating, to his satisfaction, the
reality and beneficence of a supernatural Providence. For he believed
that the gods would afford guidance in doubtful conjunctures to all who
approached their oracles in a reverent spirit; while, over and above
the Divine counsels accessible to all men, he was personally attended
by an oracular voice, a mysterious monitor, which told him what to
avoid, though not what to do, a circumstance well worthy of note, for
it shows that he did not, like Plato, attribute every kind of right
action to divine inspiration.

It may be said that all this only proves Socrates to have been, in
his own estimation, a good and happy, but not necessarily a wise man.
With him, however, the last of these conditions was inseparable from
the other two. He was prepared to demonstrate, step by step, that his
conduct was regulated by fixed and ascertainable principles, and was
of the kind best adapted to secure happiness both for himself and for
others. That there were deficiencies in his ethical theory may readily
be admitted. The idea of universal beneficence seems never to have
dawned on his horizon; and chastity was to him what sobriety is to us,
mainly a self-regarding virtue. We do not find that he ever recommended
conjugal fidelity to husbands; he regarded prostitution very much as
it is still, unhappily, regarded by men of the world among ourselves;
and in opposing the darker vices of his countrymen, it was the excess
rather than the perversion of appetite which he condemned. These,
however, are points which do not interfere with our general contention
that Socrates adopted the ethical standard of his time, that he adopted
it on rational grounds, that having adopted he acted up to it, and
that in so reasoning and acting he satisfied his own ideal of absolute
wisdom.

Even as regards physical phenomena, Socrates, so far from professing
complete ignorance, held a very positive theory which he was quite
ready to share with his friends. He taught what is called the doctrine
of final causes; and, so far as our knowledge goes, he was either the
first to teach it, or, at any rate, the first to prove the existence of
divine agencies by its means. The old poets had occasionally attributed
the origin of man and other animals to supernatural intelligence, but,
apparently, without being led to their conviction by any evidence of
design displayed in the structure of organised creatures. Socrates, on
the other hand, went through the various external organs of the human
body with great minuteness, and showed, to his own satisfaction, that
they evinced the workings of a wise and beneficent Artist. We shall
have more to say further on about this whole argument; here we only
wish to observe that, intrinsically, it does not differ very much
from the speculations which its author derided as the fruit of an
impertinent curiosity; and that no one who now employed it would, for a
single moment, be called an agnostic or a sceptic.

Must we, then, conclude that Socrates was, after all, nothing but a
sort of glorified Greek Paley, whose principal achievement was to
present the popular ideas of his time on morals and politics under
the form of a rather grovelling utilitarianism; and whose ‘evidences
of natural and revealed religion’ bore much the same relation to
Greek mythology as the corresponding lucubrations of the worthy
archdeacon bore to Christian theology? Even were this the whole truth,
it should be remembered that there was an interval of twenty-three
centuries between the two teachers, which ought to be taken due
account of in estimating their relative importance. Socrates, with his
closely-reasoned, vividly-illustrated ethical expositions, had gained
a tactical advantage over the vague declamations of Gnomic poetry and
the isolated aphorisms of the Seven Sages, comparable to that possessed
by Xenophon and his Ten Thousand in dealing with the unwieldy masses
of Persian infantry and the undisciplined mountaineers of Carduchia;
while his idea of a uniformly beneficent Creator marked a still greater
advance on the jealous divinities of Herodotus. On the other hand,
as against Hume and Bentham, Paley’s pseudo-scientific paraphernalia
were like the muskets and cannon of an Asiatic army when confronted by
the English conquerors of India. Yet had Socrates done no more than
contributed to philosophy the idea just alluded to, his place in the
evolution of thought, though honourable, would not have been what it is
justly held to be—unique.


III.

So far we have been occupied in disputing the views of others; it is
now time that our own view should be stated. We maintain, then, that
Socrates first brought out the idea, not of knowledge, but of mind in
its full significance; that he first studied the whole circle of human
interests as affected by mind; that, in creating dialectics, he gave
this study its proper method, and simultaneously gave his method the
only subject-matter on which it could be profitably exercised; finally,
that by these immortal achievements philosophy was constituted, and
received a threefold verification—first, from the life of its founder;
secondly, from the success with which his spirit was communicated to
a band of followers; thirdly, from the whole subsequent history of
thought. Before substantiating these assertions point by point, it will
be expedient to glance at the external influences which may be supposed
to have moulded the great intellect and the great character now under
consideration.

Socrates was, before all things, an Athenian. To understand him
we must first understand what the Athenian character was in itself
and independently of disturbing circumstances. Our estimate of that
character is too apt to be biassed by the totally exceptional position
which Athens occupied during the fifth century B.C. The possession
of empire developed qualities in her children which they had not
exhibited at an earlier period, and which they ceased to exhibit when
empire had been lost. Among these must be reckoned military genius,
an adventurous and romantic spirit, and a high capacity for poetical
and artistic production—qualities displayed, it is true, by every
Greek race, but by some for a longer and by others for a shorter
period. Now, the tradition of greatness does not seem to have gone
very far back with Athens. Her legendary history, what we have of it,
is singularly unexciting. The same rather monotonous though edifying
story of shelter accorded to persecuted fugitives, of successful
resistance to foreign invasions, and of devoted self-sacrifice to the
State, meets us again and again. The Attic drama itself shows how much
more stirring was the legendary lore of other tribes. One need only
look at the few remaining pieces which treat of patriotic subjects to
appreciate the difference; and an English reader may easily convince
himself of it by comparing Mr. Swinburne’s _Erechtheus_ with the same
author’s _Atalanta_. There is a want of vivid individuality perceptible
all through. Even Theseus, the great national hero, strikes one as a
rather tame sort of personage compared with Perseus, Heraclês, and
Jason. No Athenian figures prominently in the _Iliad_; and on the only
two occasions when Pindar was employed to commemorate an Athenian
victory at the Panhellenic games, he seems unable to associate it
with any legendary glories in the past. The circumstances which for
a long time made Attic history so barren of incident are the same to
which its subsequent importance is due. The relation in which Attica
stood to the rest of Greece was somewhat similar to the relation in
which Tuscany, long afterwards, stood to the rest of Italy. It was the
region least disturbed by foreign immigration, and therefore became
the seat of a slower but steadier mental development. It was among
those to whom war, revolution, colonisation, and commerce brought
the most many-sided experience that intellectual activity was most
speedily ripened. Literature, art, and science were cultivated with
extraordinary success by the Greek cities of Asia Minor, and even
in some parts of the old country, before Athens had a single man of
genius, except Solon, to boast of. But along with the enjoyment of
undisturbed tranquillity, habits of self-government, orderliness, and
reasonable reflection were establishing themselves, which finally
enabled her to inherit all that her predecessors in the race had
accomplished, and to add, what alone they still wanted, the crowning
consecration of self-conscious mind. There had, simultaneously, been
growing up an intensely patriotic sentiment, due, in part, to the
long-continued independence of Attica; in part, also, we may suppose,
to the union, at a very early period, of her different townships into a
single city. The same causes had, however, also favoured a certain love
of comfort, a jovial pleasure-seeking disposition often degenerating
into coarse sensuality, a thriftiness, and an inclination to grasp at
any source of profit, coupled with extreme credulity where hopes of
profit were excited, together forming an element of prose-comedy which
mingles strangely with the tragic grandeur of Athens in her imperial
age, and emerges into greater prominence after her fall, until it
becomes the predominant characteristic of her later days. It is, we may
observe, the contrast between these two aspects of Athenian life which
gives the plays of Aristophanes their unparalleled comic effect, and
it is their very awkward conjunction which makes Euripides so unequal
and disappointing a poet. We find, then, that the original Athenian
character is marked by reasonable reflection, by patriotism, and by a
tendency towards self-seeking materialism. Let us take note of these
three qualities, for we shall meet with them again in the philosophy of
Socrates.

Empire, when it came to Athens, came almost unsought. The Persian
invasions had made her a great naval power; the free choice of her
allies placed her at the head of a great maritime confederacy. The
sudden command of vast resources and the tension accumulated during
ages of repose, stimulated all her faculties into preternatural
activity. Her spirit was steeled almost to the Dorian temper, and
entered into victorious rivalry with the Dorian Muse. Not only did
her fleet sweep the sea, but her army, for once, defeated Theban
hoplites in the field. The grand choral harmonies of Sicilian song,
the Sicyonian recitals of epic adventure, were rolled back into a
framework for the spectacle of individual souls meeting one another in
argument, expostulation, entreaty, and defiance; a nobler Doric edifice
rose to confront the Aeginetan temple of Athênê; the strained energy
of Aeginetan combatants was relaxed into attitudes of reposing power,
and the eternal smile on their faces was deepened into the sadness of
unfathomable thought. But to the violet-crowned city, Athênê was a
giver of wealth and wisdom rather than of prowess; her empire rested on
the contributions of unwilling allies, and on a technical proficiency
which others were sure to equal in time; so that the Corinthian
orators could say with justice that Athenian skill was more easily
acquired than Dorian valour. At once receptive and communicative,
Athens absorbed all that Greece could teach her, and then returned it
in a more elaborate form, but without the freshness of its earliest
inspiration. Yet there was one field that still afforded scope for
creative originality. Habits of analysis, though fatal to spontaneous
production, were favourable, or rather were necessary, to the growth
of a new philosophy. After the exhaustion of every limited idealism,
there remained that highest idealisation which is the reduction of all
past experience to a method available for the guidance of all future
action. To accomplish this last enterprise it was necessary that a
single individual should gather up in himself the spirit diffused
through a whole people, bestowing on it by that very concentration
the capability of an infinitely wider extension when its provisional
representative should have passed away from the scene.

Socrates represents the popular Athenian character much as Richardson,
in a different sphere, represents the English middle-class
character—represents it, that is to say, elevated into transcendent
genius. Except this elevation, there was nothing anomalous about him.
If he was exclusively critical, rationalising, unadventurous, prosaic;
in a word, as the German historians say, something of a Philistine;
so, we may suspect, were the mass of his countrymen. His illustrations
were taken from such plebeian employments as cattle-breeding, cobbling,
weaving, and sailoring. These were his ‘touches of things common’
which at last ‘rose to touch the spheres.’ He both practised and
inculcated virtues, the value of which is especially evident in humble
life—frugality and endurance. But he also represents the Dêmos in its
sovereign capacity as legislator and judge. Without aspiring to be an
orator or statesman, he reserves the ultimate power of arbitration
and election. He submits candidates for office to a severe scrutiny,
and demands from all men an even stricter account of their lives than
retiring magistrates had to give of their conduct, when in power, to
the people. He applies the judicial method of cross-examination to the
detection of error, and the parliamentary method of joint deliberation
to the discovery of truth. He follows out the democratic principles
of free speech and self-government, by submitting every question
that arises to public discussion, and insisting on no conclusion
that does not command the willing assent of his audience. Finally,
his conversation, popular in form, was popular also in this respect,
that everybody who chose to listen might have the benefit of it
gratuitously. Here we have a great change from the scornful dogmatism
of Heracleitus, and the virtually oligarchic exclusiveness of the
teachers who demanded high fees for their instruction.

To be free and to rule over freemen were, with Socrates, as with
every Athenian, the goals of ambition, only his freedom meant
absolute immunity from the control of passion or habit; government
meant superior knowledge, and government of freemen meant the power
of producing intellectual conviction. In his eyes, the possessor of
any art was, so far, a ruler, and the only true ruler, being obeyed
under severe penalties by all who stood in need of his skill. But the
royal art which he himself exercised, without expressly laying claim
to it, was that which assigns its proper sphere to every other art,
and provides each individual with the employment which his peculiar
faculties demand. This is Athenian liberty and Athenian imperialism
carried into education, but so idealised and purified that they can
hardly be recognised at first sight.

The philosophy of Socrates is more obviously related to the practical
and religious tendencies of his countrymen. Neither he nor they had
any sympathy with the cosmological speculations which seemed to be
unconnected with human interests, and to trench on matters beyond the
reach of human knowledge. The old Attic sentiment was averse from
adventures of any kind, whether political or intellectual. Yet the new
spirit of enquiry awakened by Ionian thought could not fail to react
powerfully on the most intelligent man among the most intelligent
people of Hellas. Above all, one paramount idea which went beyond the
confines of the old philosophy had been evolved by the differentiation
of knowledge from its object, and had been presented, although under a
materialising form, by Anaxagoras to the Athenian public. Socrates took
up this idea, which expressed what was highest and most distinctive in
the national character, and applied it to the development of ethical
speculation. We have seen, in the last chapter, how an attempt was made
to base moral truth on the results of natural philosophy, and how that
attempt was combated by the Humanistic school. It could not be doubtful
which side Socrates would take in this controversy. That he paid any
attention to the teaching of Protagoras and Gorgias is, indeed, highly
problematic, for their names are never mentioned by Xenophon, and the
Platonic dialogues in which they figure are evidently fictitious.
Nevertheless, he had to a certain extent arrived at the same conclusion
with them, although by a different path. He was opposed, on religious
grounds, to the theories which an acute psychological analysis
had led them to reject. Accordingly, the idea of Nature is almost
entirely absent from his conversation, and, like Protagoras, he is
guided solely by regard for human interests. To the objection that
positive laws were always changing, he victoriously replied that it
was because they were undergoing an incessant adaptation to varying
needs.[88] Like Protagoras, again, he was a habitual student of old
Greek literature, and sedulously sought out the practical lessons in
which it abounded. To him, as to the early poets and sages, Sôphrosynê,
or self-knowledge and self-command taken together, was the first and
most necessary of all virtues. Unlike them, however, he does not simply
accept it from tradition, but gives it a philosophical foundation—the
newly-established distinction between mind and body; a distinction
not to be confounded with the old Psychism, although Plato, for his
reforming purposes, shortly afterwards linked the two together. The
disembodied spirit of mythology was a mere shadow or memory, equally
destitute of solidity and of understanding; with Socrates, mind meant
the personal consciousness which retains its continuous identity
through every change, and as against every passing impulse. Like the
Humanists, he made it the seat of knowledge—more than the Humanists,
he gave it the control of appetite. In other words, he adds the idea
of will to that of intellect; but instead of treating them as distinct
faculties or functions, he absolutely identifies them. Mind having
come to be first recognised as a knowing power, carried over its
association with knowledge into the volitional sphere, and the two
were first disentangled by Aristotle, though very imperfectly even by
him. Yet no thinker helped so much to make the confusion apparent as
the one to whom it was due. Socrates deliberately insisted that those
who knew the good must necessarily be good themselves. He taught that
every virtue was a science; courage, for example, was a knowledge
of the things which should or should not be feared; temperance, a
knowledge of what should or should not be desired, and so forth. Such
an account of virtue would, perhaps, be sufficient if all men did what,
in their opinion, they ought to do; and, however strange it may seem,
Socrates assumed that such was actually the case.[89] The paradox,
even if accepted at the moment by his youthful friends, was sure to
be rejected, on examination, by cooler heads, and its rejection would
prove that the whole doctrine was essentially unsound. Various causes
prevented Socrates from perceiving what seemed so clear to duller
intelligences than his. First of all, he did not separate duty from
personal interest. A true Athenian, he recommended temperance and
righteousness very largely on account of the material advantages they
secured. That the agreeable and the honourable, the expedient and the
just, frequently came into collision, was at that time a rhetorical
commonplace; and it might be supposed that, if they were shown to
coincide, no motive to misconduct but ignorance could exist. Then,
again, being accustomed to compare conduct of every kind with the
practice of such arts as flute-playing, he had come to take knowledge
in a rather extended sense, just as we do when we say, indifferently,
that a man knows geometry and that he knows how to draw. Aristotle
himself did not see more clearly than Socrates that moral habits are
only to be acquired by incessant practice; only the earlier thinker
would have observed that knowledge of every kind is gained by the same
laborious repetition of particular actions. To the obvious objection
that, in this case, morality cannot, like theoretical truth, be
imparted by the teacher to his pupils, but must be won by the learner
for himself, he would probably have replied that all truth is really
evolved by the mind from itself, and that he, for that very reason,
disclaimed the name of a teacher, and limited himself to the seemingly
humbler task of awakening dormant capacities in others.

An additional influence, not the less potent because unacknowledged,
was the same craving for a principle of unity that had impelled early
Greek thought to seek for the sole substance or cause of physical
phenomena in some single material element, whether water, air, or fire;
and just as these various principles were finally decomposed into the
multitudinous atoms of Leucippus, so also, but much more speedily,
did the general principle of knowledge tend to decompose itself into
innumerable cognitions of the partial ends or utilities which action
was directed to achieve. The need of a comprehensive generalisation
again made itself felt, and all good was summed up under the head
of happiness. The same difficulties recurred under another form. To
define happiness proved not less difficult than to define use or
practical knowledge. Three points of view offered themselves, and all
three had been more or less anticipated by Socrates. Happiness might
mean unmixed pleasure, or the exclusive cultivation of man’s higher
nature, or voluntary subordination to a larger whole. The founder of
Athenian philosophy used to present each of these, in turn, as an end,
without recognising the possibility of a conflict between them; and it
certainly would be a mistake to represent them as constantly opposed.
Yet a truly scientific principle must either prove their identity, or
make its choice among them, or discover something better. Plato seems
to have taken up the three methods, one after the other, without coming
to any very satisfactory conclusion. Aristotle identified the first
two, but failed, or rather did not attempt to harmonise them with the
third. Succeeding schools tried various combinations, laying more or
less stress on different principles at different periods, till the will
of an omnipotent Creator was substituted for every human standard.
With the decline of dogmatic theology we have seen them all come to
life again, and the old battle is still being fought out under our
eyes. Speaking broadly, it may be said that the method which we have
placed first on the list is more particularly represented in England,
the second in France, and the last in Germany. Yet they refuse to be
separated by any rigid line of demarcation, and each tends either to
combine with or to pass into one or both of the rival theories. Modern
utilitarianism, as constituted by John Stuart Mill, although avowedly
based on the paramount value of pleasure, in admitting qualitative
differences among enjoyments, and in subordinating individual to
social good, introduces principles of action which are not, properly
speaking, hedonistic. Neither is the idea of the whole by any means
free from ambiguity. We have party, church, nation, order, progress,
race, humanity, and the sum total of sensitive beings, all putting in
their claims to figure as that entity. Where the pursuit of any single
end gives rise to conflicting pretensions, a wise man will check them
by reference to the other accredited standards, and will cherish a not
unreasonable expectation that the evolution of life is tending to bring
them all into ultimate agreement.

Returning to Socrates, we must further note that his identification
of virtue with science, though it does not express the whole truth,
expresses a considerable part of it, especially as to him conduct was
a much more complex problem than it is to some modern teachers. Only
those who believe in the existence of intuitive and infallible moral
perceptions can consistently maintain that nothing is easier than
to know our duty, and nothing harder than to do it. Even then, the
intuitions must extend beyond general principles, and also inform us
how and where to apply them. That no such inward illumination exists
is sufficiently shown by experience; so much so that the mischief done
by foolish people with good intentions has become proverbial. Modern
casuists have, indeed, drawn a distinction between the intention and
the act, making us responsible for the purity of the former, not for
the consequences of the latter. Though based on the Socratic division
between mind and body, this distinction would not have commended itself
to Socrates. His object was not to save souls from sin, but to save
individuals, families, and states from the ruin which ignorance of fact
entails.

If we enlarge our point of view so as to cover the moral influence of
knowledge on society taken collectively, its relative importance will
be vastly increased. When Auguste Comte assigns the supreme direction
of progress to advancing science, and when Buckle, following Fichte,
makes the totality of human action depend on the totality of human
knowledge, they are virtually attributing to intellectual education an
even more decisive part than it played in the Socratic ethics. Even
those who reject the theory, when pushed to such an extreme, will admit
that the same quantity of self-devotion must produce a far greater
effect when it is guided by deeper insight into the conditions of
existence.

The same principle may be extended in a different direction if we
substitute for knowledge, in its narrower significance, the more
general conception of associated feeling. We shall then see that
belief, habit, emotion, and instinct are only different stages of
the same process—the process by which experience is organised and
made subservient to vital activity. The simplest reflex and the
highest intellectual conviction are alike based on sensori-motor
mechanism, and, so far, differ only through the relative complexity and
instability of the nervous connexions involved. Knowledge is life in
the making, and when it fails to control practice fails only by coming
into conflict with passion—that is to say, with the consolidated
results of an earlier experience. Physiology offers another analogy
to the Socratic method which must not be overlooked. Socrates
recommended the formation of definite conceptions because, among other
advantages, they facilitated the diffusion of useful knowledge. So,
also, the organised associations of feelings are not only serviceable
to individuals, but may be transmitted to offspring with a regularity
proportioned to their definiteness. How naturally these deductions
follow from the doctrine under consideration, is evident from their
having been, to a certain extent, already drawn by Plato. His plan
for the systematic education of feeling under scientific supervision
answers to the first; his plan for breeding an improved race of
citizens by placing marriage under State control answers to the second.
Yet it is doubtful whether Plato’s predecessor would have sanctioned
any scheme tending to substitute an external compulsion, whether felt
or not, for freedom and individual initiative, and a blind instinct for
the self-consciousness which can give an account of its procedure at
every step. He would bring us back from social physics and physiology
to psychology, and from psychology to dialectic philosophy.


IV.

To Socrates himself the strongest reason for believing in the
identity of conviction and practice was, perhaps, that he had made
it a living reality. With him to know the right and to do it were
the same. In this sense we have already said that his life was the
first verification of his philosophy. And just as the results of his
ethical teaching can only be ideally separated from their application
to his conduct, so also these results themselves cannot be kept apart
from the method by which they were reached; nor is the process by
which he reached them for himself distinguishable from the process
by which he communicated them to his friends. In touching on this
point, we touch on that which is greatest and most distinctively
original in the Socratic system, or rather in the Socratic impulse
to systematisation of every kind. What it was will be made clearer
by reverting to the central conception of mind. With Protagoras mind
meant an ever-changing stream of feeling; with Gorgias it was a
principle of hopeless isolation, the interchange of thoughts between
one consciousness and another, by means of signs, being an illusion.
Socrates, on the contrary, attributed to it a steadfast control over
passion, and a unifying function in society through its essentially
synthetic activity, its need of co-operation and responsive assurance.
He saw that the reason which overcomes animal desire tends to draw
men together just as sensuality tends to drive them into hostile
collision. If he recommended temperance on account of the increased
egoistic pleasure which it secures, he recommended it also as making
the individual a more efficient instrument for serving the community.
If he inculcated obedience to the established laws, it was no doubt
partly on grounds of enlightened self-interest, but also because union
and harmony among citizens were thereby secured. And if he insisted
on the necessity of forming definite conceptions, it was with the
same twofold reference to personal and public advantage. Along with
the diffusive, social character of mind he recognised its essential
spontaneity. In a commonwealth where all citizens were free and equal,
there must also be freedom and equality of reason. Having worked out
a theory of life for himself, he desired that all other men should,
so far as possible, pass through the same bracing discipline. Here we
have the secret of his famous erotetic method. He did not, like the
Sophists, give continuous lectures, nor profess, like some of them,
to answer every question that might be put to him. On the contrary,
he put a series of questions to all who came in his way, generally in
the form of an alternative, one side of which seemed self-evidently
true and the other self-evidently false, arranged so as to lead the
respondent, step by step, to the conclusion which it was desired that
he should accept. Socrates did not invent this method. It had long been
practised in the Athenian law-courts as a means for extracting from
the opposite party admissions which could not be otherwise obtained,
whence it had passed into the tragic drama, and into the discussion of
philosophical problems. Nowhere else was the analytical power of Greek
thought so brilliantly displayed; for before a contested proposition
could be subjected to this mode of treatment, it had to be carefully
discriminated from confusing adjuncts, considered under all the various
meanings which it might possibly be made to bear, subdivided, if it was
complex, into two or more distinct assertions, and linked by a minute
chain of demonstration to the admission by which its validity was
established or overthrown.

Socrates, then, did not create the cross-examining elenchus, but he
gave it two new and very important applications. So far as we can make
out, it had hitherto been only used (again, after the example of the
law-courts) for the purpose of detecting error or intentional deceit.
He made it an instrument for introducing his own convictions into the
minds of others, but so that his interlocutors seemed to be discovering
them for themselves, and were certainly learning how, in their turn,
to practise the same didactic interrogation on a future occasion. And
he also used it for the purpose of logical self-discipline in a manner
which will be presently explained. Of course, Socrates also employed
the erotetic method as a means of confutation, and, in his hands, it
powerfully illustrated what we have called the negative moment of
Greek thought. To prepare the ground for new truth it was necessary
to clear away the misconceptions which were likely to interfere with
its admission; or, if Socrates himself had nothing to impart, he could
at any rate purge away the false conceit of knowledge from unformed
minds, and hold them back from attempting difficult tasks until they
were properly qualified for the undertaking. For example, a certain
Glauco, a brother of Plato, had attempted to address the public
assembly, when he was not yet twenty years of age, and was naturally
quite unfitted for the task. At Athens, where every citizen had a
voice in his country’s affairs, obstruction, whether intentional or
not, was very summarily dealt with. Speakers who had nothing to say
that was worth hearing were forcibly removed from the bêma by the
police; and this fate had already more than once befallen the youthful
orator, much to the annoyance of his friends, who could not prevail
on him to refrain from repeating the experiment, when Socrates took
the matter in hand. One or two adroit compliments on his ambition drew
Glauco into a conversation with the veteran dialectician on the aims
and duties of a statesman. It was agreed that his first object should
be to benefit the country, and that a good way of achieving this end
would be to increase its wealth, which, again, could be done either
by augmenting the receipts or by diminishing the expenditure. Could
Glauco tell what was the present revenue of Athens, and whence it was
derived?—No; he had not studied that question.—Well then, perhaps, he
had some useful retrenchments to propose.—No; he had not studied that
either. But the State might, he thought, be enriched at the expense of
its enemies.—A good idea, if we can be sure of beating them first!
Only, to avoid the risk of attacking somebody who is stronger than
ourselves, we must know what are the enemy’s military resources as
compared with our own. To begin with the latter: Can Glauco tell how
many ships and soldiers Athens has at her disposal?—No, he does not
at this moment remember.—Then, perhaps, he has it all written down
somewhere?—He must confess not. So the conversation goes on until
Socrates has convicted his ambitious young friend of possessing no
accurate information whatever about political questions.[90]

Xenophon has recorded another dialogue in which a young man named
Euthydêmus, who was also in training for a statesman, and who, as he
supposed, had learned a great deal more out of books than Socrates
could teach him, is brought to see how little he knows about ethical
science. He is asked, Can a man be a good citizen without being
just? No, he cannot.—Can Euthydêmus tell what acts are just? Yes,
certainly, and also what are unjust.—Under which head does he put
such actions as lying, deceiving, harming, enslaving?—Under the
head of injustice.—But suppose a hostile people are treated in the
various manners specified, is that unjust?—No, but it was understood
that only one’s friends were meant.—Well, if a general encourages
his own army by false statements, or a father deceives his child into
taking medicine, or your friend seems likely to commit suicide, and
you purloin a deadly weapon from him, is that unjust?—No, we must add
‘for the purpose of harming’ to our definition. Socrates, however,
does not stop here, but goes on cross-examining until the unhappy
student is reduced to a state of hopeless bewilderment and shame. He
is then brought to perceive the necessity of self-knowledge, which
is explained to mean knowledge of one’s own powers. As a further
exercise Euthydêmus is put through his facings on the subject of good
and evil. Health, wealth, strength, wisdom and beauty are mentioned
as unquestionable goods. Socrates shows, in the style long afterwards
imitated by Juvenal, that they are only means towards an end, and may
be productive of harm no less than good.—Happiness at any rate is an
unquestionable good.—Yes, unless we make it consist of questionable
goods like those just enumerated.[91]

It is in this last conversation that the historical Socrates most
nearly resembles the Socrates of Plato’s _Apologia_. Instead, however,
of leaving Euthydêmus to the consciousness of his ignorance, as
the latter would have done, he proceeds, in Xenophon’s account, to
direct the young man’s studies according to the simplest and clearest
principles; and we have another conversation where religious truths
are instilled by the same catechetical process.[92] Here the erotetic
method is evidently a mere didactic artifice, and Socrates could easily
have written out his lesson under the form of a regular demonstration.
But there is little doubt that in other cases he used it as a means
for giving increased precision to his own ideas, and also for testing
their validity, that, in a word, the habit of oral communication gave
him a familiarity with logical processes which could not otherwise
have been acquired. The same cross-examination that acted as a spur
on the mind of the respondent, reacted as a bridle on the mind of the
interrogator, obliging him to make sure beforehand of every assertion
that he put forward, to study the mutual bearings of his beliefs, to
analyse them into their component elements, and to examine the relation
in which they collectively stood to the opinions generally accepted.
It has already been stated that Socrates gave the erotetic method two
new applications; we now see in what direction they tended. He made it
a vehicle for positive instruction, and he also made it an instrument
for self-discipline, a help to fulfilling the Delphic precept, ‘Know
thyself.’ The second application was even more important than the
first. With us literary training—that is, the practice of continuous
reading and composition—is so widely diffused, that conversation
has become rather a hindrance than a help to the cultivation of
argumentative ability. The reverse was true when Socrates lived. Long
familiarity with debate was unfavourable to the art of writing; and the
speeches in Thucydides show how difficult it was still found to present
close reasoning under the form of an uninterrupted exposition. The
traditions of conversational thrust and parry survived in rhetorical
prose; and the crossed swords of tongue-fence were represented by the
bristling _chevaux de frise_ of a laboured antithetical arrangement
where every clause received new strength and point from contrast with
its opposing neighbour.

By combining the various considerations here suggested we shall
arrive at a clearer understanding of the sceptical attitude commonly
attributed to Socrates. There is, first of all, the negative and
critical function exercised by him in common with many other
constructive thinkers, and intimately associated with a fundamental
law of Greek thought. Then there is the Attic courtesy and democratic
spirit leading him to avoid any assumption of superiority over those
whose opinions he is examining. And, lastly, there is the profound
feeling that truth is a common possession, which no individual
can appropriate as his peculiar privilege, because it can only be
discovered, tested, and preserved by the united efforts of all.


V.

Thus, then, the Socratic dialogue has a double aspect. It is, like
all philosophy, a perpetual carrying of life into ideas and of ideas
into life. Life is raised to a higher level by thought; thought, when
brought into contact with life, gains movement and growth, assimilative
and reproductive power. If action is to be harmonised, we must regulate
it by universal principles; if our principles are to be efficacious,
they must be adopted; if they are to be adopted, we must demonstrate
them to the satisfaction of our contemporaries. Language, consisting
as it does almost entirely of abstract terms, furnishes the materials
out of which alone such an ideal union can be framed. But men do not
always use the same words, least of all if they are abstract words, in
the same sense, and therefore a preliminary agreement must be arrived
at in this respect; a fact which Socrates was the first to recognise.
Aristotle tells us that he introduced the custom of constructing
general definitions into philosophy. The need of accurate verbal
explanations is more felt in the discussion of ethical problems than
anywhere else, if we take ethics in the only sense that Socrates would
have accepted, as covering the whole field of mental activity. It
is true that definitions are also employed in the mathematical and
physical sciences, but there they are accompanied by illustrations
borrowed from sensible experience, and would be unintelligible without
them. Hence it has been possible for those branches of knowledge to
make enormous progress, while the elementary notions on which they rest
have not yet been satisfactorily analysed. The case is entirely altered
when mental dispositions have to be taken into account. Here, abstract
terms play much the same part as sensible intuitions elsewhere in
steadying our conceptions, but without possessing the same invariable
value; the experiences from which those conceptions are derived
being exceedingly complex, and, what is more, exceedingly liable to
disturbance from unforeseen circumstances. Thus, by neglecting a series
of minute changes the same name may come to denote groups of phenomena
not agreeing in the qualities which alone it originally connoted. More
than one example of such a gradual metamorphosis has already presented
itself in the course of our investigation, and others will occur in
the sequel. Where distinctions of right and wrong are involved, it
is of enormous practical importance that a definite meaning should
be attached to words, and that they should not be allowed, at least
without express agreement, to depart from the recognised acceptation:
for such words, connoting as they do the approval or disapproval
of mankind, exercise a powerful influence on conduct, so that their
misapplication may lead to disastrous consequences. Where government
by written law prevails the importance of defining ethical terms
immediately becomes obvious, for, otherwise, personal rule would
be restored under the disguise of judicial interpretation. Roman
jurisprudence was the first attempt on a great scale to introduce a
rigorous system of definitions into legislation. We have seen, in
the preceding chapter, how it tended to put the conclusions of Greek
naturalistic philosophy into practical shape. We now see how, on the
formal side, its determinations are connected with the principles
of Socrates. And we shall not undervalue this obligation if we bear
in mind that the accurate wording of legal enactments is not less
important than the essential justice of their contents. Similarly,
the development of Catholic theology required that its fundamental
conceptions should be progressively defined. This alone preserved
the intellectual character of Catholicism in ages of ignorance and
superstition, and helped to keep alive the reason by which superstition
was eventually overthrown. Mommsen has called theology the bastard
child of Religion and Science. It is something that, in the absence of
the robuster parent, its features should be recalled and its tradition
maintained even by an illegitimate offspring.

So far, we have spoken as if the Socratic definitions were merely
verbal; they were, however, a great deal more, and their author did not
accurately discriminate between what at that stage of thought could
not well be kept apart—explanations of words, practical reforms, and
scientific generalisations. For example, in defining a ruler to be one
who knew more than other men, he was departing from the common usages
of language, and showing not what was, but what ought to be true.[93]
And in defining virtue as wisdom, he was putting forward a new theory
of his own, instead of formulating the received connotation of a
term. Still, after making every deduction, we cannot fail to perceive
what an immense service was rendered to exact thought by introducing
definitions of every kind into that department of enquiry where they
were chiefly needed. We may observe also that a general law of Greek
intelligence was here realising itself in a new direction. The need
of accurate determination had always been felt, but hitherto it had
worked under the more elementary forms of time, space, and causality,
or, to employ the higher generalisation of modern psychology, under
the form of contiguous association. The earlier cosmologies were all
processes of circumscription; they were attempts to fix the limits
of the universe, and, accordingly, that element which was supposed
to surround the others was also conceived as their producing cause,
or else (in the theory of Heracleitus) as typifying the rationale of
their continuous transformation. For this reason Parmenides, when he
identified existence with extension, found himself obliged to declare
that extension was necessarily limited. Of all the physical thinkers,
Anaxagoras, who immediately precedes Socrates, approaches, on the
objective side, most nearly to his standpoint. For the governing
Nous brings order out of chaos by segregating the confused elements,
by separating the unlike and drawing the like together, which is
precisely what definition does for our conceptions. Meanwhile Greek
literature had been performing the same task in a more restricted
province, first fixing events according to their geographical and
historical positions, then assigning to each its proper cause, then,
as Thucydides does, isolating the most important groups of events from
their external connexions, and analysing the causes of complex changes
into different classes of antecedents. The final revolution effected by
Socrates was to substitute arrangement by difference and resemblance
for arrangement by contiguity in coexistence and succession. To say
that by so doing he created science is inexact, for science requires
to consider nature under every aspect, including those which he
systematically neglected; but we may say that he introduced the method
which is most particularly applicable to mental phenomena, the method
of ideal analysis, classification, and reasoning. For, be it observed
that Socrates did not limit himself to searching for the One in the
Many, he also, and perhaps more habitually, sought for the Many in the
One. He would take hold of a conception and analyse it into its various
notes, laying them, as it were, piecemeal before his interlocutor for
separate acceptance or rejection. If, for example, they could not agree
about the relative merits of two citizens, Socrates would decompose
the character of a good citizen into its component parts and bring the
comparison down to them. A good citizen, he would say, increases the
national resources by his administration of the finances, defeats the
enemy abroad, wins allies by his diplomacy, appeases dissension by
his eloquence at home.[94] When the shy and gifted Charmides shrank
from addressing a public audience on public questions, Socrates strove
to overcome his nervousness by mercilessly subdividing the august
Ecclêsia into its constituent classes. ‘Is it the fullers that you
are afraid of?’ he asked, ‘or the leather-cutters, or the masons, or
the smiths, or the husbandmen, or the traders, or the lowest class
of hucksters?’[95] Here the analytical power of Greek thought is
manifested with still more searching effect than when it was applied to
space and motion by Zeno.

Nor did Socrates only consider the whole conception in relation to its
parts, he also grouped conceptions together according to their genera
and founded logical classification. To appreciate the bearing of this
idea on human interests it will be enough to study the disposition
of a code. We shall then see how much more easy it becomes to bring
individual cases under a general rule, and to retain the whole body
of rules in our memory, when we can pass step by step from the most
universal to the most particular categories. Now, it was by jurists
versed in the Stoic philosophy that Roman law was codified, and it
was by Stoicism that the traditions of Socratic philosophy were most
faithfully preserved.

Logical division is, however, a process not fully represented by any
fixed and formal distribution of topics, nor yet is it equivalent
to the arrangement of genera and species according to their natural
affinities, as in the admirable systems of Jussieu and Cuvier. It
is something much more flexible and subtle, a carrying down into
the minutest detail, of that psychological law which requires, as
a condition of perfect consciousness, that feelings, conceptions,
judgments, and, generally speaking, all mental modes should be
apprehended together with their contradictory opposites. Heracleitus
had a dim perception of this truth when he taught the identity of
antithetical couples, and it is more or less vividly illustrated by
all Greek classic literature after him; but Socrates seems to have
been the first who transformed it from a law of existence into a law
of cognition; with him knowledge and ignorance, reason and passion,
freedom and slavery, virtue, and vice, right and wrong (πολλῶν ὀνομάτων
μορφὴ μία) were apprehended in inseparable connexion, and were employed
for mutual elucidation, not only in broad masses, but also through
their last subdivisions, like the delicate adjustments of light and
shade on a Venetian canvas. This method of classification by graduated
descent and symmetrical contrast, like the whole dialectic system of
which it forms a branch, is only suited to the mental phenomena for
which it was originally devised; and Hegel committed a fatal error
when he applied it to explain the order of external coexistence and
succession. We have already touched on the essentially subjective
character of the Socratic definition, and we shall presently have to
make a similar restriction in dealing with Socratic induction. With
regard to the question last considered, our limits will not permit us,
nor, indeed, does it fall within the scope of our present study, to
pursue a vein of reflection which was never fully worked out either by
the Athenian philosophers or by their modern successors, at least not
in its only legitimate direction.

After definition and division comes reasoning. We arrange objects
in classes, that by knowing one or some we may know all. Aristotle
attributes to Socrates the first systematic employment of induction
as well as of general definitions.[96] Nevertheless, his method was
not solely inductive, nor did it bear more than a distant resemblance
to the induction of modern science. His principles were not gathered
from the particular classes of phenomena which they determined, or
were intended to determine, but from others of an analogous character
which had already been reduced to order. Observing that all handicrafts
were practised according to well-defined intelligible rules, leading,
so far as they went, to satisfactory results, he required that life
in its entirety should be similarly systematised. This was not so
much reasoning as a demand for the more extended application of
reasoning. It was a truly philosophic postulate, for philosophy is
not science, but precedes and underlies it. Belief and action tend to
divide themselves into two provinces, of which the one is more or less
organised, the other more or less chaotic. We philosophise when we try
to bring the one into order, and also when we test the foundations on
which the order of the other reposes, fighting both against incoherent
mysticism and against traditional routine. Such is the purpose that the
most distinguished thinkers of modern times—Francis Bacon, Spinoza,
Hume, Kant, Auguste Comte, and Herbert Spencer—however widely they
may otherwise differ, have, according to their respective lights, all
set themselves to achieve. No doubt, there is this vast difference
between Socrates and his most recent successors, that physical science
is the great type of certainty to the level of which they would raise
all speculation, while with him it was the type of a delusion and an
impossibility. The analogy of artistic production when applied to
Nature led him off on a completely false track, the ascription to
conscious design of that which is, in truth, a result of mechanical
causation.[97] But now that the relations between the known and the
unknown have been completely transformed, there is no excuse for
repeating the fallacies which imposed on his vigorous understanding;
and the genuine spirit of Socrates is best represented by those who,
starting like him from the data of experience, are led to adopt a
diametrically opposite conclusion. We may add, that the Socratic method
of analogical reasoning gave a retrospective justification to early
Greek thought, of which Socrates was not himself aware. Its daring
generalisations were really an inference from the known to the unknown.
To interpret all physical processes in terms of matter and motion, is
only assuming that the changes to which our senses cannot penetrate are
homogeneous with the changes which we can feel and see. When Socrates
argued that, because the human body is animated by a consciousness,
the material universe must be similarly animated, Democritus might
have answered that the world presents no appearance of being organised
like an animal. When he argued that, because statues and pictures are
known to be the work of intelligence, the living models from which they
are copied must be similarly due to design, Aristodêmus should have
answered, that the former are seen to be manufactured, while the others
are seen to grow. It might also have been observed, that if our own
intelligence requires to be accounted for by a cause like itself, so
also does the creative cause, and so on through an infinite regress of
antecedents. Teleology has been destroyed by the Darwinian theory; but
before the _Origin of Species_ appeared, the slightest scrutiny might
have shown that it was a precarious foundation for religious belief.
If many thoughtful men are now turning away from theism, ‘natural
theology’ may be thanked for the desertion. ‘I believe in God,’ says
the German baron in _Thorndale_, ‘until your philosophers demonstrate
His existence.’ ‘And then?’ asks a friend. ‘And then—I do not believe
the demonstration.’

Whatever may have been the errors into which Socrates fell, he did
not commit the fatal mistake of compromising his ethical doctrine by
associating it indissolubly with his metaphysical opinions. Religion,
with him, instead of being the source and sanction of all duty, simply
brought in an additional duty—that of gratitude to the gods for their
goodness. We shall presently see where he sought for the ultimate
foundation of morality, after completing our survey of the dialectic
method with which it was so closely connected. The induction of
Socrates, when it went beyond that kind of analogical reasoning which
we have just been considering, was mainly abstraction, the process by
which he obtained those general conceptions or definitions which played
so great a part in his philosophy. Thus, on comparing the different
virtues, as commonly distinguished, he found that they all agreed in
requiring knowledge, which he accordingly concluded to be the essence
of virtue. So other moralists have been led to conclude that right
actions resemble one another in their felicific quality, and In that
alone. Similarly, political economists find, or formerly found (for we
do not wish to be positive on the matter), that a common characteristic
of all industrial employments is the desire to secure the maximum of
profit with the minimum of trouble. Another comparison shows that value
depends on the relation between supply and demand. Aesthetic enjoyments
of every kind resemble one another by including an element of ideal
emotion. It is a common characteristic of all cognitions that they are
constructed by association out of elementary feelings. All societies
are marked by a more or less developed division of labour. These
are given as typical generalisations which have been reached by the
Socratic method. They are all taken from the philosophic sciences—that
is, the sciences dealing with phenomena which are partly determined by
mind, and the systematic treatment of which is so similar that they are
frequently studied in combination by a single thinker, and invariably
so by the greatest thinkers of any. But were we to examine the history
of the physical sciences, we should find that this method of wide
comparison and rapid abstraction cannot, as Francis Bacon imagined, be
successfully applied to them. The facts with which they deal are not
transparent, not directly penetrable by thought; hence they must be
treated deductively. Instead of a front attack, we must, so to speak,
take them in the rear. Bacon never made a more unfortunate observation
than when he said that the syllogism falls far short of the subtlety of
Nature. Nature is even simpler than the syllogism, for she accomplishes
her results by advancing from equation to equation. That which really
does fall far short of her subtlety is precisely the Baconian induction
with its superficial comparison of instances. No amount of observation
could detect any resemblance between the bursting of a thunderstorm and
the attraction of a loadstone, or between the burning of charcoal and
the rusting a nail.

But while philosophers cannot prescribe a method to physical science,
they may, to a certain extent, bring it under their cognisance, by
disengaging its fundamental conceptions and assumptions, and showing
that they are functions of mind; by arranging the special sciences in
systematic order for purposes of study; and by investigating the law
of their historical evolution. Furthermore, since psychology is the
central science of philosophy, and since it is closely connected with
physiology, which in turn reposes on the inorganic sciences, a certain
knowledge of the objective world is indispensable to any knowledge of
ourselves. Lastly, since the subjective sphere not only rests, once for
all, on the objective, but is also in a continual state of action and
reaction with it, no philosophy can be complete which does not take
into account the constitution of things as they exist independently of
ourselves, in order to ascertain how far they are unalterable, and how
far they may be modified to our advantage. We see, then, that Socrates,
in restricting philosophy to human interests, was guided by a just
tact; that in creating the method of dialectic abstraction, he created
an instrument adequate to this investigation, but to this alone;
and, finally, that human interests, understood in the largest sense,
embrace a number of subsidiary studies which either did not exist when
he taught, or which the inevitable superstitions of his age would not
allow him to pursue.

It remains to glance at another aspect of the dialectic method first
developed on a great scale by Plato, and first fully defined by
Aristotle, but already playing a certain part in the Socratic teaching.
This is the testing of common assumptions by pushing them to their
logical conclusion, and rejecting those which lead to consequences
inconsistent with themselves. So understood, dialectic means the
complete elimination of inconsistency, and has ever since remained the
most powerful weapon of philosophical criticism. To take an instance
near at hand, it is constantly employed by thinkers so radically
different as Mr. Herbert Spencer and Professor T. H. Green; while it
has been generalised into an objective law of Nature and history, with
dazzling though only momentary success, by Hegel and his school.


VI.

Consistency is, indeed, the one word which, better than any other,
expresses the whole character of Socrates, and the whole of philosophy
as well. Here the supreme conception of mind reappears under its most
rigorous, but, at the same time, its most beneficent aspect. It is the
temperance which no allurement can surprise; the fortitude which no
terror can break through; the justice which eliminates all personal
considerations, egoistic and altruistic alike; the truthfulness
which, with exactest harmony, fits words to meanings, meanings to
thoughts, and thoughts to things; the logic which will tolerate no
self-contradiction; the conviction which seeks for no acceptance
unwon by reason; the liberalism which works through free agencies for
freedom; the love which wills another’s good for that other’s sake
alone.[98] It was the intellectual passion for consistency which made
Socrates so great and which fused his life into a flawless whole; but
it was an unconscious motive power, and therefore he attributed to mere
knowledge what knowledge alone could not supply. A clear perception
of right cannot by itself secure the obedience of our will. High
principles are not of any value, except to those in whom a discrepancy
between practice and profession produces the sharpest anguish of which
their nature is capable; a feeling like, though immeasurably stronger
than, that which women of exquisite sensibility experience when they
see a candle set crooked or a table-cover awry. How moral laws have
come to be established, and why they prescribe or prohibit certain
classes of actions, are questions which still divide the schools,
though with an increasing consensus of authority on the utilitarian
side: their ultimate sanction—that which, whatever they are, makes
obedience to them truly moral—can hardly be sought elsewhere than in
the same consciousness of logical stringency that determines, or should
determine, our abstract beliefs.

Be this as it may, we venture to hope that a principle has been here
suggested deep and strong enough to reunite the two halves into which
historians have hitherto divided the Socratic system, or, rather, the
beginning of that universal systematisation called philosophy, which
is not yet, and perhaps never will be, completed; a principle which is
outwardly revealed in the character of the philosopher himself. With
such an one, ethics and dialectics become almost indistinguishable
through the intermixture of their processes and the parallelism of
their aims. Integrity of conviction enters, both as a means and
as an element, into perfect integrity of conduct, nor can it be
maintained where any other element of rectitude is wanting. Clearness,
consecutiveness, and coherence are the morality of belief; while
temperance, justice, and beneficence, taken in their widest sense and
taken together, constitute the supreme logic of life.

It has already been observed that the thoughts of Socrates were thrown
into shape for and by communication, that they only became definite
when brought into vivifying contact with another intelligence. Such was
especially the case with his method of ethical dialectic. Instead of
tendering his advice in the form of a lecture, as other moralists have
at all times been so fond of doing, he sought out some pre-existing
sentiment or opinion inconsistent with the conduct of which he
disapproved, and then gradually worked round from point to point,
until theory and practice were exhibited in immediate contrast. Here,
his reasoning, which is sometimes spoken of as exclusively inductive,
was strictly syllogistic, being the application of a general law to
a particular instance. With the growing emancipation of reason, we
may observe a return to the Socratic method of moralisation. Instead
of rewards and punishments, which encourage selfish calculation, or
examples, which stimulate a mischievous jealousy when they do not
create a spirit of servile imitation, the judicious trainer will
find his motive power in the pupil’s incipient tendency to form
moral judgments, which, when reflected on the individual’s own
actions, become what we call a conscience. It has been mentioned in
the preceding chapter that the celebrated golden rule of justice was
already enunciated by Greek moralists in the fourth century B.C.
Possibly it may have been first formulated by Socrates. In all cases
it occurs in the writings of his disciples, and happily expresses the
drift of his entire philosophy. This generalising tendency was, indeed,
so natural to a noble Greek, that instances of it occur long before
philosophy began. We find it in the famous question of Achilles: ‘Did
not this whole war begin on account of a woman? Are the Atreidae the
only men who love their wives?’[99] and in the now not less famous
apostrophe to Lycaon, reminding him that an early death is the lot of
far worthier men than he[100]—utterances which come on us with the
awful effect of lightning flashes, that illuminate the whole horizon of
existence while they paralyse or destroy an individual victim.

The power which Socrates possessed of rousing other minds to
independent activity and apostolic transmission of spiritual gifts was,
as we have said, the second verification of his doctrine. Even those
who, like Antisthenes and Aristippus, derived their positive theories
from the Sophists rather than from him, preferred to be regarded as his
followers; and Plato, from whom his ideas received their most splendid
development, has acknowledged the debt by making that venerated figure
the centre of his own immortal Dialogues. A third verification is given
by the subjective, practical, dialectic tendency of all subsequent
philosophy properly so called. On this point we will content ourselves
with mentioning one instance out of many, the recent declaration of Mr.
Herbert Spencer that his whole system was constructed for the sake of
its ethical conclusion.[101]

Apart, however, from abstract speculation, the ideal method seems to
have exercised an immediate and powerful influence on Art, an influence
which was anticipated by Socrates himself. In two conversations
reported by Xenophon,[102] he impresses on Parrhasius, the painter,
and Cleito, the sculptor, the importance of so animating the faces and
figures which they represented as to make them express human feelings,
energies, and dispositions, particularly those of the most interesting
and elevated type. And such, in fact, was the direction followed by
imitative art after Pheidias, though not without degenerating into a
sensationalism which Socrates would have severely condemned. Another
and still more remarkable proof of the influence exercised on plastic
representation by ideal philosophy was, perhaps, not foreseen by its
founder. We allude to the substitution of abstract and generic for
historical subjects by Greek sculpture in its later stages, and not by
sculpture only, but by dramatic poetry as well. For early art, whether
it addressed itself to the eye or to the imagination, and whether
its subjects were taken from history or from fiction, had always
been historical in this sense, that it exhibited the performance of
particular actions by particular persons in a given place and at a
given time; the mode of presentment most natural to those whose ideas
are mainly determined by contiguous association. The schools which came
after Socrates let fall the limitations of concrete reality, and found
the unifying principle of their works in association by resemblance,
making their figures the personification of a single attribute or
group of attributes, and bringing together forms distinguished by
the community of their characteristics or the convergence of their
functions. Thus Aphroditê no longer figured as the lover of Arês or
Anchisês, but as the personification of female beauty; while her
statues were grouped together with images of the still more transparent
abstractions, Love, Longing, and Desire. Similarly Apollo became
a personification of musical enthusiasm, and Dionysus of Bacchic
inspiration. So also dramatic art, once completely historical, even
with Aristophanes, now chose for its subjects such constantly-recurring
types as the ardent lover, the stern father, the artful slave, the
boastful soldier, and the fawning parasite.[103]

Nor was this all. Thought, after having, as it would seem, wandered
away from reality in search of empty abstractions, by the help of
those very abstractions regained possession of concrete existence,
and acquired a far fuller intelligence of its complex manifestations.
For, each individual character is an assemblage of qualities, and can
only be understood when those qualities, after having been separately
studied, are finally recombined. Thus, biography is a very late
production of literature, and although biographies are the favourite
reading of those who most despise philosophy, they could never have
been written without its help. Moreover, before characters can be
described they must exist. Now, it is partly philosophy which calls
character into existence by sedulous inculcation of self-knowledge and
self-culture, by consolidating a man’s individuality into something
independent of circumstances, so that it comes to form, not a figure
in bas-relief, but what sculptors call a figure in the round. Such was
Socrates himself, and such were the figures which he taught Xenophon
and Plato to recognise and portray. Character-drawing begins with
them, and the _Memorabilia_ in particular is the earliest attempt at a
biographical analysis that we possess. From this to Plutarch’s _Lives_
there was still a long journey to be accomplished, but the interval
between them is less considerable than that which divides Xenophon
from his immediate predecessor, Thucydides. And when we remember how
intimately the substance of Christian teaching is connected with the
literary form of its first record, we shall still better appreciate the
all-penetrating influence of Hellenic thought, vying, as it does, with
the forces of nature in subtlety and universal diffusion.

Besides transforming art and literature, the dialectic method helped
to revolutionise social life, and the impulse communicated in this
direction is still very far from being exhausted. We allude to its
influence on female education. The intellectual blossoming of Athens
was aided, in its first development, by a complete separation of the
sexes. There were very few of his friends to whom an Athenian gentleman
talked so little as to his wife.[104] Colonel Mure aptly compares
her position to that of an English housekeeper, with considerably
less liberty than is enjoyed by the latter. Yet the union of tender
admiration with the need for intelligent sympathy and the desire to
awaken interest in noble pursuits existed at Athens in full force, and
created a field for its exercise. Wilhelm von Humboldt has observed
that at this time chivalrous love was kept alive by customs which, to
us, are intensely repellent. That so valuable a sentiment should be
preserved and diverted into a more legitimate channel was an object
of the highest importance. The naturalistic method of ethics did
much, but it could not do all, for more was required than a return to
primitive simplicity. Here the method of mind stepped in and supplied
the deficiency. Reciprocity was the soul of dialectic as practised by
Socrates, and the dialectic of love demands a reciprocity of passion
which can only exist between the sexes. But in a society where the free
intercourse of modern Europe was not permitted, the modern sentiment
could not be reached at a single bound; and those who sought for the
conversation of intelligent women had to seek for it among a class of
which Aspasia was the highest representative. Such women played a great
part in later Athenian society; they attended philosophical lectures,
furnished heroines to the New Comedy, and on the whole gave a healthier
tone to literature. Their successors, the Delias and Cynthias of Roman
elegiac poetry, called forth strains of exalted affection which need
nothing but a worthier object to place them on a level with the noblest
expressions of tenderness that have since been heard. Here at least,
to understand is to forgive; and we shall be less scandalised than
certain critics,[105] we shall even refuse to admit that Socrates fell
below the dignity of a moralist, when we hear that he once visited a
celebrated beauty of this class, Theodotê by name;[106] that he engaged
her in a playful conversation; and that he taught her to put more mind
into her profession; to attract by something deeper than personal
charms; to show at least an appearance of interest in the welfare
of her lovers; and to stimulate their ardour by a studied reserve,
granting no favour that had not been repeatedly and passionately sought
after.

Xenophon gives the same interest a more edifying direction when he
enlivens the dry details of his _Cyropaedia_ with touching episodes
of conjugal affection, or presents lessons in domestic economy under
the form of conversations between a newly-married couple.[107] Plato
in some respects transcends, in others falls short of his less gifted
contemporary. For his doctrine of love as an educating process—a true
doctrine, all sneers and perversions notwithstanding—though readily
applicable to the relation of the sexes, is not applied to it by
him; and his project of a common training for men and women, though
suggestive of a great advance on the existing system if rightly carried
out, was, from his point of view, a retrograde step towards savage or
even animal life, an attempt to throw half the burdens incident to a
military organisation of society on those who had become absolutely
incapable of bearing them.

Fortunately, the dialectic method proved stronger than its own
creators, and, once set going, introduced feelings and experiences
of which they had never dreamed, within the horizon of philosophic
consciousness. It was found that if women had much to learn, much
also might be learned from them. Their wishes could not be taken into
account without giving a greatly increased prominence in the guidance
of conduct to such sentiments as fidelity, purity, and pity; and to
that extent the religion which they helped to establish has, at least
in principle, left no room for any further progress. On the other hand,
it is only by reason that the more exclusively feminine impulses can
be freed from their primitive narrowness and elevated into truly human
emotions. Love, when left to itself, causes more pain than pleasure,
for the words of the old idyl still remain true which associate it with
jealousy as cruel as the grave; pity, without prevision, creates more
suffering than it relieves; and blind fidelity is instinctively opposed
even to the most beneficent changes. We are still suffering from the
excessive preponderance which Catholicism gave to the ideas of women;
but we need not listen to those who tell us that the varied experiences
of humanity cannot be organised into a rational, consistent,
self-supporting whole.

A survey of the Socratic philosophy would be incomplete without some
comment on an element in the life of Socrates, which at first sight
seems to lie altogether outside philosophy. There is no fact in his
history more certain than that he believed himself to be constantly
accompanied by a Daemonium, a divine voice often restraining him, even
in trifling matters, but never prompting to positive action. That
it was neither conscience in our sense of the word, nor a supposed
familiar spirit, is now generally admitted. Even those who believe in
the supernatural origin and authority of our moral feelings do not
credit them with a power of divining the accidentally good or evil
consequences which may attend on our most trivial and indifferent
actions; while, on the other hand, those feelings have a positive
no less than a negative function, which is exhibited whenever the
performance of good deeds becomes a duty. That the Daemonium was not
a personal attendant is proved by the invariable use of an indefinite
neuter adjective to designate it. How the phenomenon itself should be
explained is a question for professional pathologists. We have here to
account for the interpretation put upon it by Socrates, and this, in
our judgment, follows quite naturally from his characteristic mode of
thought. That the gods should signify their pleasure by visible signs
and public oracles was an experience familiar to every Greek. Socrates,
conceiving God as a mind diffused through the whole universe, would
look for traces of the Divine presence in his own mind, and would
readily interpret any inward suggestion, not otherwise to be accounted
for, as a manifestation of this all-pervading power. Why it should
invariably appear under the form of a restraint is less obvious. The
only explanation seems to be that, as a matter of fact, such mysterious
feelings, whether the product of unconscious experience or not, do
habitually operate as deterrents rather than as incentives.


VII.

This Daemonium, whatever it may have been, formed one of the ostensible
grounds on which its possessor was prosecuted and condemned to death
for impiety. We might have spared ourselves the trouble of going
over the circumstances connected with that tragical event, had not
various attempts been made in some well-known works to extenuate
the significance of a singularly atrocious crime. The case stands
thus. In the year 399 B.C. Socrates, who was then over seventy, and
had never in his life been brought before a law-court, was indicted
on the threefold charge of introducing new divinities, of denying
those already recognised by the State, and of corrupting young men.
His principal accuser was one Melêtus, a poet, supported by Lycon, a
rhetorician, and by a much more powerful backer, Anytus, a leading
citizen in the restored democracy. The charge was tried before a
large popular tribunal, numbering some five hundred members. Socrates
regarded the whole affair with profound indifference. When urged
to prepare a defence, he replied, with justice, that he had been
preparing it his whole life long. He could not, indeed, have easily
foreseen what line the prosecutors would take. Our own information
on this point is meagre enough, being principally derived from
allusions made by Xenophon, who was not himself present at the trial.
There seems, however, no unfairness in concluding that the charge of
irreligion neither was nor could be substantiated. The evidence of
Xenophon is quite sufficient to establish the unimpeachable orthodoxy
of his friend. If it really was an offence at Athens to believe in
gods unrecognised by the State, Socrates was not guilty of that
offence, for his Daemonium was not a new divinity, but a revelation
from the established divinities, such as individual believers have
at all times been permitted to receive even by the most jealous
religious communities. The imputation of infidelity, commonly and
indiscriminately brought against all philosophers, was a particularly
unhappy one to fling at the great opponent of physical science, who,
besides, was noted for the punctual discharge of his religious duties.
That the first two counts of the indictment should be so frivolous
raises a strong prejudice against the third. The charges of corruption
seem to have come under two heads—alleged encouragement of disrespect
to parents, and of disaffection towards democratic institutions. In
support of the former some innocent expressions let fall by Socrates
seem to have been taken up and cruelly perverted. By way of stimulating
his young friends to improve their minds, he had observed that
relations were only of value when they could help one another, and
that to do so they must be properly educated. This was twisted into
an assertion that ignorant parents might properly be placed under
restraint by their better-informed children. That such an inference
could not have been sanctioned by Socrates himself is obvious from
his insisting on the respect due even to so intolerable a mother as
Xanthippê.[108] The political opinions of the defendant presented a
more vulnerable point for attack. He thought the custom of choosing
magistrates by lot absurd, and did not conceal his contempt for it.
There is, however, no reason for believing that such purely theoretical
criticisms were forbidden by law or usage at Athens. At any rate,
much more revolutionary sentiments were tolerated on the stage. That
Socrates would be no party to a violent subversion of the Constitution,
and would regard it with high disapproval, was abundantly clear both
from his life and from the whole tenor of his teaching. In opposition
to Hippias, he defined justice as obedience to the law of the land.
The chances of the lot had, on one memorable occasion, called him to
preside over the deliberations of the Sovereign Assembly. A proposition
was made, contrary to law, that the generals who were accused of having
abandoned the crews of their sunken ships at Arginusae should be tried
in a single batch. In spite of tremendous popular clamour, Socrates
refused to put the question to the vote on the single day for which
his office lasted. The just and resolute man, who would not yield to
the unrighteous demands of a crowd, had shortly afterwards to face the
threats of a frowning tyrant. When the Thirty were installed in power,
he publicly, and at the risk of his life, expressed disapproval of
their sanguinary proceedings. The oligarchy, wishing to involve as many
respectable citizens as possible in complicity with their crimes, sent
for five persons, of whom Socrates was one, and ordered them to bring
a certain Leo from Salamis, that he might be put to death; the others
obeyed, but Socrates refused to accompany them on their disgraceful
errand. Nevertheless, it told heavily against the philosopher that
Alcibiades, the most mischievous of demagogues, and Critias, the most
savage of aristocrats, passed for having been educated by him. It was
remembered, also, that he was in the habit of quoting a passage from
Homer, where Odysseus is described as appealing to the reason of the
chiefs, while he brings inferior men to their senses with rough words
and rougher chastisement. In reality, Socrates did not mean that the
poor should be treated with brutality by the rich, for he would have
been the first to suffer had such license been permitted, but he
meant that where reason failed harsher methods of coercion must be
applied. Precisely because expressions of opinion let fall in private
conversation are so liable to be misunderstood or purposely perverted,
to adduce them in support of a capital charge where no overt act can
be alleged, is the most mischievous form of encroachment on individual
liberty.

Modern critics, beginning with Hegel,[109] have discovered reasons
for considering Socrates a dangerous character, which apparently did
not occur to Melêtus and his associates. We are told that the whole
system of applying dialectics to morality had an unsettling tendency,
for if men were once taught that the sacredness of duty rested on
their individual conviction they might refuse to be convinced, and act
accordingly. And it is further alleged that Socrates first introduced
this principle of subjectivity into morals. The persecuting spirit
is so insatiable that in default of acts it attacks opinions, and in
default of specific opinions it fastens on general tendencies. We
know that Joseph de Maistre was suspected by his ignorant neighbours
of being a Revolutionist because most of his time was spent in study;
and but the other day a French preacher was sent into exile by his
ecclesiastical superiors for daring to support Catholic morality on
rational grounds.[110] Fortunately Greek society was not subject to
the rules of the Dominican Order. Never anywhere in Greece, certainly
not at Athens, did there exist that solid, all-comprehensive,
unquestionable fabric of traditional obligation assumed by Hegel; and
Zeller is conceding far too much when he defends Socrates, on the sole
ground that the recognised standards of right had fallen into universal
contempt during the Peloponnesian war, while admitting that he might
fairly have been silenced at an earlier period, if indeed his teaching
could have been conceived as possible before it actually began.[111]
For from the first, both in literature and in life, Greek thought
is distinguished by an ardent desire to get to the bottom of every
question, and to discover arguments of universal applicability for
every decision. Even in the youth of Pericles knotty ethical problems
were eagerly discussed without any interference on the part of the
public authorities. Experience had to prove how far-reaching was the
effect of ideas before a systematic attempt could be made to control
them.

In what terms Socrates replied to his accusers cannot be stated with
absolute certainty. Reasons have been already given for believing that
the speech put into his mouth by Plato is not entirely historical;
and here we may mention as a further reason that the specific charges
mentioned by Xenophon are not even alluded to in it. This much,
however, is clear, that the defence was of a thoroughly dignified
character; and that, while the allegations of the prosecution were
successfully rebutted, the defendant stood entirely on his innocence,
and refused to make any of the customary but illegal appeals to the
compassion of the court. We are assured that he was condemned solely on
account of this defiant attitude, and by a very small majority. Melêtus
had demanded the penalty of death, but by Attic law Socrates had the
right of proposing some milder sentence as an alternative. According
to Plato, he began by stating that the justest return for his entire
devotion to the public good would be maintenance at the public expense
during the remainder of his life, an honour usually granted to victors
at the Olympic games. In default of this he proposed a fine of thirty
minae, to be raised by contributions among his friends. According to
another account,[112] he refused, on the ground of his innocence,
to name any alternative penalty. On a second division Socrates was
condemned to death by a much larger majority than that which had found
him guilty, eighty of those who had voted for his acquittal now voting
for his execution.

Such was the transaction which some moderns, Grote among the number,
holding Socrates to be one of the best and wisest of men, have
endeavoured to excuse. Their argument is that the illustrious victim
was jointly responsible for his own fate, and that he was really
condemned, not for his teaching, but for contempt of court. To us it
seems that this is a distinction without a difference. What has been
so finely said of space and time may be said also of the Socratic
life and the Socratic doctrine; each was contained entire in every
point of the other. Such as he appeared to the Dicastery, such also he
appeared everywhere, always, and to all men, offering them the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If conduct like his was
not permissible in a court of law, then it was not permissible at all;
if justice could not be administered without reticences, evasions, and
disguises, where was sincerity ever to be practised? If reason was not
to be the paramount arbitress in questions of public interest, what
issues could ever be entrusted to her decision? Admit every extenuating
circumstance that the utmost ingenuity can devise, and from every point
of view one fact will come out clearly, that Socrates was impeached as
a philosopher, that he defended himself like a philosopher, and that
he was condemned to death because he was a philosopher. Those who
attempt to remove this stain from the character of the Athenian people
will find that, like the blood-stain on Bluebeard’s key, when it is
rubbed out on one side it reappears on the other. To punish Socrates
for his teaching, or for the way in which he defended his teaching, was
equally persecution, and persecution of the worst description, that
which attacks not the results of free thought but free thought itself.
We cannot then agree with Grote when he says that the condemnation
of Socrates ‘ought to count as one of the least gloomy items in an
essentially gloomy catalogue.’ On the contrary, it is the gloomiest of
any, because it reveals a depth of hatred for pure reason in vulgar
minds which might otherwise have remained unsuspected. There is some
excuse for other persecutors, for Caiaphas, and St. Dominic, and
Calvin: for the Inquisition, and for the authors of the dragonnades;
for the judges of Giordano Bruno, and the judges of Vanini: they were
striving to exterminate particular opinions, which they believed to be
both false and pernicious; there is no such excuse for the Athenian
dicasts, least of all for those eighty who, having pronounced Socrates
innocent, sentenced him to death because he reasserted his innocence;
if, indeed, innocence be not too weak a word to describe his life-long
battle against that very irreligion and corruption which were laid to
his charge. Here, in this one cause, the great central issue between
two abstract principles, the principle of authority and the principle
of reason, was cleared from all adventitious circumstances, and
disputed on its own intrinsic merits with the usual weapons of argument
on the one side and brute force on the other. On that issue Socrates
was finally condemned, and on it his judges must be condemned by us.

Neither can we admit Grote’s further contention, that in no Greek
city but Athens would Socrates have been permitted to carry on his
cross-examining activity for so long a period. On the contrary, we
agree with Colonel Mure,[113] that in no other state would he have been
molested. Xenophanes and Parmenides, Heracleitus and Democritus, had
given utterance to far bolder opinions than his, opinions radically
destructive of Greek religion, apparently without running the slightest
personal risk; while Athens had more than once before shown the same
spirit of fanatical intolerance, though without proceeding to such a
fatal extreme, thanks, probably, to the timely escape of her intended
victims. M. Ernest Renan has quite recently contrasted the freedom of
thought accorded by Roman despotism with the narrowness of old Greek
Republicanism, quoting what he calls the Athenian Inquisition as a
sample of the latter. The word inquisition is not too strong, only
the lecturer should not have led his audience to believe that Greek
Republicanism was in this respect fairly represented by its most
brilliant type, for had such been the case very little free thought
would have been left for Rome to tolerate.

During the month’s respite accidentally allowed him, Socrates had one
more opportunity of displaying that stedfast obedience to the law
which had been one of his great guiding principles through life. The
means of escaping from prison were offered to him, but he refused to
avail himself of them, according to Plato, that the implicit contract
of loyalty to which his citizenship had bound him might be preserved
unbroken. Nor was death unwelcome to him although it is not true that
he courted it, any desire to figure as a martyr being quite alien from
the noble simplicity of his character. But he had reached an age when
the daily growth in wisdom which for him alone made life worth living,
seemed likely to be exchanged for a gradual and melancholy decline.
That this past progress was a good in itself he never doubted, whether
it was to be continued in other worlds, or succeeded by the happiness
of an eternal sleep. And we may be sure that he would have held his
own highest good to be equally desirable for the whole human race, even
with the clear prevision that its collective aspirations and efforts
cannot be prolonged for ever.

Two philosophers only can be named who, in modern times, have rivalled
or approached the moral dignity of Socrates. Like him, Spinoza
realised his own ideal of a good and happy life. Like him, Giordano
Bruno, without a hope of future recompense, chose death rather than a
life unfaithful to the highest truth, and death, too, under its most
terrible form, not the painless extinction by hemlock inflicted in a
heathen city, but the agonising dissolution intended by Catholic love
to serve as a foretaste of everlasting fire. Yet with neither can the
parallel be extended further; for Spinoza, wisely perhaps, refused
to face the storms which a public profession and propagation of his
doctrine would have raised; and the wayward career of Giordano Bruno
was not in keeping with its heroic end. The complex and distracting
conditions in which their lot was cast did not permit them to attain
that statuesque completeness which marked the classic age of Greek life
and thought. Those times developed a wilder energy, a more stubborn
endurance, a sweeter purity than any that the ancient world had known.
But until the scattered elements are recombined in a still loftier
harmony, our sleepless thirst for perfection can be satisfied at one
spring alone. Pericles must remain the ideal of statesmanship, Pheidias
of artistic production, and Socrates of philosophic power.

Before the ideas which we have passed in review could go forth on their
world-conquering mission, it was necessary, not only that Socrates
should die, but that his philosophy should die also, by being absorbed
into the more splendid generalisations of Plato’s system. That system
has, for some time past, been made an object of close study in our
most famous seats of learning, and a certain acquaintance with it has
almost become part of a liberal education in England. No better source
of inspiration, combined with discipline, could be found; but we shall
understand and appreciate Plato still better by first extricating
the nucleus round which his speculations have gathered in successive
deposits, and this we can only do with the help of Xenophon, whose
little work also well deserves attention for the sake of its own chaste
and candid beauty. The relation in which it stands to the Platonic
writings may be symbolised by an example familiar to the experience
of every traveller. As sometimes, in visiting a Gothic cathedral, we
are led through the wonders of the more modern edifice—under soaring
arches, over tesselated pavements, and between long rows of clustered
columns, past frescoed walls, storied windows, carven pulpits,
and sepulchral monuments, with their endless wealth of mythologic
imagery—down into the oldest portion of any, the bare stern crypt,
severe with the simplicity of early art, resting on pillars taken from
an ancient temple, and enclosing the tomb of some martyred saint, to
whose glorified spirit an office of perpetual intercession before
the mercy-seat is assigned, and in whose honour all that external
magnificence has been piled up; so also we pass through the manifold
and marvellous constructions of Plato’s imagination to that austere
memorial where Xenophon has enshrined with pious care, under the great
primary divisions of old Hellenic virtue, an authentic reliquary of
one standing foremost among those who, having worked out their own
deliverance from the powers of error and evil, would not be saved
alone, but published the secret of redemption though death were the
penalty of its disclosure; and who, by their transmitted influence,
even more than by their eternal example, are still contributing to the
progressive development of all that is most rational, most consistent,
most social, and therefore most truly human in ourselves.

FOOTNOTES:

[80] Cf. Havet, _Le Christianisme et ses Origines_, I., 167.

[81] _Gesch. d. Phil._, II., 47.

[82] The oracle quoted in the _Apologia Socratis_ attributed to
Xenophon praises Socrates not for wisdom but for independence, justice,
and temperance. Moreover, the work in question is held to be spurious
by nearly every critic.

[83] _Mem._, IV., vi., 1.

[84] _Mem._, IV., iv., 10.

[85] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, II., a, 103, note 3 _sub fin._

[86] It may possibly be asked, Why, if Plato gave only an ideal picture
of Socrates, are we to accept his versions of the Sophistic teaching
as literally exact? The answer is that he was compelled, by the nature
of the case, to create an imaginary Socrates, while he could have no
conceivable object in ascribing views which he did not himself hold
to well-known historical personages. Assuming an unlimited right of
making fictitious statements for the public good, his principles would
surely not have permitted him wantonly to calumniate his innocent
contemporaries by foisting on them odious theories for which they were
not responsible. Had nobody held such opinions as those attributed
to Thrasymachus in the _Republic_ there would have been no object
in attacking them; and if anybody held them, why not Thrasymachus
as well as another? With regard to the veracity of the _Apologia_,
Grote, in his work on Plato (I. 291), quotes a passage from Aristeides
the rhetor, stating that all the companions of Socrates agreed about
the Delphic oracle, and the Socratic disclaimer of knowledge. This,
however, proves too much, for it shows that Aristeides quite overlooked
the absence of any reference to either point in Xenophon, and therefore
cannot be trusted to give an accurate report of the other authorities.

[87] _Ph. d. Gr._, II., a, 93 ff.

[88] In the conversation with Hippias already referred to.

[89] _Mem._, III., ix., 4.

[90] _Mem._, III., vi.

[91] _Mem._, IV., ii.

[92] _Mem._, IV., iii.

[93] _Mem._, III., ix., 10.

[94] _Mem._, IV., vi., 14.

[95] Xenophon, _Mem._, III., vii. We may incidentally notice that this
passage is well worth the attention of those who look on the Athenian
Dêmos as an idle and aristocratic body, supported by slave labour.

[96] _Metaph._, XIII., iv.

[97] _Mem._, I., iv.

[98] ‘Il sait que, dans l’intérêt même du bien, il ne faut pas imposer
le bien d’une manière trop absolue, le jeu libre de la liberté étant
la condition de la vie humaine.... poursuite en toutes choses du bien
public, non des applaudissements.’—Renan, _Marc-Aurèle_, pp. 18, 19.

[99] _Il._, IX., 337.

[100] _Ib._, XXI., 106.

[101] In the preface to the _Data of Ethics_.

[102] _Mem._, III., x.

[103] Curtius, _Griechische Geschichte_, III., 526-30 (3rd ed.), where,
however, the revolution in art is attributed to the influence of the
Sophists.

[104] Xenoph., _Oeconom._, iii., 12.

[105] Mure, _History of Grecian Literature_, IV., 451.

[106] _Mem._, III., xi.

[107] _Oeconom._, vii., 4 ff.

[108] _Mem._, II., i.

[109] _Gesch. d. Ph._, II., 100 ff.

[110] Written in the spring of 1880. The allusion is to Father Didon,
who was at that time rusticated in Corsica.

[111] _Ph. d. Gr._, II., a, 192.

[112] In the _Apologia_, attributed to Xenophon.

[113] _Hist. of Gr. Lit._, IV., App. A.




CHAPTER IV.

PLATO: HIS TEACHERS AND HIS TIMES.


I.

In studying the growth of philosophy as an historical evolution,
repetitions and anticipations must necessarily be of frequent
occurrence. Ideas meet us at every step which can only be appreciated
when we trace out their later developments, or only understood when
we refer them back to earlier and half-forgotten modes of thought.
The speculative tissue is woven out of filaments so delicate and so
complicated that it is almost impossible to say where one begins and
the other ends. Even conceptions which seem to have been transmitted
without alteration are constantly acquiring a new value according
to the connexions into which they enter or the circumstances to
which they are applied. But if the method of evolution, with its two
great principles of continuity and relativity, substitutes a maze
of intricate lines, often returning on themselves, for the straight
path along which progress was once supposed to move, we are more
than compensated by the new sense of coherence and rationality where
illusion and extravagance once seemed to reign supreme. It teaches us
that the dreams of a great intellect may be better worth our attention
than the waking perceptions of ordinary men. Combining fragments of
the old order with rudimentary outlines of the new, they lay open the
secret laboratory of spiritual chemistry, and help to bridge over the
interval separating the most widely contrasted phases of life and
thought. Moreover, when we have once accustomed ourselves to break up
past systems of philosophy into their component elements, when we see
how heterogeneous and ill-cemented were the parts of this and that
proud edifice once offered as the only possible shelter against dangers
threatening the very existence of civilisation—we shall be prepared
for the application of a similar method to contemporary systems of
equally ambitious pretensions; distinguishing that which is vital,
fruitful, original, and progressive in their ideal synthesis from
that which is of merely provisional and temporary value, when it is
not the literary resuscitation of a dead past, visionary, retrograde,
and mischievously wrong. And we shall also be reminded that the most
precious ideas have only been shaped, preserved, and transmitted
through association with earthy and perishable ingredients. The
function of true criticism is, like Robert Browning’s Roman jeweller,
to turn on them ‘the proper fiery acid’ of purifying analysis which
dissolves away the inferior metal and leaves behind the gold ring
whereby thought and action are inseparably and fruitfully united.

Such, as it seems to us, is the proper spirit in which we should
approach the great thinker whose works are to occupy us in this and
the succeeding chapter. No philosopher has ever offered so extended
and vulnerable a front to hostile criticism. None has so habitually
provoked reprisals by his own incessant and searching attacks on
all existing professions, customs, and beliefs. It might even be
maintained that none has used the weapons of controversy with more
unscrupulous zeal. And it might be added that he who dwells so much on
the importance of consistency has occasionally denounced and ridiculed
the very principles which he elsewhere upholds as demonstrated truths.
It was an easy matter for others to complete the work of destruction
which he had begun. His system seems at first sight to be made up of
assertions, one more outrageous than another. The ascription of an
objective concrete separate reality to verbal abstractions is assuredly
the most astounding paradox ever maintained even by a metaphysician.
Yet this is the central article of Plato’s creed. That body is
essentially different from extension might, one would suppose, have
been sufficiently clear to a mathematician who had the advantage of
coming after Leucippus and Democritus. Their identity is implicitly
affirmed in the _Timaeus_. That the soul cannot be both created and
eternal; that the doctrine of metempsychosis is incompatible with the
hereditary transmission of mental qualities; that a future immortality
equivalent to, and proved by the same arguments as, our antenatal
existence, would be neither a terror to the guilty nor a consolation
to the righteous:—are propositions implicitly denied by Plato’s
psychology. Passing from theoretical to practical philosophy, it
might be observed that respect for human life, respect for individual
property, respect for marriage, and respect for truthfulness, are
generally numbered among the strongest moral obligations, and those
the observance of which most completely distinguishes civilised
from savage man; while infanticide, communism, promiscuity, and the
occasional employment of deliberate deceit, form part of Plato’s scheme
for the redemption of mankind. We need not do more than allude to
those Dialogues where the phases and symptoms of unnameable passion
are delineated with matchless eloquence, and apparently with at least
as much sympathy as censure. Finally, from the standpoint of modern
science, it might be urged that Plato used all his powerful influence
to throw back physical speculation into the theological stage; that he
deliberately discredited the doctrine of mechanical causation which,
for us, is the most important achievement of early Greek thought; that
he expatiated on the criminal folly of those who held the heavenly
bodies to be, what we now know them to be, masses of dead matter with
no special divinity about them; and that he proposed to punish this
and other heresies with a severity distinguishable from the fitful
fanaticism of his native city only by its more disciplined and rigorous
application.

A plain man might find it difficult to understand how such
extravagances could be deliberately propounded by the greatest
intellect that Athens ever produced, except on the principle, dear to
mediocrity, that genius is but little removed from madness, and that
philosophical genius resembles it more nearly than any other. And his
surprise would become much greater on learning that the best and wisest
men of all ages have looked up with reverence to Plato; that thinkers
of the most opposite schools have resorted to him for instruction and
stimulation; that his writings have never been more attentively studied
than in our own age—an age which has witnessed the destruction of so
many illusive reputations; and that the foremost of English educators
has used all his influence to promote the better understanding and
appreciation of Plato as a prime element in academic culture—an
influence now extended far beyond the limits of his own university
through that translation of the Platonic Dialogues which is too well
known to need any commendation on our part, but which we may mention as
one of the principal authorities used for the present study, together
with the work of a German scholar, his obligations to whom Prof. Jowett
has acknowledged with characteristic grace.[114]

As a set-off against the list of paradoxes cited from Plato, it would
be easy to quote a still longer list of brilliant contributions to
the cause of truth and right, to strike a balance between the two,
and to show that there was a preponderance on the positive side
sufficiently great to justify the favourable verdict of posterity.
We believe, however, that such a method would be as misleading as
it is superficial. Neither Plato nor any other thinker of the same
calibre—if any other there be—should be estimated by a simple
analysis of his opinions. We must go back to the underlying forces
of which individual opinions are the resultant and the revelation.
Every systematic synthesis represents certain profound intellectual
tendencies, derived partly from previous philosophies, partly from the
social environment, partly from the thinker’s own genius and character.
Each of such tendencies may be salutary and necessary, according to the
conditions under which it comes into play, and yet two or more of them
may form a highly unstable and explosive compound. Nevertheless, it is
in speculative combinations that they are preserved and developed with
the greatest distinctness, and it is there that we must seek for them
if we would understand the psychological history of our race. And this
is why we began by intimating that the lines of our investigation may
take us back over ground which has been already traversed, and forward
into regions which cannot at present be completely surveyed.

We have this great advantage in dealing with Plato—that his
philosophical writings have come down to us entire, while the thinkers
who preceded him are known only through fragments and second-hand
reports. Nor is the difference merely accidental. Plato was the creator
of speculative literature, properly so called: he was the first and
also the greatest artist that ever clothed abstract thought in language
of appropriate majesty and splendour; and it is probably to their
beauty of form that we owe the preservation of his writings. Rather
unfortunately, however, along with the genuine works of the master, a
certain number of pieces have been handed down to us under his name, of
which some are almost universally admitted to be spurious, while the
authenticity of others is a question on which the best scholars are
still divided. In the absence of any very cogent external evidence,
an immense amount of industry and learning has been expended on this
subject, and the arguments employed on both sides sometimes make
us doubt whether the reasoning powers of philologists are better
developed than, according to Plato, were those of mathematicians
in his time. The two extreme positions are occupied by Grote, who
accepts the whole Alexandrian canon, and Krohn, who admits nothing
but the _Republic_;[115] while much more serious critics, such as
Schaarschmidt, reject along with a mass of worthless compositions
several Dialogues almost equal in interest and importance to those
whose authenticity has never been doubted. The great historian
of Greece seems to have been rather undiscriminating both in his
scepticism and in his belief; and the exclusive importance which he
attributed to contemporary testimony, or to what passed for such
with him, may have unduly biassed his judgment in both directions.
As it happens, the authority of the canon is much weaker than Grote
imagined; but even granting his extreme contention, our view of
Plato’s philosophy would not be seriously affected by it, for the
pieces which are rejected by all other critics have no speculative
importance whatever. The case would be far different were we to
agree with those who impugn the genuineness of the _Parmenides_, the
_Sophist_, the _Statesman_, the _Philêbus_, and the _Laws_; for these
compositions mark a new departure in Platonism amounting to a complete
transformation of its fundamental principles, which indeed is one of
the reasons why their authenticity has been denied. Apart, however,
from the numerous evidences of Platonic authorship furnished by the
Dialogues themselves, as well as by the indirect references to them
in Aristotle’s writings, it seems utterly incredible that a thinker
scarcely, if at all, inferior to the master himself—as the supposed
imitator must assuredly have been—should have consented to let his
reasonings pass current under a false name, and that, too, the name of
one whose teaching he in some respects controverted; while there is a
further difficulty in assuming that his existence could pass unnoticed
at a period marked by intense literary and philosophical activity.
Readers who wish for fuller information on the subject will find in
Zeller’s pages a careful and lucid digest of the whole controversy
leading to a moderately conservative conclusion. Others will doubtless
be content to accept Prof. Jowett’s verdict, that ‘on the whole not
a sixteenth part of the writings which pass under the name of Plato,
if we exclude the works rejected by the ancients themselves, can be
fairly doubted by those who are willing to allow that a considerable
change and growth may have taken place in his philosophy.’[116] To
which we may add that the Platonic dialogues, whether the work of one
or more hands, and however widely differing among themselves, together
represent a single phase of thought, and are appropriately studied as a
connected series.

We have assumed in our last remark that it is possible to discover some
sort of chronological order in the Platonic Dialogues, and to trace a
certain progressive modification in the general tenor of their teaching
from first to last. But here also the positive evidence is very scanty,
and a variety of conflicting theories have been propounded by eminent
scholars. Where so much is left to conjecture, the best that can be
said for any hypothesis is that it explains the facts according to
known laws of thought. It will be for the reader to judge whether our
own attempt to trace the gradual evolution of Plato’s system satisfies
this condition. In making it we shall take as a basis the arrangement
adopted by Prof. Jowett, with some reservations hereafter to be
specified.

Before entering on our task, one more difficulty remains to be noticed.
Plato, although the greatest master of prose composition that ever
lived, and for his time a remarkably voluminous author, cherished a
strong dislike for books, and even affected to regret that the art of
writing had ever been invented. A man, he said, might amuse himself
by putting down his ideas on paper, and might even find written
memoranda useful for private reference, but the only instruction
worth speaking of was conveyed by oral communication, which made it
possible for objections unforeseen by the teacher to be freely urged
and answered.[117] Such had been the method of Socrates, and such was
doubtless the practice of Plato himself whenever it was possible for
him to set forth his philosophy by word of mouth. It has been supposed,
for this reason, that the great writer did not take his own books in
earnest, and wished them to be regarded as no more than the elegant
recreations of a leisure hour, while his deeper and more serious
thoughts were reserved for lectures and conversations, of which,
beyond a few allusions in Aristotle, every record has perished. That
such, however, was not the case, may be easily shown. In the first
place it is evident, from the extreme pains taken by Plato to throw
his philosophical expositions into conversational form, that he did
not despair of providing a literary substitute for spoken dialogue.
Secondly, it is a strong confirmation of this theory that Aristotle,
a personal friend and pupil of Plato during many years, should so
frequently refer to the Dialogues as authoritative evidences of his
master’s opinions on the most important topics. And, lastly, if it
can be shown that the documents in question do actually embody a
comprehensive and connected view of life and of the world, we shall
feel satisfied that the oral teaching of Plato, had it been preserved,
would not modify in any material degree the impression conveyed by his
written compositions.


II.

There is a story that Plato used to thank the gods, in what some might
consider a rather Pharisaic spirit, for having made him a human being
instead of a brute, a man instead of a woman, and a Greek instead
of a barbarian; but more than anything else for having permitted
him to be born in the time of Socrates. It will be observed that all
these blessings tended in one direction, the complete supremacy in
his character of reason over impulse and sense. To assert, extend,
and organise that supremacy was the object of his whole life. Such,
indeed, had been the object of all his predecessors, and such, stated
generally, has been always and everywhere the object of philosophy;
but none had pursued it so consciously before, and none has proclaimed
it so enthusiastically since then. Now, although Plato could not have
done this without a far wider range of knowledge and experience than
Socrates had possessed, it was only by virtue of the Socratic method
that his other gifts and acquisitions could be turned to complete
account; while, conversely, it was only when brought to bear upon
these new materials that the full power of the method itself could be
revealed. To be continually asking and answering questions; to elicit
information from everybody on every subject worth knowing; and to
elaborate the resulting mass of intellectual material into the most
convenient form for practical application or for further transmission,
was the secret of true wisdom with the sage of the market-place and
the workshop. But the process of dialectic investigation as an end in
itself, the intense personal interest of conversation with living men
and women of all classes, the impatience for immediate and visible
results, had gradually induced Socrates to restrict within far too
narrow limits the sources whence his ideas were derived and the
purposes to which they were applied. And the dialectic method itself
could not but be checked in its internal development by this want of
breadth and variety in the topics submitted to its grasp. Therefore the
death of Socrates, however lamentable in its occasion, was an unmixed
benefit to the cause for which he laboured, by arresting (as we must
suppose it to have arrested) the popular and indiscriminate employment
of his cross-examining method, liberating his ablest disciple from
the ascendency of a revered master, and inducing him to reconsider
the whole question of human knowledge and action from a remoter point
of view. For, be it observed that Plato did not begin where Socrates
had left off; he went back to the germinal point of the whole system,
and proceeded to reconstruct it on new lines of his own. The loss of
those whom we love habitually leads our thoughts back to the time of
our first acquaintance with them, or, if these are ascertainable, to
the circumstances of their early life. In this manner Plato seems to
have been at first occupied exclusively with the starting-point of
his friend’s philosophy, and we know, from the narrative given in the
_Apologia_, under what form he came to conceive it. We have attempted
to show that the account alluded to cannot be entirely historical.
Nevertheless it seems sufficiently clear that Socrates began with a
conviction of his own ignorance, and that his efforts to improve others
were prefaced by the extraction of a similar confession of ignorance on
their part. It is also certain that through life he regarded the causes
of physical phenomena as placed beyond the reach of human reason and
reserved by the gods for their own exclusive cognisance, pointing, by
way of proof, to the notorious differences of opinion prevalent among
those who had meddled with such matters. Thus, his scepticism worked
in two directions, but on the one side it was only provisional and
on the other it was only partial. Plato began by combining the two.
He maintained that human nescience is universal and necessary; that
the gods had reserved all knowledge for themselves; and that the only
wisdom left for men is a consciousness of their absolute ignorance. The
Socratic starting-point gave the centre of his agnostic circle; the
Socratic theology gave the distance at which it was described. Here we
have to note two things—first, the breadth of generalisation which
distinguishes the disciple from the master; and, secondly, the symptoms
of a strong religious reaction against Greek humanism. Even before the
end of the Peloponnesian War, evidence of this reaction had appeared,
and the _Bacchae_ of Euripides bears striking testimony to its gloomy
and fanatical character. The last agony of Athens, the collapse of
her power, and the subsequent period of oligarchic terrorism, must
have given a stimulus to superstition like that which quite recently
afflicted France with an epidemic of apparitions and pilgrimages almost
too childish for belief. Plato followed the general movement, although
on a much higher plane. While looking down with undisguised contempt
on the immoral idolatry of his countrymen, he was equally opposed
to the irreligion of the New Learning, and, had an opportunity been
given him, he would, like the Reformers of the sixteenth century, have
put down both with impartial severity. Nor was this the only analogy
between his position and that of a Luther or a Calvin. Like them, and
indeed like all great religious teachers, he exalted the Creator by
enlarging on the nothingness of the creature; just as Christianity
exhibits the holiness of God in contrast and correlation with the
sinfulness of unregenerate hearts; just as to Pindar man’s life seemed
but the fleeting shadow in a dream when compared with the beauty and
strength and immortality of the Olympian divinities; so also did Plato
deepen the gloom of human ignorance that he might bring out in dazzling
relief the fulness of that knowledge which he had been taught to prize
as a supreme ideal, but which, for that very reason, seemed proper to
the highest existences alone. And we shall presently see how Plato
also discovered a principle in man by virtue of which he could claim
kindred with the supernatural, and elaborated a scheme of intellectual
mediation by which the fallen spirit could be regenerated and made a
partaker in the kingdom of speculative truth.

Yet if Plato’s theology, from its predominantly rational character,
seemed to neglect some feelings which were better satisfied by the
earlier or the later faiths of mankind, we cannot say that it really
excluded them. The unfading strength of the old gods was comprehended
in the self-existence of absolute ideas, and moral goodness was
only a particular application of reason to the conduct of life. An
emotional or imaginative element was also contributed by the theory
that every faculty exercised without a reasoned consciousness of its
processes and aims was due to some saving grace and inspiration from
a superhuman power. It was thus, according to Plato, that poets and
artists were able to produce works of which they were not able to
render an intelligent account; and it was thus that society continued
to hold together with such an exceedingly small amount of wisdom and
virtue. Here, however, we have to observe a marked difference between
the religious teachers pure and simple, and the Greek philosopher
who was a dialectician even more than he was a divine. For Plato
held that providential government was merely provisional; that the
inspired prophet stood on a distinctly lower level than the critical,
self-conscious thinker; that ratiocination and not poetry was the
highest function of mind; and that action should be reorganised in
accordance with demonstrably certain principles.[118]

This search after a scientific basis for conduct was quite in the
spirit of Socrates, but Plato seems to have set very little value on
his master’s positive contributions to the systematisation of life.
We have seen that the _Apologia_ is purely sceptical in its tendency;
and we find a whole group of Dialogues, probably the earliest of
Plato’s compositions, marked by the same negative, inconclusive tone.
These are commonly spoken of as Socratic, and so no doubt they are in
reference to the subjects discussed; but they would be more accurately
described as an attempt to turn the Socratic method against its first
originator. We know from another source that temperance, fortitude,
and piety were the chief virtues inculcated and practised by Socrates;
while friendship, if not strictly speaking a virtue, was equally with
them one of his prime interests in life. It is clear that he considered
them the most appropriate and remunerative subjects of philosophical
discussion; that he could define their nature to his own satisfaction;
and that he had, in fact, defined them as so many varieties of wisdom.
Now, Plato has devoted a separate Dialogue to each of the conceptions
in question,[119] and in each instance he represents Socrates, who is
the principal spokesman, as professedly ignorant of the whole subject
under discussion, offering no definition of his own (or at least none
that he will stand by), but asking his interlocutors for theirs, and
pulling it to pieces when it is given. We do, indeed, find a tendency
to resolve the virtues into knowledge, and, so far, either to identify
them with one another, or to carry them up into the unity of a higher
idea. To this extent Plato follows in the footsteps of his master,
but a result which had completely satisfied Socrates became the
starting-point of a new investigation with his successor. If virtue is
knowledge, it must be knowledge of what we most desire—of the good.
Thus the original difficulty returns under another form, or rather
we have merely restated it in different terms. For, to ask what is
temperance or fortitude, is equivalent to asking what is its use. And
this was so obvious to Socrates, that, apparently, he never thought
of distinguishing between the two questions. But no sooner were they
distinguished than his reduction of all morality to a single principle
was shown to be illusive. For each specific virtue had been substituted
the knowledge of a specific utility, and that was all. Unless the
highest good were one, the means by which it was sought could not
converge to a single point; nor, according to the new ideas, could
their mastery come under the jurisdiction of a single art.

We may also suspect that Plato was dissatisfied not only with the
positive results obtained by Socrates, but also with the Socratic
method of constructing general definitions. To rise from the part to
the whole, from particular instances to general notions, was a popular
rather than a scientific process; and sometimes it only amounted
to taking the current explanations and modifying them to suit the
exigencies of ordinary experience. The resulting definitions could
never be more than tentative, and a skilful dialectician could always
upset them by producing an unlooked-for exception, or by discovering an
ambiguity in the terms by which they were conveyed.

Before ascertaining in what direction Plato sought for an outlet
from these accumulated difficulties, we have to glance at a Dialogue
belonging apparently to his earliest compositions, but in one respect
occupying a position apart from the rest. The _Crito_ tells us for
what reasons Socrates refused to escape from the fate which awaited
him in prison, as, with the assistance of generous friends, he might
easily have done. The aged philosopher considered that by adopting
such a course he would be setting the Athenian laws at defiance, and
doing what in him lay to destroy their validity. Now, we know that the
historical Socrates held justice to consist in obedience to the law
of the land; and here for once we find Plato agreeing with him on a
definite and positive issue. Such a sudden and singular abandonment
of the sceptical attitude merits our attention. It might, indeed, be
said that Plato’s inconsistencies defy all attempts at reconciliation,
and that in this instance the desire to set his maligned friend in a
favourable light triumphed over the claims of an impracticable logic.
We think, however, that a deeper and truer solution can be found. If
the _Crito_ inculcates obedience to the laws as a binding obligation,
it is not for the reasons which, according to Xenophon, were adduced
by the real Socrates in his dispute with the Sophist Hippias; general
utility and private interest were the sole grounds appealed to then.
Plato, on the other hand, ignores all such external considerations.
True to his usual method, he reduces the legal conscience to a purely
dialectical process. Just as in an argument the disputants are, or
ought to be, bound by their own admissions, so also the citizen
is bound by a tacit compact to fulfil the laws whose protection
he has enjoyed and of whose claims his protracted residence is an
acknowledgment. Here there is no need of a transcendent foundation for
morality, as none but logical considerations come into play. And it
also deserves to be noticed that, where this very idea of an obligation
based on acceptance of services had been employed by Socrates, it was
discarded by Plato. In the _Euthyphro_, a Dialogue devoted to the
discussion of piety, the theory that religion rests on an exchange of
good offices between gods and men is mentioned only to be scornfully
rejected. Equally remarkable, and equally in advance of the Socratic
standpoint, is a principle enunciated in the _Crito_, that retaliation
is wrong, and that evil should never be returned for evil.[120] And
both are distinct anticipations of the earliest Christian teaching,
though both are implicitly contradicted by the so-called religious
services celebrated in Christian churches and by the doctrine of
a divine retribution which is only not retaliatory because it is
infinitely in excess of the provocation received.

If the earliest of Plato’s enquiries, while they deal with the same
subjects and are conducted on the same method as those cultivated by
Socrates, evince a breadth of view surpassing anything recorded of him
by Xenophon, they also exhibit traces of an influence disconnected with
and inferior in value to his. On more than one occasion[121] Plato
reasons, or rather quibbles, in a style which he has elsewhere held up
to ridicule as characteristic of the Sophists, with such success that
the name of sophistry has clung to it ever since. Indeed, some of the
verbal fallacies employed are so transparent that we can hardly suppose
them to be unintentional, and we are forced to conclude that the young
despiser of human wisdom was resolved to maintain his thesis with any
weapons, good or bad, which came to hand. And it seems much more likely
that he learned the eristic art from Protagoras or from his disciples
than from Socrates. Plato spent a large part of his life in opposing
the Sophists—that is to say, the paid professors of wisdom and virtue;
but in spite of, or rather perhaps because of, this very opposition,
he was profoundly affected by their teaching and example. It is quite
conceivable, although we do not find it stated as a fact, that he
resorted to them for instruction when a young man, and before coming
under the influence of Socrates, an event which did not take place
until he was twenty years old; or he may have been directed to them by
Socrates himself. With all its originality, his style bears traces of
a rhetorical training in the more elaborate passages, and the Sophists
were the only teachers of rhetoric then to be found. His habit of
clothing philosophical lessons in the form of a myth seems also to have
been borrowed from them. It would, therefore, not be surprising that he
should cultivate their argumentative legerdemain side by side with the
more strict and severe discipline of Socratic dialectics.

Plato does, no doubt, make it a charge against the Sophists that
their doctrines are not only false and immoral, but that they are
put together without any regard for logical coherence. It would
seem, however, that this style of attack belongs rather to the later
and constructive than to the earlier and receptive period of his
intellectual development. The original cause of his antagonism to the
professional teachers seems to have been their general pretensions to
knowledge, which, from the standpoint of universal scepticism, were,
of course, utterly illusive; together with a feeling of aristocratic
contempt for a calling in which considerations of pecuniary interest
were involved, heightened in this instance by a conviction that the
buyer received nothing better than a sham article in exchange for
his money. Here, again, a parallel suggests itself with the first
preaching of the Gospel. The attitude of Christ towards the scribes and
Pharisees, as also that of St. Paul towards Simon Magus, will help us
to understand how Plato, in another order of spiritual teaching, must
have regarded the hypocrisy of wisdom, the intrusion of fraudulent
traders into the temple of Delphic inspiration, and the sale of a
priceless blessing whose unlimited diffusion should have been its own
and only reward.

Yet throughout the philosophy of Plato we meet with a tendency to
ambiguous shiftings and reversions of which, here also, due account
must be taken. That curious blending of love and hate which forms the
subject of a mystical lyric in Mr. Browning’s _Pippa Passes_, is not
without its counterpart in purely rationalistic discussion. If Plato
used the Socratic method to dissolve away much that was untrue, because
incomplete, in Socratism, he used it also to absorb much that was
deserving of development in Sophisticism. If, in one sense, the latter
was a direct reversal of his master’s teaching, in another it served
as a sort of intermediary between that teaching and the unenlightened
consciousness of mankind. The shadow should not be confounded with the
substance, but it might show by contiguity, by resemblance, and by
contrast where the solid reality lay, what were its outlines, and how
its characteristic lights might best be viewed.

Such is the mild and conciliatory mode of treatment at first adopted
by Plato in dealing with the principal representative of the
Sophists—Protagoras. In the Dialogue which bears his name the famous
humanist is presented to us as a professor of popular unsystematised
morality, proving by a variety of practical arguments and ingenious
illustrations that virtue can be taught, and that the preservation
of social order depends upon the possibility of teaching it; but
unwilling to go along with the reasonings by which Socrates shows the
applicability of rigorously scientific principles to conduct. Plato
has here taken up one side of the Socratic ethics, and developed it
into a complete and self-consistent theory. The doctrine inculcated is
that form of utilitarianism to which Mr. Sidgwick has given the name of
egoistic hedonism. We are brought to admit that virtue is one because
the various virtues reduce themselves in the last analysis to prudence.
It is assumed that happiness, in the sense of pleasure and the absence
of pain, is the sole end of life. Duty is identified with interest.
Morality is a calculus for computing quantities of pleasure and pain,
and all virtuous action is a means for securing a maximum of the one
together with a minimum of the other. Ethical science is constituted;
it can be taught like mathematics; and so far the Sophists are right,
but they have arrived at the truth by a purely empirical process;
while Socrates, who professes to know nothing, by simply following the
dialectic impulse strikes out a generalisation which at once confirms
and explains their position; yet from self-sufficiency or prejudice
they refuse to agree with him in taking their stand on its only logical
foundation.

That Plato put forward the ethical theory of the Protagoras in perfect
good faith cannot, we think, be doubted; although in other writings
he has repudiated hedonism with contemptuous aversion; and it seems
equally evident that this was his earliest contribution to positive
thought. Of all his theories it is the simplest and most Socratic;
for Socrates, in endeavouring to reclaim the foolish or vicious,
often spoke as if self-interest was the paramount principle of human
nature; although, had his assumption been formulated as an abstract
proposition, he too might have shrunk from it with something of the
uneasiness attributed to Protagoras. And from internal evidence of
another description we have reason to think that the Dialogue in
question is a comparatively juvenile production, remembering always
that the period of youth was much more protracted among the Greeks
than among ourselves. One almost seems to recognise the hand of a
boy just out of college, who delights in drawing caricatures of his
teachers; and who, while he looks down on classical scholarship in
comparison with more living and practical topics, is not sorry to show
that he can discuss a difficult passage from Simonides better than the
professors themselves.


III.

Our survey of Plato’s first period is now complete; and we have to
enter on the far more arduous task of tracing out the circumstances,
impulses, and ideas by which all the scattered materials of Greek
life, Greek art, and Greek thought were shaped into a new system and
stamped with the impress of an imperishable genius. At the threshold
of this second period the personality of Plato himself emerges into
greater distinctness, and we have to consider what part it played in
an evolution where universal tendencies and individual leanings were
inseparably combined.

Plato was born in the year 429, or according to some accounts 427,
and died 347 B.C. Few incidents in his biography can be fixed with
any certainty; but for our purpose the most general facts are also
the most interesting, and about these we have tolerably trustworthy
information. His family was one of the noblest in Athens, being
connected on the father’s side with Codrus, and on the mother’s with
Solon; while two of his kinsmen, Critias and Charmides, were among the
chiefs of the oligarchic party. It is uncertain whether he inherited
any considerable property, nor is the question one of much importance.
It seems clear that he enjoyed the best education Athens could afford,
and that through life he possessed a competence sufficient to relieve
him from the cares of material existence. Possibly the preference
which he expressed, when far advanced in life, for moderate health
and wealth arose from having experienced those advantages himself.
If the busts which bear his name are to be trusted, he was remarkably
beautiful, and, like some other philosophers, very careful of his
personal appearance. Perhaps some reminiscences of the admiration
bestowed on himself may be mingled with those pictures of youthful
loveliness and of its exciting effect on the imaginations of older
men which give such grace and animation to his earliest dialogues. We
know not whether as lover or beloved he passed unscathed through the
storms of passion which he has so powerfully described, nor whether his
apparently intimate acquaintance with them is due to divination or to
regretful experience. We may pass by in silence whatever is related on
this subject, with the certainty that, whether true or not, scandalous
stories could not fail to be circulated about him.

It was natural that one who united a great intellect to a glowing
temperament should turn his thoughts to poetry. Plato wrote a quantity
of verses—verse-making had become fashionable just then—but wisely
committed them to the flames on making the acquaintance of Socrates.
It may well be doubted whether the author of the _Phaedrus_ and the
_Symposium_ would ever have attained eminence in metrical composition,
even had he lived in an age far more favourable to poetic inspiration
than that which came after the flowering time of Attic art. It seems
as if Plato, with all his fervour, fancy, and dramatic skill, lacked
the most essential quality of a singer; his finest passages are on a
level with the highest poetry, and yet they are separated from it by a
chasm more easily felt than described. Aristotle, whom we think of as
hard and dry and cold, sometimes comes much nearer to the true lyric
cry. And, as if to mark out Plato’s style still more distinctly from
every other, it is also deficient in oratorical power. The philosopher
evidently thought that he could beat the rhetoricians on their own
ground; if the _Menexenus_ be genuine, he tried to do so and failed;
and even without its testimony we are entitled to say as much on
the strength of shorter attempts. We must even take leave to doubt
whether dialogue, properly so called, was Plato’s forte. Where one
speaker is placed at such a height above the others as Socrates, or
the Eleatic Stranger, or the Athenian in the _Laws_, there cannot be
any real conversation. The other interlocutors are good listeners,
and serve to break the monotony of a continuous exposition by their
expressions of assent or even by their occasional inability to follow
the argument, but give no real help or stimulus. And when allowed to
offer an opinion of their own, they, too, lapse into a monologue,
addressed, as our silent trains of thought habitually are, to an
imaginary auditor whose sympathy and support are necessary but are
also secure. Yet if Plato’s style is neither exactly poetical, nor
oratorical, nor conversational, it has affinities with each of these
three varieties; it represents the common root from which they spring,
and brings us, better than any other species of composition, into
immediate contact with the mind of the writer. The Platonic Socrates
has eyes like those of a portrait which follow us wherever we turn, and
through which we can read his inmost soul, which is no other than the
universal reason of humanity in the delighted surprise of its first
awakening to self-conscious activity. The poet thinks and feels for us;
the orator makes our thoughts and feelings his own, and then restores
them to us in a concentrated form, ‘receiving in vapour what he gives
back in a flood.’ Plato removes every obstacle to the free development
of our faculties; he teaches us by his own example how to think and
to feel for ourselves. If Socrates personified philosophy, Plato has
reproduced the personification in artistic form with such masterly
effect that its influence has been extended through all ages and over
the whole civilised world. This portrait stands as an intermediary
between its original and the far-reaching effects indirectly due to his
dialectic inspiration, like that universal soul which Plato himself has
placed between the supreme artificer and the material world, that it
might bring the fleeting contents of space and time into harmony with
uncreated and everlasting ideas.

To paint Socrates at his highest and his best, it was necessary to
break through the narrow limits of his historic individuality, and to
show how, had they been presented to him, he would have dealt with
problems outside the experience of a home-staying Athenian citizen.
The founder of idealism—that is to say, the realisation of reason,
the systematic application of thought to life—had succeeded in his
task because he had embodied the noblest elements of the Athenian
Dêmos, orderliness, patriotism, self-control, and publicity of debate,
together with a receptive intelligence for improvements effected in
other states. But, just as the impulse which enabled those qualities to
tell decisively on Greek history at a moment of inestimable importance
came from the Athenian aristocracy, with its Dorian sympathies, its
adventurous ambition, and its keen attention to foreign affairs, so
also did Plato, carrying the same spirit into philosophy, bring the
dialectic method into contact with older and broader currents of
speculation, and employ it to recognise the whole spiritual activity of
his race.

A strong desire for reform must always be preceded by a deep
dissatisfaction with things as they are; and if the reform is to be
very sweeping the discontent must be equally comprehensive. Hence the
great renovators of human life have been remarkable for the severity
with which they have denounced the failings of the world where they
were placed, whether as regards persons, habits, institutions, or
beliefs. Yet to speak of their attitude as pessimistic would either
be unfair, or would betray an unpardonable inability to discriminate
between two utterly different theories of existence. Nothing can well
be more unlike the systematised pusillanimity of those lost souls,
without courage and without hope, who find a consolation for their own
failure in the belief that everything is a failure, than the fiery
energy which is drawn into a perpetual tension by the contrast of what
is with the vision of what yet may be. But if pessimism paralyses
every generous effort and aspiration by teaching that misery is the
irremediable lot of animated beings, or even, in the last analysis,
of all being, the opposing theory of optimism exercises as deadly an
influence when it induces men to believe that their present condition
is, on the whole, a satisfactory one, or that at worst wrong will be
righted without any criticism or interference on their part. Even
those who believe progress to have been, so far, the most certain
fact in human history, cannot blind themselves to the existence of
enormous forces ever tending to draw society back into the barbarism
and brutality of its primitive condition; and they know also, that
whatever ground we have won is due to the efforts of a small minority,
who were never weary of urging forward their more sluggish companions,
without caring what angry susceptibilities they might arouse—risking
recrimination, insult, and outrage, so that only, under whatever form,
whether of divine mandate or of scientific demonstration, the message
of humanity to her children might be delivered in time. Nor is it only
with immobility that they have had to contend. Gains in one direction
are frequently balanced by losses in another; while at certain periods
there is a distinct retrogression along the whole line. And it is well
if, amid the general decline to a lower level, sinister voices are not
heard proclaiming that the multitude may safely trust to their own
promptings, and that self-indulgence or self-will should be the only
law of life. It is also on such occasions that the rallying cry is
most needed, and that the born leaders of civilisation must put forth
their most strenuous efforts to arrest the disheartened fugitives and
to denounce the treacherous guides. It was in this aspect that Plato
viewed his age; and he set himself to continue the task which Socrates
had attempted, but had been trampled down in endeavouring to achieve.

The illustrious Italian poet and essayist, Leopardi, has observed
that the idea of the world as a vast confederacy banded together for
the repression of everything good and great and true, originated with
Jesus Christ.[122] It is surprising that so accomplished a Hellenist
should not have attributed the priority to Plato. It is true that
he does not speak of the world itself in Leopardi’s sense, because
to him it meant something different—a divinely created order which
it would have been blasphemy to revile; but the thing is everywhere
present to his thoughts under other names, and he pursues it with
relentless hostility. He looks on the great majority of the human race,
individually and socially, in their beliefs and in their practices,
as utterly corrupt, and blinded to such an extent that they are ready
to turn and rend any one who attempts to lead them into a better
path. The many ‘know not wisdom and virtue, and are always busy with
gluttony and sensuality. Like cattle, with their eyes always looking
down and their heads stooping, not, indeed, to the earth, but to the
dining-table, they fatten and feed and breed, and in their excessive
love of these delights they kick and butt at one another with horns and
hoofs which are made of iron; and they kill one another by reason of
their insatiable lust.’[123] Their ideal is the man who nurses up his
desires to the utmost intensity, and procures the means for gratifying
them by fraud or violence. The assembled multitude resembles a strong
and fierce brute expressing its wishes by inarticulate grunts, which
the popular leaders make it their business to understand and to comply
with.[J] A statesman of the nobler kind who should attempt to benefit
the people by thwarting their foolish appetites will be denounced as
a public enemy by the demagogues, and will stand no more chance of
acquittal than a physician if he were brought before a jury of children
by the pastry-cook.

That an Athenian, or, indeed, any Greek gentleman, should regard
the common people with contempt and aversion was nothing strange.
A generation earlier such feelings would have led Plato to look on
the overthrow of democracy and the establishment of an aristocratic
government as the remedy for every evil. The upper classes, accustomed
to decorate themselves with complimentary titles, had actually come
to believe that all who belonged to them were paragons of wisdom and
goodness. With the rule of the Thirty came a terrible awakening. In
a few months more atrocities were perpetrated by the oligarchs than
the Dêmos had been guilty of in as many generations. It was shown
that accomplished gentlemen like Critias were only distinguished from
the common herd by their greater impatience of opposition and by the
more destructive fury of their appetites. With Plato, at least, all
allusions on this head came to an end. He now ‘smiled at the claims
of long descent,’ considering that ‘every man has had thousands and
thousands of progenitors, and among them have been rich and poor, kings
and slaves, Hellenes and barbarians, many times over;’ and even the
possession of a large landed property ceased to inspire him with any
respect when he compared it with the surface of the whole earth.[K]

There still remained one form of government to be tried, the despotic
rule of a single individual. In the course of his travels Plato came
into contact with an able and powerful specimen of the tyrant class,
the elder Dionysius. A number of stories relating to their intercourse
have been preserved; but the different versions disagree very widely,
and none of them can be entirely trusted. It seems certain, however,
that Plato gave great offence to the tyrant by his freedom of speech,
that he narrowly escaped death, and that he was sold into slavery,
from which condition he was redeemed by the generosity of Anniceris, a
Cyrenaean philosopher. It is supposed that the scathing description in
which Plato has held up to everlasting infamy the unworthy possessor
of absolute power—a description long afterwards applied by Tacitus to
the vilest of the Roman emperors—was suggested by the type which had
come under his own observation in Sicily.

Of all existing constitutions that of Sparta approached nearest to the
ideal of Plato, or, rather, he regarded it as the least degraded. He
liked the conservatism of the Spartans, their rigid discipline, their
haughty courage, the participation of their daughters in gymnastic
exercises, the austerity of their manners, and their respect for old
age; but he found much to censure both in their ancient customs and
in the characteristics which the possession of empire had recently
developed among them. He speaks with disapproval of their exclusively
military organisation, of their contempt for philosophy, and of
the open sanction which they gave to practices barely tolerated at
Athens. And he also comments on their covetousness, their harshness
to inferiors, and their haste to throw off the restraints of the law
whenever detection could be evaded.[124]

So far we have spoken as if Plato regarded the various false polities
existing around him as so many fixed and disconnected types. This,
however, was not the case. The present state of things was bad enough,
but it threatened to become worse wherever worse was possible. The
constitutions exhibiting a mixture of good and evil contained within
themselves the seeds of a further corruption, and tended to pass
into the form standing next in order on the downward slope. Spartan
timocracy must in time become an oligarchy, to oligarchy would succeed
democracy, and this would end in tyranny, beyond which no further fall
was possible.[125] The degraded condition of Syracuse seemed likely
to be the last outcome of Hellenic civilisation. We know not how far
the gloomy forebodings of Plato may have been justified by his own
experience, but he sketched with prophetic insight the future fortunes
of the Roman Republic. Every phase of the progressive degeneration is
exemplified in its later history, and the order of their succession is
most faithfully preserved. Even his portraits of individual timocrats,
oligarchs, demagogues, and despots are reproduced to the life in the
pages of Plutarch, of Cicero, and of Tacitus.

If our critic found so little to admire in Hellas, still less did he
seek for the realisation of his dreams in the outlying world. The
lessons of Protagoras had not been wasted on him, and, unlike the
nature-worshippers of the eighteenth century, he never fell into the
delusion that wisdom and virtue had their home in primaeval forests or
in corrupt Oriental despotisms. For him, Greek civilisation, with all
its faults, was the best thing that human nature had produced, the only
hearth of intellectual culture, the only soil where new experiments
in education and government could be tried. He could go down to the
roots of thought, of language, and of society; he could construct a new
style, a new system, and a new polity, from the foundation up; he could
grasp all the tendencies that came under his immediate observation, and
follow them out to their utmost possibilities of expansion; but his
vast powers of analysis and generalisation remained subject to this
restriction, that a Hellene he was and a Hellene he remained to the end.

A Hellene, and an aristocrat as well. Or, using the word in its most
comprehensive sense, we may say that he was an aristocrat all round,
a believer in inherent superiorities of race, sex, birth, breeding,
and age. Everywhere we find him restlessly searching after the wisest,
purest, best, until at last, passing beyond the limits of existence
itself, words fail him to describe the absolute ineffable only good,
not being and not knowledge, but creating and inspiring both. Thus it
came to pass that his hopes of effecting a thorough reform did not
lie in an appeal to the masses, but in the selection and seclusion
from evil influences of a few intelligent youths. Here we may detect
a remarkable divergence between him and his master. Socrates, himself
a man of the people, did not like to hear the Athenians abused. If
they went wrong, it was, he said, the fault of their leaders.[126] But
according to Plato, it was from the people themselves that corruption
originally proceeded, it was they who instilled false lessons into the
most intelligent minds, teaching them from their very infancy to prefer
show to substance, success to merit, and pleasure to virtue; making
the study of popular caprice the sure road to power, and poisoning
the very sources of morality by circulating blasphemous stories about
the gods—stories which represented them as weak, sensual, capricious
beings, setting an example of iniquity themselves, and quite willing to
pardon it in men on condition of going shares in the spoil. The poets
had a great deal to do with the manufacture of these discreditable
myths; and towards poets as a class Plato entertained feelings of
mingled admiration and contempt. As an artist, he was powerfully
attracted by the beauty of their works; as a theologian, he believed
them to be the channels of divine inspiration, and sometimes also the
guardians of a sacred tradition; but as a critic, he was shocked at
their incapacity to explain the meaning of their own works, especially
when it was coupled with ridiculous pretensions to omniscience; and he
regarded the imitative character of their productions as illustrating,
in a particularly flagrant manner, that substitution of appearance for
reality which, according to his philosophy, was the deepest source of
error and evil.

If private society exercised a demoralising influence on its most
gifted members, and in turn suffered a still further debasement by
listening to their opinions, the same fatal interchange of corruption
went on still more actively in public life, so far, at least, as
Athenian democracy was concerned. The people would tolerate no
statesman who did not pamper their appetites; and the statesmen, for
their own ambitious purposes, attended solely to the material wants
of the people, entirely neglecting their spiritual interests. In this
respect, Pericles, the most admired of all, had been the chief of
sinners; for ‘he was the first who gave the people pay and made them
idle and cowardly, and encouraged them in the love of talk and of
money.’ Accordingly, a righteous retribution overtook him, for ‘at the
very end of his life they convicted him of theft, and almost put him
to death.’ So it had been with the other boasted leaders, Miltiades,
Themistocles, and Cimon; all suffered from what is falsely called the
ingratitude of the people. Like injudicious keepers, they had made the
animal committed to their charge fiercer instead of gentler, until
its savage propensities were turned against themselves. Or, changing
the comparison, they were like purveyors of luxury, who fed the State
on a diet to which its present ‘ulcerated and swollen condition’
was due. They had ‘filled the city full of harbours, and docks, and
walls, and revenues and all that, and had left no room for justice
and temperance.’ One only among the elder statesmen, Aristeides, is
excepted from this sweeping condemnation, and, similarly, Socrates is
declared to have been the only true statesman of his time.[127]

On turning from the conduct of State affairs to the administration of
justice in the popular law courts, we find the same tale of iniquity
repeated, but this time with more telling satire, as Plato is speaking
from his own immediate experience. He considers that, under the
manipulation of dexterous pleaders, judicial decisions had come to be
framed with a total disregard of righteousness. That disputed claims
should be submitted to a popular tribunal and settled by counting
heads was, indeed, according to his view, a virtual admission that no
absolute standard of justice existed; that moral truth varied with
individual opinion. And this is how the character of the lawyer had
been moulded in consequence:—

 He has become keen and shrewd; he has learned how to flatter his
 master in word and indulge him in deed; but his soul is small and
 unrighteous. His slavish condition has deprived him of growth and
 uprightness and independence; dangers and fears which were too much
 for his truth and honesty came upon him in early years, when the
 tenderness of youth was unequal to them, and he has been driven
 into crooked ways; from the first he has practised deception and
 retaliation, and has become stunted and warped. And so he has passed
 out of youth into manhood, having no soundness in him, and is now, as
 he thinks, a master in wisdom.[128]

To make matters worse, the original of this unflattering portrait
was rapidly becoming the most powerful man in the State. Increasing
specialisation had completely separated the military and political
functions which had formerly been discharged by a single eminent
individual, and the business of legislation was also becoming a
distinct profession. No orator could obtain a hearing in the assembly
who had not a technical acquaintance with the subject of deliberation,
if it admitted of technical treatment, which was much more frequently
the case now than in the preceding generation. As a consequence of this
revolution, the ultimate power of supervision and control was passing
into the hands of the law courts, where general questions could be
discussed in a more popular style, and often from a wider or a more
sentimental point of view. They were, in fact, beginning to wield an
authority like that exercised until quite lately by the press in modern
Europe, only that its action was much more direct and formidable. A
vote of the Ecclêsia could only deprive a statesman of office: a vote
of the Dicastery might deprive him of civil rights, home, freedom,
property, or even life itself. Moreover, with the loss of empire and
the decline of public spirit, private interests had come to attract a
proportionately larger share of attention; and unobtrusive citizens
who had formerly escaped from the storms of party passion, now found
themselves marked out as a prey by every fluent and dexterous pleader
who could find an excuse for dragging them before the courts. Rhetoric
was hailed as the supreme art, enabling its possessor to dispense with
every other study, and promising young men were encouraged to look on
it as the most paying line they could take up. Even those whose civil
status or natural timidity precluded them from speaking in public could
gain an eminent and envied position by composing speeches for others to
deliver. Behind these, again, stood the professed masters of rhetoric,
claiming to direct the education and the whole public opinion of the
age by their lectures and pamphlets. Philosophy was not excluded from
their system of training, but it occupied a strictly subordinate place.
Studied in moderation, they looked on it as a bracing mental exercise
and a repertory of sounding commonplaces, if not as a solvent for
old-fashioned notions of honesty; but a close adherence to the laws of
logic or to the principles of morality seemed puerile pedantry to the
elegant stylists who made themselves the advocates of every crowned
filibuster abroad, while preaching a policy of peace at any price at
home.

It is evident that the fate of Socrates was constantly in Plato’s
thoughts, and greatly embittered his scorn for the multitude as
well as for those who made themselves its ministers and minions. It
so happened that his friend’s three accusers had been respectively
a poet, a statesman, and a rhetor; thus aptly typifying to the
philosopher’s lively imagination the triad of charlatans in whom
public opinion found its appropriate representatives and spokesmen.
Yet Plato ought consistently to have held that the condemnation of
Socrates was, equally with the persecution of Pericles, a satire
on the teaching which, after at least thirty years’ exercise, had
left its auditors more corrupt than it found them. In like manner
the ostracism of Aristeides might be set against similar sentences
passed on less puritanical statesmen. For the purpose of the argument
it would have been sufficient to show that in existing circumstances
the office of public adviser was both thankless and dangerous. We
must always remember that when Plato is speaking of past times he is
profoundly influenced by aristocratic traditions, and also that under a
retrospective disguise he is really attacking contemporary abuses. And
if, even then, his denunciations seem excessive, their justification
may be found in that continued decay of public virtue which, not
long afterwards, brought about the final catastrophe of Athenian
independence.


IV.

To illustrate the relation in which Plato stood towards his own times,
we have already had occasion to draw largely on the productions of
his maturer manhood. We have now to take up the broken thread of our
systematic exposition, and to trace the development of his philosophy
through that wonderful series of compositions which entitle him to
rank among the greatest writers, the most comprehensive thinkers, and
the purest religious teachers of all ages. In the presence of such
glory a mere divergence of opinion must not be permitted to influence
our judgment. High above all particular truths stands the principle
that truth itself exists, and it was for this that Plato fought. If
there were others more completely emancipated from superstition, none
so persistently appealed to the logic before which superstition must
ultimately vanish. If his schemes for the reconstruction of society
ignore many obvious facts, they assert with unrivalled force the
necessary supremacy of public welfare over private pleasure; and their
avowed utilitarianism offers a common ground to the rival reformers
who will have nothing to do with the mysticism of their metaphysical
foundation. Those, again, who hold, like the youthful Plato himself,
that the ultimate interpretation of existence belongs to a science
transcending human reason, will here find the doctrines of their
religion anticipated as in a dream. And even those who, standing aloof
both from theology and philosophy, live, as they imagine, for beauty
alone, will observe with interest how the spirit of Greek art survived
in the denunciation of its idolatry, and ‘the light that never was
on sea or land,’ after fading away from the lower levels of Athenian
fancy, came once more to suffuse the frozen steeps of dialectic with
its latest and divinest rays.

The glowing enthusiasm of Plato is, however, not entirely derived from
the poetic traditions of his native city; or perhaps we should rather
say that he and the great writers who preceded him drew from a common
fount of inspiration. Mr. Emerson, in one of the most penetrating
criticisms ever written on our philosopher,[129] has pointed out the
existence of two distinct elements in the Platonic Dialogues—one
dispersive, practical, prosaic; the other mystical, absorbing,
centripetal. The American scholar is, however, as we think, quite
mistaken when he attributes the second of these tendencies to Asiatic
influence. It is extremely doubtful whether Plato ever travelled
farther east than Egypt; it is probable that his stay in that country
was not of long duration; and it is certain that he did not acquire a
single metaphysical idea from its inhabitants. He liked their rigid
conservatism; he liked their institution of a dominant priesthood; he
liked their system of popular education, and the place which it gave
to mathematics made him look with shame on the ‘swinish ignorance’ of
his own countrymen in that respect;[130] but on the whole he classes
them among the races exclusively devoted to money-making, and in
aptitude for philosophy he places them far below the Greeks. Very
different were the impressions brought home from his visits to Sicily
and Southern Italy. There he became acquainted with modes of thought
in which the search after hidden resemblances and analogies was a
predominant passion; there the existence of a central unity underlying
all phenomena was maintained, as against sense and common opinion,
with the intensity of a religious creed; there alone speculation was
clothed in poetic language; there first had an attempt been made to
carry thought into life by associating it with a reform of manners and
beliefs. There, too, the arts of dance and song had assumed a more
orderly and solemn aspect; the chorus received its final constitution
from a Sicilian master; and the loftiest strains of Greek lyric poetry
were composed for recitation in the streets of Sicilian cities or at
the courts of Sicilian kings. Then, with the rise of rhetoric, Greek
prose was elaborated by Sicilian teachers into a sort of rhythmical
composition, combining rich imagery with studied harmonies and
contrasts of sense and sound. And as the hold of Asiatic civilisation
on eastern Hellas grew weaker, the attention of her foremost spirits
was more and more attracted to this new region of wonder and romance.
The stream of colonisation set thither in a steady flow; the scenes
of mythical adventure were rediscovered in Western waters; and it was
imagined that, by grasping the resources of Sicily, an empire extending
over the whole Mediterranean might be won. Perhaps, without being
too fanciful, we may trace a likeness between the daring schemes of
Alcibiades and the more remote but not more visionary kingdom suggested
by an analogous inspiration to the idealising soul of Plato. Each had
learned to practise, although for far different purposes, the royal art
of Socrates—the mastery over men’s minds acquired by a close study of
their interests, passions, and beliefs. But the ambition of the one
defeated his own aim, to the destruction of his country and of himself;
while the other drew into Athenian thought whatever of Western force
and fervour was needed for the accomplishment of its imperial task.
We may say of Plato what he has said of his own Theaetêtus, that ‘he
moves surely and smoothly and successfully in the path of knowledge
and inquiry; always making progress like the noiseless flow of a river
of oil’;[131] but everywhere beside or beneath that placid lubricating
flow we may trace the action of another current, where still sparkles,
fresh and clear as at first, the fiery Sicilian wine.

It will be remembered that in an earlier section of this chapter we
accompanied Plato to a period when he had provisionally adopted a
theory in which the Protagorean contention that virtue can be taught
was confirmed and explained by the Socratic contention that virtue is
knowledge; while this knowledge again was interpreted in the sense of
a hedonistic calculus, a prevision and comparison of the pleasures and
pains consequent on our actions. We have now to trace the lines of
thought by which he was guided to a different conception of ethical
science.

After resolving virtue into knowledge of pleasure, the next questions
which would present themselves to so keen a thinker were obviously,
What is knowledge? and What is pleasure? The _Theaetêtus_ is chiefly
occupied with a discussion of the various answers already given to
the first of these enquiries. It seems, therefore, to come naturally
next after the _Protagoras_; and our conjecture receives a further
confirmation when we find that here also a large place is given to
the opinions of the Sophist after whom that dialogue is named; the
chief difference being that the points selected for controversy are
of a speculative rather than of a practical character. There is,
however, a close connexion between the argument by which Protagoras
had endeavoured to prove that all mankind are teachers of virtue, and
his more general principle that man is the measure of all things. And
perhaps it was the more obvious difficulties attending the latter view
which led Plato, after some hesitation, to reject the former along
with it. In an earlier chapter we gave some reasons for believing
that Protagoras did not erect every individual into an arbiter of
truth in the sweeping sense afterwards put upon his words. He was
probably opposing a human to a theological or a naturalistic standard.
Nevertheless, it does not follow that Plato was fighting with a
shadow when he pressed the Protagorean dictum to its most literal
interpretation. There are plenty of people still who would maintain
it to that extent. Wherever and whenever the authority of ancient
traditions is broken down, the doctrine that one man’s opinion is as
good as another’s immediately takes its place; or rather the doctrine
in question is a survival of traditionalism in an extremely pulverised
form. And when we are told that the majority must be right—which is
a very different principle from holding that the majority should be
obeyed—we may take it as a sign that the loose particles are beginning
to coalesce again. The substitution of an individual for a universal
standard of truth is, according to Plato, a direct consequence of
the theory which identifies knowledge with sense-perception. It is,
at any rate, certain that the most vehement assertors of the former
doctrine are also those who are fondest of appealing to what they and
their friends have seen, heard, or felt; and the more educated among
them place enormous confidence in statistics. They are also fond of
repeating the adage that an ounce of fact is worth a ton of theory,
without considering that theory alone can furnish the balance in which
facts are weighed. Plato does not go very deep into the _rationale_ of
observation, nor in the infancy of exact science was it to be expected
that he should. He fully recognised the presence of two factors, an
objective and a subjective, in every sensation, but lost his hold on
the true method in attempting to trace a like dualism through the
whole of consciousness. Where we should distinguish between the mental
energies and the physical processes underlying them, or between the
elements respectively contributed to every cognition by immediate
experience and reflection, he conceived the inner and outer worlds as
two analogous series related to one another as an image to its original.

At this last point we touch on the final generalisation by which Plato
extended the dialectic method to all existence, and readmitted into
philosophy the earlier speculations provisionally excluded from it
by Socrates. The cross-examining elenchus, at first applied only to
individuals, had been turned with destructive effect on every class,
every institution, and every polity, until the whole of human life
was made to appear one mass of self-contradiction, instability, and
illusion. It had been held by some that the order of nature offered
a contrast and a correction to this bewildering chaos. Plato, on the
other hand, sought to show that the ignorance and evil prevalent among
men were only a part of the imperfection necessarily belonging to
derivative existence of every kind. For this purpose the philosophy
of Heracleitus proved a welcome auxiliary. The pupil of Socrates had
been taught in early youth by Cratylus, an adherent of the Ephesian
school, that movement, relativity, and the conjunction of opposites
are the very conditions under which Nature works. We may conjecture
that Plato did not at first detect any resemblance between the
Heracleitean flux and the mental bewilderment produced or brought to
light by the master of cross-examination. But his visit to Italy would
probably enable him to take a new view of the Ionian speculations,
by bringing him into contact with schools maintaining a directly
opposite doctrine. The Eleatics held that existence remained eternally
undivided, unmoved, and unchanged. The Pythagoreans arranged all
things according to a strained and rigid antithetical construction.
Then came the identifying flash.[132] Unchangeable reality, divine
order, mathematical truth—these were the objective counterpart of
the Socratic definitions, of the consistency which Socrates introduced
into conduct. The Heracleitean system applied to phenomena only; and
it faithfully reflected the incoherent beliefs and disorderly actions
of uneducated men. We are brought into relation with the fluctuating
sea of generated and perishing natures by sense and opinion, and these
reproduce, in their irreconcilable diversity, the shifting character of
the objects with which they are conversant. Whatever we see and feel
is a mixture of being and unreality; it is, and is not, at the same
time. Sensible magnitudes are equal or greater or less according as the
standard of comparison is chosen. Yet the very act of comparison shows
that there is something in ourselves deeper than mere sense; something
to which all individual sensations are referred as to a common centre,
and in which their images are stored up. Knowledge, then, can no
longer be identified with sensation, since the mental reproductions of
external objects are apprehended in the absence of their originals, and
since thought possesses the further faculty of framing abstract notions
not representing any sensible objects at all.

We need not follow Plato’s investigations into the meaning of knowledge
and the causes of illusion any further; especially as they do not lead,
in this instance, to any positive conclusion. The general tendency is
to seek for truth within rather than without; and to connect error
partly with the disturbing influence of sense-impressions on the higher
mental faculties, partly with the inherent confusion and instability
of the phenomena whence those impressions are derived. Our principal
concern here is to note the expansive power of generalisation which
was carrying philosophy back again from man to Nature—the deep-seated
contempt of Plato for public opinion—and the incipient differentiation
of demonstrated from empirical truth.

A somewhat similar vein of reflection is worked out in the _Cratylus_,
a Dialogue presenting some important points of contact with the
_Theaetêtus_, and probably belonging to the same period. There is the
same constant reference to Heracleitus, whose philosophy is here also
treated as in great measure, but not entirely, true; and the opposing
system of Parmenides is again mentioned, though much more briefly, as
a valuable set-off against its extravagances. The _Cratylus_ deals
exclusively with language, just as the _Theaetêtus_ had dealt with
sensation and mental imagery, but in such a playful and ironical tone
that its speculative importance is likely to be overlooked. Some of the
Greek philosophers seem to have thought that the study of things might
advantageously be replaced by the study of words, which were supposed
to have a natural and necessary connexion with their accepted meanings.
This view was particularly favoured by the Heracleiteans, who found,
or fancied that they found, a confirmation of their master’s teaching
in etymology. Plato professes to adopt the theory in question, and
supports it with a number of derivations which to us seem ludicrously
absurd, but which may possibly have been transcribed from the pages
of contemporary philologists. At last, however, he turns round and
shows that other verbal arguments, equally good, might be adduced on
behalf of Parmenides. But the most valuable part of the discussion is
a protest against the whole theory that things can be studied through
their names. Plato justly observes that an image, to be perfect,
should not reproduce its original, but only certain aspects of it;
that the framers of language were not infallible; and that we are just
as competent to discover the nature of things as they could be. One
can imagine the delight with which he would have welcomed the modern
discovery that sensations, too, are a language; and that the associated
groups into which they most readily gather are determined less by the
necessary connexions of things in themselves than by the exigencies of
self-preservation and reproduction in sentient beings.

Through all his criticisms on the popular sources of
information—sense, language and public opinion—Plato refers to an
ideal of perfect knowledge which he assumes without being able to
define it. It must satisfy the negative condition of being free from
self-contradiction, but further than this we cannot go. Yet, in the
hands of a metaphysician, no more than this was required to reconstruct
the world. The demand for consistency explains the practical philosophy
of Socrates. It also explains, under another form, the philosophy,
both practical and speculative, of his disciple. Identity and the
correlative of identity, difference, gradually came to cover with their
manifold combinations all knowledge, all life, and all existence.

It was from mathematical science that the light of certainty first
broke. Socrates had not encouraged the study of mathematics, either
pure or applied; nor, if we may judge from some disparaging allusions
to Hippias and his lectures in the _Protagoras_, did Plato at first
regard it with any particular favour. He may have acquired some notions
of arithmetic and geometry at school; but the intimate acquaintance
with, and deep interest in them, manifested throughout his later works,
probably dates from his visits to Italy, Sicily, Cyrênê, and Egypt.
In each of these places the exact sciences were cultivated with more
assiduity than at Athens; in southern Italy they had been brought into
close connexion with philosophy by a system of mystical interpretation.
The glory of discovering their true speculative significance was
reserved for Plato. Just as he had detected a profound analogy between
the Socratic scepticism and the Heracleitean flux, so also, by
another vivid intuition, he saw in the definitions and demonstrations
of geometry a type of true reasoning, a particular application of
the Socratic logic. Thus the two studies were brought into fruitful
reaction, the one gaining a wider applicability, and the other an
exacter method of proof. The mathematical spirit ultimately proved
too strong for Plato, and petrified his philosophy into a lifeless
formalism; but no extraneous influence helped so much to bring about
the complete maturity of his constructive powers, in no direction has
he more profoundly influenced the thought of later ages.

Both the _Theaetêtus_ and the _Cratylus_ contain allusions to
mathematical reasoning, but its full significance is first exhibited
in the _Meno_. Here the old question, whether virtue can be taught,
is again raised, to be discussed from an entirely new point of view,
and resolved into the more general question, Can anything be taught?
The answer is, Yes and No. You may stimulate the native activity of
the intellect, but you cannot create it. Take a totally uneducated
man, and, under proper guidance, he shall discover the truths of
geometry for himself, by virtue of their self-evident clearness. Being
independent of any traceable experience, the elementary principles of
this science, of all science, must have been acquired in some antenatal
period, or rather they were never acquired at all, they belong to the
very nature of the soul herself. The doctrine here unfolded had a
great future before it; and it has never, perhaps, been discussed with
so much eagerness as during the last half-century among ourselves.
The masters of English thought have placed the issue first raised by
Plato in the very front of philosophical controversy; and the general
public have been brought to feel that their dearest interests hang on
its decision. The subject has, however, lost much of its adventitious
interest to those who know that the _à priori_ position was turned, a
hundred years ago, by Kant. The philosopher of Königsberg showed that,
granting knowledge to be composed of two elements, mind adds nothing
to outward experience but its own forms, the system of connexions
according to which it groups phenomena. Deprive these forms of the
content given to them by feeling, and the soul will be left beating her
wings in a vacuum. The doctrine that knowledge is not a dead deposit
in consciousness or memory, but a living energy whereby phenomena
are, to use Kant’s words, gathered up into the synthetic unity of
apperception, has since found a physiological basis in the theory of
central innervation. And the experiential school of psychology have
simultaneously come to recognise the existence of fixed conditions
under which consciousness works and grows, and which, in the last
analysis, resolve themselves into the apprehension of resemblance,
difference, coexistence, and succession. The most complex cognition
involves no more than these four categories; and it is probable that
they all co-operate in the most elementary perception.

The truths here touched on seem to have been dimly present to the mind
of Plato. He never doubts that all knowledge must, in some way or
other, be derived from experience; and, accordingly, he assumes that
what cannot have been learned in this world was learned in another. But
he does not (in the _Meno_ at least) suppose that the process ever had
a beginning. It would seem that he is trying to express in figurative
language the distinction, lost almost as soon as found, between
intelligence and the facts on which intelligence is exercised, An
examination of the steps by which Meno’s slave is brought to perceive,
without being directly told, the truth of the Pythagorean theorem, will
show that his share in the demonstration is limited to the intuition
of certain numerical equalities and inequalities. Now, to Plato, the
perception of sameness and difference meant everything. He would have
denied that the sensible world presented examples of these relations in
their ideal absoluteness and purity. In tracing back their apprehension
to the self-reflection of the soul, the consciousness of personal
identity, he would not have transgressed the limits of a legitimate
enquiry. But self-consciousness involved a possible abstraction from
disturbing influences, which he interpreted as a real separation
between mind and matter; and, to make it more complete, an independent
pre-existence of the former. Nor was this all. Since knowledge is of
likeness in difference, then the central truth of things, the reality
underlying all appearance, must be an abiding identity recognised by
the soul through her previous communion with it in a purer world. The
inevitable tendency of two identities, one subjective and the other
objective, was to coalesce in an absolute unity where all distinctions
of time and space would have disappeared, carrying the whole mythical
machinery along with them; and Plato’s logic is always hovering on
the verge of such a consummation without being able fully to accept
it. Still, the mystical tendency, which it was reserved for Plotinus
to carry out in its entirety, is always present, though restrained by
other motives, working for the ascertainment of uniformity in theory
and for the enforcement of uniformity in practice.

We have accompanied Plato to a point where he begins to see his
way towards a radical reconstruction of all existing beliefs and
institutions. In the next chapter we shall attempt to show how
far he succeeded in this great purpose, how much, in his positive
contributions to thought is of permanent, and how much of merely
biographical or literary value.

FOOTNOTES:

[114] _The Dialogues of Plato translated into English._ By B. Jowett,
M. A. 2nd ed., 1875. Zeller, _Die Philosophie der Griechen_. Zweiter
Theil, erste Abtheilung. _Plato und die alte Academie_, 3rd ed., 1875.

[115] Krohn, _Der Platonische Staat_, Halle 1876. [I know this work
only through Chiapelli, _Della Interpretazione panteistica di Platone_,
Florence, 1881.]

[116] III., 418.

[117] _Phaedr._, p. 274 B ff.

[118] See Zeller’s note on the θεία μοῖρα, _op. cit._ p. 497.

[119] The _Charmides_, _Laches_, _Euthyphro_, and _Lysis_.

[120] P. 49, A ff. Zeller, 142.

[121] _Charmides_, 161 E; _Lysis_, 212 C.

[122] _Pensieri_, lxxxiv and lxxxv.

[123] _Repub._, 586, A. Jowett, III, p. 481.

[124] Zeller, _op. cit._, 777-8.

[125] _Repub._, VIII. and IX.

[126] Xenophon, _Mem._, III., v., 18.

[127] _Gorgias_, 515, C., ff. Jowett, II., 396-400.

[128] _Theaetêtus_, 173, A. Jowett, IV., 322.

[129] The lecture on Plato in _Representative Man_.

[130] _Legg._ 819, D. Jowett, V., 390.

[131] _Theaet._, 144. Jowett’s Transl.

[132] This expression is borrowed from Prof. Bain. See the chapter on
Association by Resemblance in _The Senses and the Intellect_.

[133] _Legg._ 716, C.




CHAPTER V.

PLATO AS A REFORMER.


I.

In the last chapter we considered the philosophy of Plato chiefly
under its critical and negative aspects. We saw how it was exclusively
from that side that he at first apprehended and enlarged the dialectic
of Socrates, how deeply his scepticism was coloured by the religious
reaction of the age, and how he attempted, out of his master’s mouth,
to overturn the positive teaching of the master himself. We saw how,
in the _Protagoras_, he sketched a theory of ethics, which was no
sooner completed than it became the starting-point of a still more
extended and arduous enquiry. We followed the widening horizon of his
speculations until they embraced the whole contemporary life of Hellas,
and involved it in a common condemnation as either hopelessly corrupt,
or containing within itself the seeds of corruption. We then saw how,
by a farther generalisation, he was led to look for the sources of
error in the laws of man’s sensuous nature and of the phenomenal world
with which it holds communion; how, moreover, under the guidance of
suggestions coming both from within and from without, he reverted to
the earlier schools of Greek thought, and brought their results into
parallelism with the main lines of Socratic dialectic. And finally,
we watched him planting a firm foothold on the basis of mathematical
demonstration; seeking in the very constitution of the soul itself for
a derivation of the truths which sensuous experience could not impart,
and winning back from a more profoundly reasoned religion the hope,
the self-confidence, the assurance of perfect knowledge, which had been
formerly surrendered in deference to the demands of a merely external
and traditional faith. That God alone is wise, and by consequence alone
good, might still remain a fixed principle with Plato; but it ceased
to operate as a restraint on human aspiration when he had come to
recognise an essential unity among all forms of conscious life, which,
though it might be clouded and forgotten, could never be entirely
effaced. And when Plato tells us, at the close of his career, that God,
far more than any individual man, is the measure of all things,[133]
who can doubt that he had already learned to identify the human and
divine essences in the common notion of a universal soul?

The germ of this new dogmatism was present in Plato’s mind from
the very beginning, and was partly an inheritance from older forms
of thought. The _Apologia_ had reproduced one important feature in
the positive teaching of Socrates—the distinction between soul
and body, and the necessity of attending to the former rather than
to the latter: and this had now acquired such significance as to
leave no standing-room for the agnosticism with which it had been
incompatible from the first. The same irresistible force of expansion
which had brought the human soul into communion with absolute truth,
was to be equally verified in a different direction. Plato was too
much interested in practical questions to be diverted from them long
by any theoretical philosophy; or, perhaps, we should rather say
that this interest had accompanied and inspired him throughout. It
is from the essential relativity of mind, the profound craving for
intellectual sympathy with other minds, that all mystical imaginations
and super-subtle abstractions take rise; so that, when the strain of
transcendent absorption and ecstasy is relaxed under the chilling
but beneficent contact of earthly experience, they become condensed
into ideas for the reconstitution of life and society on a basis of
reciprocity, of self-restraint, and of self-devotion to a commonwealth
greater and more enduring than any individual, while, at the same
time, presenting to each in objective form the principle by virtue of
which only, instead of being divided, he can become reconciled with
himself. Here we have the creed of all philosophy, whether theological,
metaphysical, or positive, that there is, or that there should be, this
threefold unity of feeling, of action, and of thought, of the soul,
of society, and of universal existence, to win which is everlasting
life, while to be without it is everlasting death. This creed must be
re-stated and re-interpreted at every revolution of thought. We have to
see how it was, for the first time, stated and interpreted by Plato.

The principal object of Plato’s negative criticism had been to
emphasise the distinction between reality and appearance in the world
without, between sense, or imagination, and reason in the human soul.
True to the mediatorial spirit of Greek thought, his object now was to
bridge over the seemingly impassable gulf. We must not be understood to
say that these two distinct, and to some extent contrasted, tendencies
correspond to two definitely divided periods of his life. It is evident
that the tasks of dissection and reconstruction were often carried on
conjointly, and represented two aspects of an indivisible process.
But on the whole there is good reason to believe that Plato, like
other men, was more inclined to pull to pieces in his youth and to
build up in his later days. We are, therefore, disposed to agree with
those critics who assign both the _Phaedrus_ and the _Symposium_ to a
comparatively advanced stage of Platonic speculation. It is less easy
to decide which of the two was composed first, for there seems to be a
greater maturity of thought in the one and of style in the other. For
our purposes it will be most convenient to consider them together.

We have seen how Plato came to look on mathematics as an introduction
to absolute knowledge. He now discovered a parallel method of approach
towards perfect wisdom in an order of experience which to most persons
might seem as far as possible removed from exact science—in those
passionate feelings which were excited in the Greek imagination by the
spectacle of youthful beauty, without distinction of sex. There was,
at least among the Athenians, a strong intellectual element in the
attachments arising out of such feelings; and the strange anomaly might
often be seen of a man devoting himself to the education of a youth
whom he was, in other respects, doing his utmost to corrupt. Again, the
beauty by which a Greek felt most fascinated came nearer to a visible
embodiment of mind than any that has ever been known, and as such could
be associated with the purest philosophical aspirations. And, finally,
the passion of love in its normal manifestations is an essentially
generic instinct, being that which carries an individual most entirely
out of himself, making him instrumental to the preservation of the race
in forms of ever-increasing comeliness and vigour; so that, given a
wise training and a wide experience, the maintenance of a noble breed
may safely be entrusted to its infallible selection.[134] All these
points of view have been developed by Plato with such copiousness
of illustration and splendour of language that his name is still
associated in popular fancy with an ideal of exalted and purified
desire.

So far, however, we only stand on the threshold of Platonic love. The
earthly passion, being itself a kind of generalisation, is our first
step in the ascent to that highest stage of existence where wisdom
and virtue and happiness are one—the good to which all other goods
are related as means to an end. But love is not only an introduction
to philosophy, it is a type of philosophy itself. Both are conditions
intermediate between vacuity and fulfilment; desire being by its very
nature dissatisfied, and vanishing at the instant that its object
is attained. The philosopher is a lover of wisdom, and therefore not
wise; and yet not wholly ignorant, for he knows that he knows nothing.
Thus we seem to be thrown back on the standpoint of Plato’s earliest
agnosticism. Nevertheless, if the _Symposium_ agrees nominally with
the _Apologia_, in reality it marks a much more advanced point of
speculation. The idea of what knowledge is has begun to assume a much
clearer expression. We gather from various hints and suggestions
that it is the perception of likeness; the very process of ascending
generalisation typified by intellectual love.

It is worthy of remark that in the Platonic Erôs we have the germ—or
something more than the germ—of Aristotle’s whole metaphysical
system.[135] According to the usual law of speculative evolution, what
was subjective in the one becomes objective in the other. With Plato
the passion for knowledge had been merely the guiding principle of a
few chosen spirits. With Aristotle it is the living soul of Nature,
the secret spring of movement, from the revolution of the outermost
starry sphere to the decomposition and recomposition of our mutable
terrestrial elements; and from these again through the whole scale of
organic life, up to the moral culture of man and the search for an
ideally-constituted state. What enables all these myriad movements
to continue through eternity, returning ever in an unbroken circle
on themselves, is the yearning of unformed matter—that is to say,
of unrealised power—towards the absolute unchanging actuality,
the self-thinking thought, unmoved, but moving every other form of
existence by the desire to participate in its ineffable perfection.
Born of the Hellenic enthusiasm for beauty, this wonderful conception
subsequently became incorporated with the official teaching of Catholic
theology. What had once been a theme for ribald merriment or for
rhetorical ostentation among the golden youth of Athens, furnished
the motive for his most transcendent meditations to the Angel of the
Schools; but the fire which lurked under the dusty abstractions of
Aquinas needed the touch of a poet and a lover before it could be
rekindled into flame. The eyes of Beatrice completed what the dialectic
of Plato had begun; and the hundred cantos of her adorer found their
fitting close in the love that moves the sun and the other stars.

We must, however, observe that, underlying all these poetical
imaginations, there is a deeper and wider law of human nature to which
they unconsciously bear witness—the intimate connexion of religious
mysticism with the passion of love. By this we do not mean the constant
interference of the one with the other, whether for the purpose of
stimulation, as with the naturalistic religions, or for the purpose
of restraint, as with the ethical religions; but we mean that they
seem to divide between them a common fund of nervous energy, so that
sometimes their manifestations are inextricably confounded, as in
certain debased forms of modern Christianity; sometimes they utterly
exclude one another; and sometimes, which is the most frequent case of
any, the one is transformed into the other, their substantial identity
and continuity being indicated very frankly by their use of the same
language, the same ritual, and the same aesthetic decoration. And this
will show how the decay of religious belief may be accompanied by
an outbreak of moral licence, without our being obliged to draw the
inference that passion can only be held in check by irrational beliefs,
or by organisations whose supremacy is fatal to industrial, political,
and intellectual progress. For, if our view of the case be correct,
the passion was not really restrained, but only turned in a different
direction, and frequently nourished into hysterical excess; so that,
with the inevitable decay of theology, it returns to its old haunts,
bringing with it seven devils worse than the first. After the Crusades
came the Courts of Love; after the Dominican and Franciscan movements,
the Renaissance; after Puritanism, the Restoration; after Jesuitism,
the Regency. Nor is this all. The passion of which we are speaking,
when abnormally developed and unbalanced by severe intellectual
exercise, is habitually accompanied by delirious jealousy, by cruelty,
and by deceit. On taking the form of religion, the influence of its
evil associates immediately becomes manifest in the suppression of
alien creeds, in the tortures inflicted on their adherents, and in the
maxim that no faith need be kept with a heretic. Persecution has been
excused on the ground that any means were justifiable for the purpose
of saving souls from eternal torment. But how came it to be believed
that such a consequence was involved in a mere error of judgment? The
faith did not create the intolerance, but the intolerance created
the faith, and so gave an idealised expression to the jealous fury
accompanying a passion which no spiritual alchemy can purify from
its original affinities. It is not by turning this most terrible
instinct towards a supernatural object that we should combat it, but by
developing the active and masculine in preference to the emotional and
feminine side of our nervous organisation.[136]

In addition to its other great lessons, the _Symposium_ has afforded
Plato an opportunity for contrasting his own method of philosophising
with pre-Socratic modes of thought. For it consists of a series of
discourses in praise of love, so arranged as to typify the manner in
which Greek speculation, after beginning with mythology, subsequently
advanced to physical theories of phenomena, then passed from the
historical to the contemporary method, asking, not whence did things
come, but what are they in themselves; and finally arrived at the
logical standpoint of analysis, classification, and induction.

The nature of dialectic is still further elucidated in the _Phaedrus_,
where it is also contrasted with the method, or rather the no-method,
of popular rhetoric. Here, again, discussions about love are chosen
as an illustration. A discourse on the subject by no less a writer
than Lysias is quoted and shown to be deficient in the most elementary
requisites of logical exposition. The different arguments are strung
together without any principle of arrangement, and ambiguous terms
are used without being defined. In insisting on the necessity of
definition, Plato followed Socrates; but he defines according to a
totally different method. Socrates had arrived at his general notions
partly by a comparison of particular instances with a view to eliciting
the points where they agreed, partly by amending the conceptions
already in circulation. We have seen that the earliest Dialogues
attributed to Plato are one long exposure of the difficulties attending
such a procedure; and his subsequent investigations all went to prove
that nothing solid could be built on such shifting foundations as
sense and opinion. Meanwhile increasing familiarity with the great
ontological systems had taught him to begin with the most general
notions, and to work down from them to the most particular. The
consequence was that dialectic came to mean nothing but classification
or logical division. Definition was absorbed into this process, and
reasoning by syllogism was not yet differentiated from it. To tell
what a thing was, meant to fix its place in the universal order of
existence, and its individual existence was sufficiently accounted for
by the same determination. If we imagine first a series of concentric
circles, then a series of contrasts symmetrically disposed on either
side of a central dividing line, and finally a series of transitions
descending from the most absolute unity to the most irregular
diversity—we shall, by combining the three schemes, arrive at some
understanding of the Platonic dialectic. To assign anything its place
in these various sequences was at once to define it and to demonstrate
the necessity of its existence. The arrangement is also equivalent to
a theory of final causes; for everything has a function to perform,
marked out by its position, and bringing it into relation with the
universal order. Such a system would inevitably lead to the denial of
evil, were not evil itself interpreted as the necessary correlative
of good, or as a necessary link in the descending manifestations of
reality. Moreover, by virtue of his identifying principle, Plato saw
in the lowest forms a shadow or reflection of the highest. Hence the
many surprises, concessions, and returns to abandoned positions which
we find in his later writings. The three moments of Greek thought,
circumscription, antithesis, and mediation, work in such close union,
or with such bewildering rapidity of alternation, through all his
dialectic, that we are never sure whither he is leading us, and not
always sure that he knows it himself.

In the opening chapter of this work we endeavoured to explain how the
Pythagorean philosophy arose out of the intoxicated delight inspired by
a first acquaintance with the manifold properties of number and figure.
If we would enter into the spirit of Platonism, we must similarly
throw ourselves back into the time when the idea of a universal
classification first dawned on men’s minds. We must remember how it
gratified the Greek love of order combined with individuality; what
unbounded opportunities for asking and answering questions it supplied;
and what promises of practical regeneration it held out. Not without
a shade of sadness for so many baffled efforts and so many blighted
hopes, yet also with a grateful recollection of all that reason
has accomplished, and with something of his own high intellectual
enthusiasm, shall we listen to Plato’s prophetic words—words of deeper
import than their own author knew—‘If I find any man who is able to
see a One and Many in Nature, him I follow and walk in his steps as if
he were a god.’[137]

It is interesting to see how the most comprehensive systems of the
present century, even when most opposed to the metaphysical spirit,
are still constructed on the plan long ago sketched by Plato. Alike
in his classification of the sciences, in his historical deductions,
and in his plans for the reorganisation of society, Auguste Comte
adopts a scheme of ascending or descending generality. The conception
of differentiation and integration employed both by Hegel and by
Mr. Herbert Spencer is also of Platonic origin; only, what with the
ancient thinker was a statical law of order has become with his modern
successors a dynamic law of progress; while, again, there is this
distinction between the German and the English philosopher, that the
former construes as successive moments of the Idea what the latter
regards as simultaneous and interdependent processes of evolution.


II.

The study of psychology with Plato stands in a fourfold relation to
his general theory of the world. The dialectic method, without which
Nature would remain unintelligible, is a function of the soul, and
constitutes its most essential activity; then soul, as distinguished
from body, represents the higher, supersensual element of existence;
thirdly, the objective dualism of reality and appearance is reproduced
in the subjective dualism of reason and sense; and lastly, soul, as
the original spring of movement, mediates between the eternal entities
which are unmoved and the material phenomena which are subject to
a continual flux. It is very characteristic of Plato that he first
strains an antithesis to the utmost and then endeavours to reconcile
its extremes by the interposition of one or more intermediate links.
So, while assigning this office to soul as a part of the universe, he
classifies the psychic functions themselves according to a similar
principle. On the intellectual side he places true opinion, or what
we should now call empirical knowledge, midway between demonstration
and sense-perception. Such at least seems to be the result reached in
the _Theaetêtus_ and the _Meno_. In the _Republic_ a further analysis
leads to a somewhat different arrangement. Opinion is placed between
knowledge and ignorance; while the possible objects to which it
corresponds form a transition from being to not-being. Subsequently
mathematical reasoning is distinguished from the higher science which
takes cognisance of first principles, and thus serves to connect it
with simple opinion; while this again, dealing as it does with material
objects, is related to the knowledge of their shadows as the most
perfect science is related to mathematics.[138]

Turning from dialectic to ethics, Plato in like manner feels the need
of interposing a mediator between reason and appetite. The quality
chosen for this purpose he calls θυμός, a term which does not, as has
been erroneously supposed, correspond to our word Will, but rather
to pride, or the feeling of personal honour. It is both the seat of
military courage and the natural auxiliary of reason, with which it
co-operates in restraining the animal desires. It is a characteristic
difference between Socrates and Plato that the former should have
habitually reinforced his arguments for virtue by appeals to
self-interest; while the latter, with his aristocratic way of looking
at things, prefers to enlist the aid of a haughtier feeling on their
behalf. Aristotle followed in the same track when he taught that to be
overcome by anger is less discreditable than to be overcome by desire.
In reality none of the instincts tending to self-preservation is more
praiseworthy than another, or more amenable to the control of reason.
Plato’s tripartite division of mind cannot be made to fit into the
classifications of modern psychology, which are adapted not only to a
more advanced state of knowledge but also to more complex conditions
of life. But the characters of women, by their greater simplicity and
uniformity, show to some extent what those of men may once have been;
and it will, perhaps, confirm the analysis of the _Phaedrus_ to recall
the fact that personal pride is still associated with moral principle
in the guardianship of female virtue.

If the soul served to connect the eternal realities with the fleeting
appearances by which they were at once darkened, relieved, and shadowed
forth, it was also a bond of union between the speculative and the
practical philosophy of Plato; and in discussing his psychology we have
already passed from the one to the other. The transition will become
still easier if we remember that the question, ‘What is knowledge?’
was, according to our view, originally suggested by a theory reducing
ethical science to a hedonistic calculus, and that along with it would
arise another question, ‘What is pleasure?’ This latter enquiry,
though incidentally touched on elsewhere, is not fully dealt with in
any Dialogue except the _Philêbus_, which we agree with Prof. Jowett
in referring to a very late period of Platonic authorship. But the
line of argument which it pursues had probably been long familiar
to our philosopher. At any rate, the _Phaedo_, the _Republic_, and
perhaps the _Gorgias_, assume, as already proved, that pleasure is
not the highest good. The question is one on which thinkers are still
divided. It seems, indeed, to lie outside the range of reason, and
the disputants are accordingly obliged to invoke the authority either
of individual consciousness or of common consent on behalf of their
respective opinions. We have, however, got so far beyond the ancients
that the doctrine of egoistic hedonism has been abandoned by almost
everybody. The substitution of another’s pleasure for our own as the
object of pursuit was not a conception which presented itself to
any Greek moralist, although the principle of self-sacrifice was
maintained by some of them, and especially by Plato, to its fullest
extent. Pleasure-seeking being inseparably associated with selfishness,
the latter was best attacked through the former, and if Plato’s logic
does not commend itself to our understanding, we must admit that it was
employed in defence of a noble cause.

The style of polemics adopted on this occasion, whatever else may
be its value, will serve excellently to illustrate the general
dialectic method of attack. When Plato particularly disliked a class
of persons, or an institution, or an art, or a theory, or a state of
consciousness, he tried to prove that it was confused, unstable, and
self-contradictory; besides taking full advantage of any discredit
popularly attached to it. All these objections are brought to bear
with full force against pleasure. Some pleasures are delusive, since
the reality of them falls far short of the anticipation; all pleasure
is essentially transitory, a perpetual becoming, never a fixed state,
and therefore not an end of action; pleasures which ensue on the
satisfaction of desires are necessarily accompanied by pains and
disappear simultaneously with them; the most intense, and for that
reason the most typical, pleasures, are associated with feelings of
shame, and their enjoyment is carefully hidden out of sight.

Such arguments have almost the air of an afterthought, and Plato was
perhaps more powerfully swayed by other considerations, which we
shall now proceed to analyse. When pleasure was assumed to be the
highest good, knowledge was agreed to be the indispensable means
for its attainment; and, as so often happens, the means gradually
substituted itself for the end. Nor was this all; for knowledge (or
reason) being not only the means but the supreme arbiter, when called
on to adjudicate between conflicting claims, would naturally pronounce
in its own favour. Naturally, also, a moralist who made science the
chief interest of his own life would come to believe that it was the
proper object of all life, whether attended or not by any pleasurable
emotion. And so, in direct opposition to the utilitarian theory,
Plato declares at last that to brave a lesser pain in order to escape
from a greater, or to renounce a lesser pleasure in order to secure a
greater, is cowardice and intemperance in disguise; and that wisdom,
which he had formerly regarded as a means to other ends, is the one
end for which everything else should be exchanged.[139] Perhaps it may
have strengthened him in this attitude to observe that the many, whose
opinion he so thoroughly despised, made pleasure their aim in life,
while the fastidious few preferred knowledge. Yet, after a time, even
the latter alternative failed to satisfy his restless spirit. For the
conception of knowledge resolved itself into the deeper conceptions of
a knowing subject and a known object, the soul and the universe, each
of which became in turn the supreme ideal. What interpretation should
be given to virtue depended on the choice between them. According to
the one view it was a purification of the higher principle within us
from material wants and passions. Sensual gratifications should be
avoided, because they tend to degrade and pollute the soul. Death
should be fearlessly encountered, because it will release her from the
restrictions of bodily existence. But Plato had too strong a grasp
on the realities of life to remain satisfied with a purely ascetic
morality. Knowledge, on the objective side, brought him into relation
with an organised universe where each individual existed, not for his
own sake but for the sake of the whole, to fulfil a definite function
in the system of which he formed a part. And if from one point of
view the soul herself was an absolutely simple indivisible substance,
from another point of view she reflected the external order, and only
fulfilled the law of her being when each separate faculty was exercised
within its appropriate sphere.

There still remained one last problem to solve, one point where the
converging streams of ethical and metaphysical speculation met and
mixed. Granted that knowledge is the soul’s highest energy, what is the
object of this beatific vision? Granted that all particular energies
co-operate for a common purpose, what is the end to which they are
subordinated? Granted that dialectic leads us up through ascending
gradations to one all-comprehensive idea, how is that idea to be
defined? Plato only attempts to answer this last question by re-stating
it under the form of an illustration. As the sun at once gives life to
all Nature, and light to the eye by which Nature is perceived, so also
the idea of Good is the cause of existence and of knowledge alike, but
transcends them both as an absolute unity, of which we cannot even say
that it is, for the distinction of subject and predicate would bring
back relativity and plurality again. Here we seem to have the Socratic
paradox reversed. Socrates identified virtue with knowledge, but, at
the same time, entirely emptied the latter of its speculative content.
Plato, inheriting the idea of knowledge in its artificially restricted
significance, was irresistibly drawn back to the older philosophy
whence it had been originally borrowed; then, just as his master had
given an ethical application to science, so did he, travelling over the
same ground in an opposite direction, extend the theory of ethics far
beyond its legitimate range, until a principle which seemed to have no
meaning, except in reference to human conduct, became the abstract bond
of union between all reality and all thought.

Whether Plato ever succeeded in making the idea of Good quite clear to
others, or even to himself, is more than we can tell. In the _Republic_
he declines giving further explanations on the ground that his pupils
have not passed through the necessary mathematical initiation. Whether
quantitative reasoning was to furnish the form or the matter of
transcendent dialectic is left undetermined. We are told that on one
occasion a large audience assembled to hear Plato lecture on the Good,
but that, much to their disappointment, the discourse was entirely
filled with geometrical and astronomical investigations. Bearing in
mind, however, that mathematical science deals chiefly with equations,
and that astronomy, according to Plato, had for its object to prove
the absolute uniformity of the celestial motions, we may perhaps
conclude that the idea of Good meant no more than the abstract notion
of identity or indistinguishable likeness. The more complex idea of law
as a uniformity of relations, whether coexistent or successive, had not
then dawned, but it has since been similarly employed to bring physics
into harmony with ethics and logic.


III.

So far we have followed the evolution of Plato’s philosophy as it may
have been effected under the impulse of purely theoretical motives.
We have now to consider what form was imposed on it by the more
imperious exigencies of practical experience. Here, again, we find
Plato taking up and continuing the work of Socrates, but on a vastly
greater scale. There was, indeed, a kind of pre-established harmony
between the expression of thought on the one hand and the increasing
need for its application to life on the other. For the spread of
public corruption had gone on _pari passu_ with the development of
philosophy. The teaching of Socrates was addressed to individuals,
and dealt chiefly with private morality. On other points he was
content to accept the law of the land and the established political
constitution as sufficiently safe guides. He was not accustomed to see
them defied or perverted into instruments of selfish aggrandisement;
nor, apparently, had the possibility of such a contingency occurred
to him. Still less did he imagine that all social institutions then
existing were radically wrong. Hence the personal virtues held a more
important place in his system than the social virtues. His attacks
were directed against slothfulness and self-indulgence, against the
ignorant temerity which hurried some young men into politics before
their education was finished, and the timidity or fastidiousness which
prevented others from discharging the highest duties of citizenship.
Nor, in accepting the popular religion of his time, had he any
suspicion that its sanctions might be invoked on behalf of successful
violence and fraud. We have already shown how differently Plato felt
towards his age, and how much deeper as well as more shameless was
the demoralisation with which he set himself to contend. It must also
be remembered how judicial proceedings had come to overshadow every
other public interest; and how the highest culture of the time had, at
least in his eyes, become identified with the systematic perversion
of truth and right. These considerations will explain why Greek
philosophy, while moving on a higher plane, passed through the same
orbit which had been previously described by Greek poetry. Precisely
as the lessons of moderation in Homer had been followed by the lessons
of justice in Aeschylus, precisely as the religion which was a selfish
traffic between gods and men, and had little to tell of a life beyond
the grave, was replaced by the nobler faith in a divine guardianship
of morality and a retributive judgment after death—so also did the
Socratic ethics and the Socratic theology lead to a system which
made justice the essence of morality and religion its everlasting
consecration.

Temperance and justice are very clearly distinguished in our minds.
The one is mainly a self-regarding, the other mainly a social virtue.
But it would be a mistake to suppose that the distinction was equally
clear to Plato. He had learned from Socrates that all virtue is one.
He found himself confronted by men who pointedly opposed interest to
honour and expediency to fair-dealing, without making any secret of
their preference for the former. Here, as elsewhere, he laboured to
dissolve away the vulgar antithesis and to substitute for it a deeper
one—the antithesis between real and apparent goods. He was quite
ready to imagine the case of a man who might have to incur all sorts
of suffering in the practice of justice even to the extent of infamy,
torture, and death; but without denying that these were evils, he held
that to practise injustice with the accompaniment of worldly prosperity
was a greater evil still. And this conviction is quite unconnected
with his belief in a future life. He would not have agreed with St.
Paul that virtue is a bad calculation without the hope of a reward for
it hereafter. His morality is absolutely independent of any extrinsic
considerations. Nevertheless, he holds that in our own interest we
should do what is right; and it never seems to have entered his
thoughts that there could be any other motive for doing it. We have to
explain how such a paradox was possible.

Plato seems to have felt very strongly that all virtuous action tends
towards a good exceeding in value any temporary sacrifice which it may
involve; and the accepted connotation of ethical terms went entirely
along with this belief. But he could not see that a particular action
might be good for the community at large and bad for the individual who
performed it, not in a different sense but in the very same sense, as
involving a diminution of his happiness. For from Plato’s abstract and
generalising point of view all good was homogeneous, and the welfare of
the individual was absolutely identified with the welfare of the whole
to which he belonged. As against those who made right dependent on
might and erected self-indulgence into the law of life Plato occupied
an impregnable position. He showed that such principles made society
impossible, and that without honour even a gang of thieves cannot
hold together.[140] He also saw that it is reason which brings each
individual into relation with the whole and enables him to understand
his obligations towards it; but at the same time he gave this reason a
personal character which does not properly belong to it; or, what comes
to the same thing, he treated human beings as pure _entia rationis_,
thus unwittingly removing the necessity for having any morality at all.
On his assumption it would be absurd to break the law; but neither
would there be any temptation to break it, nor would any unpleasant
consequences follow on its violation. Plato speaks of injustice as an
injury to the soul’s health, and therefore as the greatest evil that
can befall a human being, without observing that the inference involves
a confusion of terms. For his argument requires that soul should mean
both the whole of conscious life and the system of abstract notions
through which we communicate and co-operate with our fellow-creatures.
All crime is a serious disturbance to the latter, for it cannot without
absurdity be made the foundation of a general rule; but, apart from
penal consequences, it does not impair, and may benefit the former.

While Plato identified the individual with the community by slurring
over the possible divergence of their interests, he still further
contributed to their logical confusion by resolving the ego into a
multitude of conflicting faculties and impulses supposed to represent
the different classes of which a State is made up. His opponents
held that justice and law emanate from the ruling power in the body
politic; and they were brought to admit that supreme power is properly
vested in the wisest and best citizens. Transferring these principles
to the inner forum, he maintained that a psychological aristocracy
could only be established by giving reason a similar control over the
animal passions.[141] At first sight, this seemed to imply no more
than a return to the standpoint of Socrates, or of Plato himself in
the _Protagoras_. The man who indulges his desires within the limits
prescribed by a regard for their safe satisfaction through his whole
life, may be called temperate and reasonable, but he is not necessarily
just. If, however, we identify the paramount authority within with
the paramount authority without, we shall have to admit that there
is a faculty of justice in the individual soul corresponding to the
objective justice of political law; and since the supreme virtue is
agreed on all hands to be reason, we must go a step further and admit
that justice is reason, or that it is reasonable to be just; and
that by consequence the height of injustice is the height of folly.
Moreover, this fallacious substitution of justice for temperance was
facilitated by the circumstance that although the former virtue is not
involved in the latter, the latter is to a very great extent involved
in the former. Self-control by no means carries with it a respect for
the rights of others; but where such respect exists it necessitates a
considerable amount of self-control.

We trust that the steps of a difficult argument have been made clear by
the foregoing analysis; and that the whole process has been shown to
hinge on the ambiguous use of such notions as the individual and the
community, of which the one is paradoxically construed as a plurality
and the other as a unity; justice, which is alternately taken in the
sense of control exercised by the worthiest, control of passion in the
general interest, control of our passions in the interest of others,
and control of the same passions in our own interest; and wisdom or
reason, which sometimes means any kind of excellence, sometimes the
excellence of a harmonious society, and sometimes the excellence of a
well-balanced mind. Thus, out of self-regarding virtue social virtue
is elicited, the whole process being ultimately conditioned by that
identifying power which was at once the strength and the weakness of
Plato’s genius.

Plato knew perfectly well that although rhetoricians and men of
the world might be silenced, they could not be converted nor even
convinced by such arguments as these. So far from thinking it possible
to reason men into virtue, he has observed of those who are slaves
to their senses that you must improve them before you can teach them
the truth.[L] And he felt that if the complete assimilation of the
individual and the community was to become more than a mere logical
formula, it must be effected by a radical reform in the training of
the one and in the institutions of the other. Accordingly, he set
himself to elaborate a scheme for the purpose, our knowledge of which
is chiefly derived from his greatest work, the _Republic_. We have
already made large use of the negative criticism scattered through that
Dialogue; we have now to examine the positive teaching by which it was
supplemented.


IV.

Plato, like Socrates, makes religious instruction the basis of
education. But where the master had been content to set old beliefs on
a new basis of demonstration, the disciple aimed at nothing less than
their complete purification from irrational and immoral ingredients.
He lays down two great principles, that God is good, and that He is
true.[142] Every story which is inconsistent with such a character must
be rejected; so also must everything in the poets which redounds to the
discredit of the national heroes, together with everything tending in
the remotest degree to make vice attractive or virtue repellent. It is
evident that Plato, like Xenophanes, repudiated not only the scandalous
details of popular mythology, but also the anthropomorphic conceptions
which lay at its foundation; although he did not think it advisable to
state his unbelief with equal frankness. His own theology was a sort
of star-worship, and he proved the divinity of the heavenly bodies by
an appeal to the uniformity of their movements.[143] He further taught
that the world was created by an absolutely good Being; but we cannot
be sure that this was more than a popular version of the theory which
placed the abstract idea of Good at the summit of the dialectic series.
The truth is that there are two distinct types of religion, the one
chiefly interested in the existence and attributes of God, the other
chiefly interested in the destiny of the human soul. The former is best
represented by Judaism, the latter by Buddhism. Plato belongs to the
psychic rather than to the theistic type. The doctrine of immortality
appears again and again in his Dialogues, and one of the most beautiful
among them is entirely devoted to proving it. He seems throughout to be
conscious that he is arguing in favour of a paradox. Here, at least,
there are no appeals to popular prejudice such as figure so largely in
similar discussions among ourselves. The belief in immortality had long
been stirring; but it had not taken deep root among the Ionian Greeks.
We cannot even be sure that it was embraced as a consoling hope by any
but the highest minds anywhere in Hellas, or by them for more than a
brief period. It would be easy to maintain that this arose from some
natural incongeniality to the Greek imagination in thoughts which drew
it away from the world of sense and the delights of earthly life. But
the explanation breaks down immediately when we attempt to verify it
by a wider experience. No modern nation enjoys life so keenly as the
French. Yet, quite apart from traditional dogmas, there is no nation
that counts so many earnest supporters of the belief in a spiritual
existence beyond the grave. And, to take an individual example, it is
just the keen relish which Mr. Browning’s Cleon has for every sort of
enjoyment which makes him shrink back with horror from the thought of
annihilation, and grasp at any promise of a happiness to be prolonged
through eternity. A closer examination is needed to show us by what
causes the current of Greek thought was swayed.

The great religious movement of the sixth and fifth centuries—chiefly
represented for us by the names of Pythagoras, Aeschylus, and
Pindar—would in all probability have entirely won over the educated
classes, and given definiteness to the half-articulate utterances
of popular tradition, had it not been arrested prematurely by
the development of physical speculation. We showed in the first
chapter that Greek philosophy in its earliest stages was entirely
materialistic. It differed, indeed, from modern materialism in holding
that the soul, or seat of conscious life, is an entity distinct from
the body; but the distinction was one between a grosser and a finer
matter, or else between a simpler and a more complex arrangement of
the same matter, not between an extended and an indivisible substance.
Whatever theories, then, were entertained with respect to the one
would inevitably come to be entertained also with respect to the
other. Now, with the exception of the Eleates, who denied the reality
of change and separation altogether, every school agreed in teaching
that all particular bodies are formed either by differentiation or by
decomposition and recomposition out of the same primordial elements.
From this it followed, as a natural consequence, that, although
the whole mass of matter was eternal, each particular aggregate of
matter must perish in order to release the elements required for the
formation of new aggregates. It is obvious that, assuming the soul to
be material, its immortality was irreconcilable with such a doctrine as
this. A combination of four elements and two conflicting forces, such
as Empedocles supposed the human mind to be, could not possibly outlast
the organism in which it was enclosed; and if Empedocles himself, by
an inconsistency not uncommon with men of genius, refused to draw the
only legitimate conclusion from his own principles, the discrepancy
could not fail to force itself on his successors. Still more fatal to
the belief in a continuance of personal identity after death was the
theory put forward by Diogenes of Apollonia, that there is really no
personal identity even in life—that consciousness is only maintained
by a perpetual inhalation of the vital air in which all reason resides.
The soul very literally left the body with the last breath, and had a
poor chance of holding together afterwards, especially, as the wits
observed, if a high wind happened to be blowing at the time.

It would appear that even in the Pythagorean school there had been a
reaction against a doctrine which its founder had been the first to
popularise in Hellas. The Pythagoreans had always attributed great
importance to the conceptions of harmony and numerical proportion; and
they soon came to think of the soul as a ratio which the different
elements of the animal body bore to one another; or as a musical
concord resulting from the joint action of its various members, which
might be compared to the strings of a lute. But

              ‘When the lute is broken
    Sweet tones are remembered not.’

And so, with the dissolution of our bodily organism, the music of
consciousness would pass away for ever. Perhaps no form of psychology
taught in the Greek schools has approached nearer to modern thought
than this. It was professed at Thebes by two Pythagoreans, Cebes and
Simmias, in the time of Plato. He rightly regarded them as formidable
opponents, for they were ready to grant whatever he claimed for
the soul in the way of immateriality and superiority to the body,
while denying the possibility of its separate existence. We may
so far anticipate the course of our exposition as to mention that
the direct argument by which he met them was a reference to the
moving power of mind, and to the constraint exercised by reason over
passionate impulse; characteristics which the analogy with a musical
harmony failed to explain. But his chief reliance was on an order of
considerations, the historical genesis of which we shall now proceed to
trace.

It was by that somewhat slow and circuitous process, the negation of
a negation, that spiritualism was finally established. The shadows
of doubt gathered still more thickly around futurity before another
attempt could be made to remove them. For the scepticism of the
Humanists and the ethical dialectic of Socrates, if they tended to
weaken the dogmatic materialism of physical philosophy, were at first
not more favourable to the new faith which that philosophy had suddenly
eclipsed. For the one rejected every kind of supernaturalism; and the
other did not attempt to go behind what had been directly revealed by
the gods, or was discoverable from an examination of their handiwork.
Nevertheless, the new enquiries, with their exclusively subjective
direction, paved the way for a return to the religious development
previously in progress. By leading men to think of mind as, above all,
a principle of knowledge and deliberate action, they altogether freed
it from those material associations which brought it under the laws of
external Nature, where every finite existence was destined, sooner or
later, to be reabsorbed and to disappear. The position was completely
reversed when Nature was, as it were, brought up before the bar of
Mind to have her constitution determined or her very existence denied
by that supreme tribunal. If the subjective idealism of Protagoras and
Gorgias made for spiritualism, so also did the teleological religion
of Socrates. It was impossible to assert the priority and superiority
of mind to matter more strongly than by teaching that a designing
intelligence had created the whole visible universe for the exclusive
enjoyment of man. The infinite without was in its turn absorbed by the
infinite within. Finally, the logical method of Socrates contained
in itself the germs of a still subtler spiritualism which Plato now
proceeded to work out.

The dialectic theory, considered in its relation to physics, tended
to substitute the study of uniformity for the study of mechanical
causation. But the general conceptions established by science were
a kind of soul in Nature; they were immaterial, they could not be
perceived by sense, and yet, remaining as they did unchanged in a world
of change, they were far truer, far more real, than the phenomena to
which they gave unity and definition. Now these self-existent ideas,
being subjective in their origin, readily reacted on mind, and
communicated to it those attributes of fixedness and eternal duration
which had in truth been borrowed by them from Nature, not by Nature
from them. Plato argued that the soul was in possession of ideas too
pure to have been derived from the suggestions of sense, and therefore
traceable to the reminiscences of an ante-natal experience. But we can
see that the reminiscence was all on the side of the ideas; it was they
that betrayed their human origin by the birthmark of abstraction and
finality—betokening the limitation of man’s faculties and the interest
of his desires—which still clung to them when from a temporary law of
thought they were erected into an everlasting law of things. As Comte
would say, Plato was taking out of his conceptions what he had first
put into them himself. And, if this consideration applies to all his
reasonings on the subject of immortality, it applies especially to what
he regards as the most convincing demonstration of any. There is one
idea, he tells us, with which the soul is inseparably and essentially
associated—namely, the idea of life. Without this, soul can no more
be conceived than snow without cold or fire without heat; nor can
death approach it without involving a logical contradiction. To assume
that the soul is separable from the body, and that life is inseparable
from the soul, was certainly an expeditious method of proof. To a
modern, it would have the further disadvantage of proving too much.
For, by parity of reasoning, every living thing must have an immortal
soul, and every soul must have existed from all eternity. Plato
frankly accepted both conclusions, and even incorporated them with his
ethical system. He looked on the lower animals as so many stages in a
progressive degradation to which human beings had descended through
their own violence or sensuality, but from which it was possible for
them to return after a certain period of penitence and probation.
At other times he describes a hell, a purgatory, and a heaven, not
unlike what we read of in Dante, without apparently being conscious
of any inconsistency between the two representations. It was, indeed,
an inconsistency such as we find in the highest order of intellects,
the inconsistency of one who mediated between two worlds, between
naturalistic metempsychosis on the one side, and ethical individualism
on the other.

It was not merely the immortality, it was the eternity of the soul that
Plato taught. For him the expectation of a life beyond the grave was
identified with the memory of an ante-natal existence, and the two must
stand or fall together. When Shelley’s shipwrecked mother exclaims to
her child:—

    ‘Alas! what is life, what is death, what are we,
    That when the ship sinks we no longer may be!
    What! to see thee no more, and to feel thee no more,
    To be after life what we have been before!’

Her despair is but the inverted image of Plato’s hope, the return to
a purer state of being where knowledge will no longer be obscured
by passing through the perturbing medium of sight and touch. Again,
modern apologists for the injustice and misery of the present
system[144] argue that its inequalities will be redressed in a future
state. Plato conversely regarded the sufferings of good men as a
retribution for former sin, or as the result of a forgotten choice.
The authority of Pindar and of ancient tradition generally may have
influenced his belief, but it had a deeper ground in the logic of a
spiritualistic philosophy. The dualism of soul and body is only one
form of his fundamental antithesis between the changeless essence
and the transitory manifestations of existence. A pantheism like
Spinoza’s was the natural outcome of such a system; but his practical
genius or his ardent imagination kept Plato from carrying it so far.
Nor in the interests of progress was the result to be regretted; for
theology had to pass through one more phase before the term of its
beneficent activity could be reached. Ethical conceptions gained a new
significance in the blended light of mythology and metaphysics; those
who made it their trade to pervert justice at its fountain-head might
still tremble before the terrors of a supernatural tribunal; or if
Plato could not regenerate the life of his own people he could foretell
what was to be the common faith of Europe in another thousand years;
and memory, if not hope, is the richer for those magnificent visions
where he has projected the eternal conflict between good and evil into
the silence and darkness by which our lives are shut in on every side.


V.

Plato had begun by condemning poetry only in so far as it was
inconsistent with true religion and morality. At last, with his usual
propensity to generalise, he condemned it and, by implication, every
imitative art _quâ_ art, as a delusion and a sham, twice removed
from the truth of things, because a copy of the phenomena which
are themselves unreal representations of an archetypal idea. His
iconoclasm may remind us of other ethical theologians both before and
after, whether Hebrew, Moslem, or Puritan. If he does not share their
fanatical hatred for plastic and pictorial representations, it is only
because works of that class, besides being of a chaster character,
exercised far less power over the Greek imagination than epic and
dramatic poetry. Moreover, the tales of the poets were, according
to Plato, the worst lies of any, since they were believed to be
true; whereas statues and pictures differed too obviously from their
originals for any such illusion to be produced in their case. Like the
Puritans, again, Plato sanctioned the use of religious hymns, with the
accompaniment of music in its simplest and most elevated forms. Like
them, also, he would have approved of literary fiction when it was
employed for edifying purposes. Works like the _Faery Queen_, _Paradise
Lost_, and the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, would have been his favourites in
English literature; and he might have extended the same indulgence to
fictions of the Edgeworthian type, where the virtuous characters always
come off best in the end.

The reformed system of education was to be not only moral and religious
but also severely scientific. The place given to mathematics as the
foundation of a right intellectual training is most remarkable, and
shows how truly Plato apprehended the conditions under which knowledge
is acquired and enlarged. Here, as in other respects, he is, more
even than Aristotle, the precursor of Auguste Comte. He arranges the
mathematical sciences, so far as they then existed, in their logical
order; and his remarks on the most general ideas suggested by astronomy
read like a divination of rational mechanics. That a recommendation of
such studies should be put into the mouth of Socrates is a striking
incongruity. The older Plato grew the farther he seems to have advanced
from the humanist to the naturalistic point of view; and, had he been
willing to confess it, Hippias and Prodicus were the teachers with whom
he finally found himself most in sympathy.

Macaulay has spoken as if the Platonic philosophy was totally unrelated
to the material wants of men. This, however, is a mistake. It is true
that, in the _Republic_, science is not regarded as an instrument for
heaping up fresh luxuries, or for curing the diseases which luxury
breeds; but only because its purpose is held to be the discovery of
those conditions under which a healthy, happy, and virtuous race can
best be reared. The art of the true statesman is to weave the web of
life with perfect skill, to bring together those couples from whose
union the noblest progeny shall issue; and it is only by mastering the
laws of the physical universe that this art can be acquired. Plato knew
no natural laws but those of mathematics and astronomy; consequently,
he set far too much store on the times and seasons at which bride and
bridegroom were to meet, and on the numerical ratios by which they
were supposed to be determined. He even tells us about a mysterious
formula for discovering the nuptial number, by which the ingenuity of
commentators has been considerably exercised. The true laws by which
marriage should be regulated among a civilised people have remained
wrapped in still more impenetrable darkness. Whatever may be the best
solution, it can hardly fail to differ in many respects from our
present customs. It cannot be right that the most important act in
the life of a human being should be determined by social ambition, by
avarice, by vanity, by pique, or by accident—in a word, by the most
contemptible impulses of which human nature is susceptible; nor is
it to be expected that sexual selection will always necessitate the
employment of insincerity, adulation, and bribery by one of the parties
concerned, while fostering in the other credulity, egoism, jealousy,
capriciousness, and petty tyranny—the very qualities which a wise
training would have for its object to root out.[145]

It seems difficult to reconcile views about marriage involving
a recognition of the fact that mental and moral qualities are
hereditarily transmitted, with the belief in metempsychosis elsewhere
professed by Plato. But perhaps his adhesion to the latter doctrine
is not to be taken very seriously. In imitation of the objective
world, whose essential truth is half hidden and half disclosed by
its phenomenal manifestations, he loves to present his speculative
teaching under a mythical disguise; and so he may have chosen the
old doctrine of transmigration as an apt expression for the unity
and continuity of life. And, at worst, he would not be guilty of any
greater inconsistency than is chargeable to those modern philosophers
who, while they admit that mental qualities are inherited, hold each
individual soul to be a separate and independent creation.

The rules for breeding and education set forth in the _Republic_
are not intended for the whole community, but only for the ruling
minority. It was by the corruption of the higher classes that Plato was
most distressed, and the salvation of the State depended, according
to him, on their reformation. This leads us on to his scheme for
the reconstitution of society. It is intimately connected with his
method of logical definition and classification. He shows with great
force that the collective action of human beings is conditioned by
the division of labour; and argues from this that every individual
ought, in the interest of the whole, to be restricted to a single
occupation. Therefore, the industrial classes, who form the bulk of
the population, are to be excluded both from military service and
from political power. The Peloponnesian War had led to a general
substitution of professional soldiers for the old levies of untrained
citizens in Greek warfare. Plato was deeply impressed by the dangers,
as well as by the advantages, of this revolution. That each profession
should be exercised only by persons trained for it, suited his notions
alike as a logician, a teacher, and a practical reformer. But he saw
that mercenary fighters might use their power to oppress and plunder
the defenceless citizens, or to establish a military despotism. And,
holding that government should, like strategy, be exercised only by
functionaries naturally fitted and expressly trained for the work, he
saw equally that a privileged class would be tempted to abuse their
position in order to fill their pockets and to gratify their passions.
He proposed to provide against these dangers, first by the new system
of education already described, and secondly by pushing the division
of labour to its logical conclusion. That they might the better attend
to their specific duties, the defenders and the rulers of the State
were not to practise the art of money-making; in other words, they were
not to possess any property of their own, but were to be supported
by the labour of the industrial classes. Furthermore, that they need
not quarrel among themselves, he proposed that every private interest
should be eliminated from their lives, and that they should, as a
class, be united by the closest bonds of family affection. This purpose
was to be effected by the abolition of marriage and of domesticity.
The couples chosen for breeding were to be separated when the object
of their union had been attained; children were to be taken from their
mothers immediately after birth and brought up at the expense and under
the supervision of the State. Sickly and deformed infants were to be
destroyed. Those who fell short of the aristocratic standard were to
be degraded, and their places filled up by the exceptionally gifted
offspring of low-class parents. Members of the military and governing
caste were to address each other according to the kinship which might
possibly exist between them. In the absence of home-employments, women
were to be, so far as possible, assimilated to men; to pass through the
same bodily and mental training; to be enrolled in the army; and, if
they showed the necessary capacity, to discharge the highest political
functions. In this practical dialectic the identifying no less than
the differentiating power of logic is displayed, and displayed also in
defiance of common ideas, as in the modern classifications of zoology
and botany. Plato introduces distinctions where they did not before
exist, and annuls those which were already recognised. The sexes were
to be assimilated, political life was to be identified with family
life, and the whole community was to present an exact parallel with the
individual soul. The ruling committee corresponded to reason, the army
to passionate spirit, and the industrial classes to the animal desires;
and each, in its perfect constitution, represented one of the cardinal
virtues as reinterpreted by Plato. Wisdom belonged to the ruling
part, courage to the intermediate executive power, and temperance or
obedience to the organs of material existence; while justice meant the
general harmony resulting from the fulfilment of their appropriate
functions by all. We may add that the whole State reproduced the Greek
family in a much deeper sense than Plato himself was aware of. For his
aristocracy represents the man, whose virtue, in the words of Gorgias,
was to ‘administer the State;’ and his industrial class takes the place
of the woman, whose duty was ‘to order her house, and keep what is
indoors, and obey her husband.’[146]

Such was the celebrated scheme by which Plato proposed to regenerate
mankind. We have already taken occasion to show how it was connected
with his ethical and dialectical philosophy. We have now to consider
in what relation it stands to the political experience of his own
and other times, as well as to the revolutionary proposals of other
speculative reformers.


VI.

According to Hegel,[147] the Platonic polity, so far from being an
impracticable dream, had already found its realisation in Greek life,
and did but give a purer expression to the constitutive principle
of every ancient commonwealth. There are, he tells us, three stages
in the moral development of mankind. The first is purely objective.
It represents a régime where rules of conduct are entirely imposed
from without; they are, as it were, embodied in the framework of
society; they rest, not on reason and conscience, but on authority
and tradition; they will not suffer themselves to be questioned,
for, being unproved, a doubt would be fatal to their very existence.
Here the individual is completely sacrificed to the State; but in
the second or subjective stage he breaks loose, asserting the right
of his private judgment and will as against the established order
of things. This revolution was, still according to Hegel, begun by
the Sophists and Socrates. It proved altogether incompatible with
the spirit of Greek civilisation, which it ended by shattering to
pieces. The subjective principle found an appropriate expression in
Christianity, which attributes an infinite importance to the individual
soul; and it appears also in the political philosophy of Rousseau.
We may observe that it corresponds very nearly to what Auguste Comte
meant by the metaphysical period. The modern State reconciles both
principles, allowing the individual his full development, and at the
same time incorporating him with a larger whole, where, for the first
time, he finds his own reason fully realised. Now, Hegel looks on the
Platonic republic as a reaction against the subjective individualism,
the right of private judgment, the self-seeking impulse, or whatever
else it is to be called, which was fast eating into the heart of Greek
civilisation. To counteract this fatal tendency, Plato goes back to
the constitutive principle of Greek society—that is to say, the
omnipotence, or, in Benthamite parlance, omnicompetence, of the State;
exhibiting it, in ideal perfection, as the suppression of individual
liberty under every form, more especially the fundamental forms of
property, marriage, and domestic life.

It seems to us that Hegel, in his anxiety to crush every historical
process into the narrow symmetry of a favourite metaphysical formula,
has confounded several entirely distinct conceptions under the common
name of subjectivity. First, there is the right of private judgment,
the claim of each individual to have a voice in the affairs of the
State, and to have the free management of his own personal concerns.
But this, so far from being modern, is one of the oldest customs
of the Aryan race; and perhaps, could we look back to the oldest
history of other races now despotically governed, we should find it
prevailing among them also. It was no new nor unheard-of privilege that
Rousseau vindicated for the peoples of his own time, but their ancient
birthright, taken from them by the growth of a centralised military
system, just as it had been formerly taken from the city communities of
the Graeco-Roman world. In this respect, Plato goes against the whole
spirit of his country, and no period of its development, not even the
age of Homer, would have satisfied him.

We have next the disposition of individuals, no longer to interfere in
making the law, but to override it, or to bend it into an instrument
for their own purposes. Doubtless there existed such a tendency in
Plato’s time, and his polity was very largely designed to hold it
in check. But such unprincipled ambition was nothing new in Greece,
however the mode of its manifestations might vary. What had formerly
been seized by armed violence was now sought after with the more subtle
weapons of rhetorical skill; just as at the present moment, among these
same Greeks, it is the prize of parliamentary intrigue. The Cretan and
Spartan institutions may very possibly have been designed with a view
to checking this spirit of selfish lawlessness, by reducing private
interests to a minimum; and Plato most certainly had them in his mind
when he pushed the same method still further; but those institutions
were not types of Hellenism as a whole, they only represented one, and
that a very abnormal, side of it. Plato borrowed some elements from
this quarter, but, as we shall presently show, he incorporated them
with others of a widely different character. Sparta was, indeed, on
any high theory of government, not a State at all, but a robber-clan
established among a plundered population whom they never tried or cared
to conciliate. How little weight her rulers attributed to the interests
of the State as such, was well exhibited during the Peloponnesian War,
when political advantages of the utmost importance were surrendered
in deference to the noble families whose kinsmen had been captured at
Sphactêria, and whose sole object was to rescue them from the fate with
which they were threatened by the Athenians as a means of extorting
concessions;—conduct with which the refusal of Rome to ransom the
soldiers who had surrendered at Cannae may be instructively contrasted.

We have, thirdly, to consider a form of individualism directly opposed
in character to those already specified. It is the complete withdrawal
from public affairs for the sake of attending exclusively to one’s
private duties or pleasures. Such individualism is the characteristic
weakness of conservatives, who are, by their very nature, the party
of timidity and quiescence. To them was addressed the exhortation
of Cato, _capessenda est respublica_. The two other forms of which
we have spoken are, on the contrary, diseases of liberalism. We see
them exemplified when the leaders of a party are harassed by the
perpetual criticism of their professed supporters; or, again, when
an election is lost because the votes of the Liberal electors are
divided among several candidates. But when a party—generally the
Conservative party—loses an election because its voters will not
go to the poll, that is owing to the lazy individualism which shuns
political contests altogether. It was of this disease that the public
life of Athens really perished; and, so far, Hegel is on the right
track; but although its action was more obviously and immediately fatal
in antiquity, we are by no means safe from a repetition of the same
experience in modern society. Nor can it be said that Plato reacted
against an evil which, in his eyes, was an evil only when it deprived
a very few properly-qualified persons of political supremacy. With
regard to all others he proposed to sanction and systematise what was
already becoming a common custom—namely, entire withdrawal from the
administration of affairs in peace and war. Hegel seems to forget
that it is only a single class, and that the smallest, in Plato’s
republic which is not allowed to have any private interests; while the
industrial classes, necessarily forming a large majority of the whole
population, are not only suffered to retain their property and their
families, but are altogether thrown back for mental occupation on the
interests arising out of these. The resulting state of things would
have found its best parallel, not in old Greek city life, but in modern
Europe, as it was between the Reformation and the French Revolution.

The three forms of individualism already enumerated do not exhaust
the general conception of subjectivity. According to Hegel, if we
understand him aright, the most important aspect of the principle in
question would be the philosophical side, the return of thought on
itself, already latent in physical speculation, proclaimed by the
Sophists as an all-dissolving scepticism, and worked up into a theory
of life by Socrates. That there was such a movement is, of course,
certain; but that it contributed perceptibly to the decay of old
Greek morality, or that it was essentially opposed to the old Greek
spirit, cannot, we think, be truly asserted. What has been already
observed of political liberty and of political unscrupulousness may be
repeated of intellectual inquisitiveness, rationalism, scepticism, or
by whatever name the tendency in question is to be called—it always
was, and still is, essentially characteristic of the Greek race. It
may very possibly have been a source of political disintegration at
all times, but that it became so to a greater extent after assuming
the form of systematic speculation has never been proved. If the study
of science, or the passion for intellectual gymnastics, drew men away
from the duties of public life, it was simply as one more private
interest among many, just like feasting, or lovemaking, or travelling,
or poetry, or any other of the occupations in which a wealthy Greek
delighted; not from any intrinsic incompatibility with the duties of a
statesman or a soldier. So far, indeed, was this from being true, that
liberal studies, even of the abstrusest order, were pursued with every
advantage to their patriotic energy by such citizens as Zeno, Melissus,
Empedocles, and, above all, by Pericles and Epameinondas. If Socrates
stood aloof from public business it was that he might have more leisure
to train others for its proper performance; and he himself, when called
upon to serve the State, proved fully equal to the emergency. As for
the Sophists, it is well known that their profession was to give young
men the sort of education which would enable them to fill the highest
political offices with honour and advantage. It is true that such a
special preparation would end by throwing increased difficulties in
the way of a career which it was originally intended to facilitate, by
raising the standard of technical proficiency in statesmanship; and
that many possible aspirants would, in consequence, be driven back
on less arduous pursuits. But Plato was so far from opposing this
specialisation that he wished to carry it much farther, and to make
government the exclusive business of a small class who were to be
physiologically selected and to receive an education far more elaborate
than any that the Sophists could give. If, however, we consider Plato
not as the constructor of a new constitution but in relation to the
politics of his own time, we must admit that his whole influence was
used to set public affairs in a hateful and contemptible light. So far,
therefore, as philosophy was represented by him, it must count for a
disintegrating force. But in just the same degree we are precluded from
assimilating his idea of a State to the old Hellenic model. We must
rather say, what he himself would have said, that it never was realised
anywhere; although, as we shall presently see, a certain approach to it
was made in the Middle Ages.

Once more, looking at the whole current of Greek philosophy, and
especially the philosophy of mind, are we entitled to say that it
encouraged, if it did not create, those other forms of individualism
already defined as mutinous criticism on the part of the people, and
selfish ambition on the part of its chiefs? Some historians have
maintained that there was such a connexion, operating, if not directly,
at least through a chain of intermediate causes. Free thought destroyed
religion, with religion fell morality, and with morality whatever
restraints had hitherto kept anarchic tendencies of every description
within bounds. These are interesting reflections; but they do not
concern us here, for the issue raised by Hegel is entirely different.
It matters nothing to him that Socrates was a staunch defender of
supernaturalism and of the received morality. The essential antithesis
is between the Socratic introspection and the Socratic dialectics on
the one side, and the unquestioned authority of ancient institutions
on the other. If this be what Hegel means, we must once more record
our dissent. We cannot admit that the philosophy of subjectivity, so
interpreted, was a decomposing ferment; nor that the spirit of Plato’s
republic was, in any case, a protest against it. The Delphic precept,
‘Know thyself,’ meant in the mouth of Socrates: Let every man find out
what work he is best fitted for, and stick to that, without meddling in
matters for which he is not qualified. The Socratic dialectic meant:
Let the whole field of knowledge be similarly studied; let our ideas
on all subjects be so systematised that we shall be able to discover
at a moment’s notice the bearing of any one of them on any of the
others, or on any new question brought up for decision. Surely nothing
could well be less individualistic, in a bad sense, less anti-social,
less anarchic than this. Nor does Plato oppose, he generalises his
master’s principles; he works out the psychology and dialectic of
the whole state; and if the members of his governing class are not
permitted to have any separate interests in their individual capacity,
each individual soul is exalted to the highest dignity by having
the community reorganised on the model of its own internal economy.
There are no violent peripeteias in this great drama of thought, but
everywhere harmony, continuity, and gradual development.

We have entered at some length into Hegel’s theory of the _Republic_,
because it seems to embody a misleading conception not only of Greek
politics but also of the most important attempt at a social reformation
ever made by one man in the history of philosophy. Thought would be
much less worth studying if it only reproduced the abstract form of
a very limited experience, instead of analysing and recombining the
elements of which that experience is composed. And our faith in the
power of conscious efforts towards improvement will very much depend on
which side of the alternative we accept.

Zeller, while taking a much wider view than Hegel, still assumes that
Plato’s reforms, so far as they were suggested by experience, were
simply an adaptation of Dorian practices.[148] He certainly succeeds
in showing that private property, marriage, education, individual
liberty, and personal morality were subjected, at least in Sparta, to
many restrictions resembling those imposed in the Platonic state. And
Plato himself, by treating the Spartan system as the first form of
degeneration from his own ideal, seems to indicate that this of all
existing polities made the nearest approach to it. The declarations of
the _Timaeus_[149] are, however, much more distinct; and according to
them it was in the caste-divisions of Egypt that he found the nearest
parallel to his own scheme of social reorganisation. There, too, the
priests, or wise men came first, and after them the warriors, while
the different branches of industry were separated from one another by
rigid demarcations. He may also have been struck by that free admission
of women to employments elsewhere filled exclusively by men, which so
surprised Herodotus, from his inability to discern its real cause—the
more advanced differentiation of Egyptian as compared with Greek
society.[150]


VII.

But a profounder analysis of experience is necessary before we can come
to the real roots of Plato’s scheme. It must be remembered that our
philosopher was a revolutionist of the most thorough-going description,
that he objected not to this or that constitution of his time, but to
all existing constitutions whatever. Now, every great revolutionary
movement, if in some respects an advance and an evolution, is in other
respects a retrogression and a dissolution. When the most complex forms
of political association are broken up, the older or subordinate forms
suddenly acquire new life and meaning. What is true of practice is
true also of speculation. Having broken away from the most advanced
civilisation, Plato was thrown back on the spontaneous organisation of
industry, on the army, the school, the family, the savage tribe, and
even the herd of cattle, for types of social union. It was by taking
some hints from each of these minor aggregates that he succeeded in
building up his ideal polity, which, notwithstanding its supposed
simplicity and consistency, is one of the most heterogeneous ever
framed. The principles on which it rests are not really carried out
to their logical consequences; they interfere with and supplement
one another. The restriction of political power to a single class is
avowedly based on the necessity for a division of labour. One man, we
are told, can only do one thing well. But Plato should have seen that
the producer is not for that reason to be made a monopolist; and that,
to borrow his own favourite example, shoes are properly manufactured
because the shoemaker is kept in order by the competition of his rivals
and by the freedom of the consumer to purchase wherever he pleases.
Athenian democracy, so far from contradicting the lessons of political
economy, was, in truth, their logical application to government. The
people did not really govern themselves, nor do they in any modern
democracy, but they listened to different proposals, just as they might
choose among different articles in a shop or different tenders for
building a house, accepted the most suitable, and then left it to be
carried out by their trusted agents.

Again, Plato is false to his own rule when he selects his philosophic
governors out of the military caste. If the same individual can be a
warrior in his youth and an administrator in his riper years, one
man can do two things well, though not at the same time. If the same
person can be born with the qualifications both of a soldier and of
a politician, and can be fitted by education for each calling in
succession, surely a much greater number can combine the functions of
a manual labourer with those of an elector. What prevented Plato from
perceiving this obvious parallel was the tradition of the paterfamilias
who had always been a warrior in his youth; and a commendable
anxiety to keep the army closely connected with the civil power. The
analogies of domestic life have also a great deal to do with his
proposed community of women and children. Instead of undervaluing the
family affections, he immensely overvalued them; as is shown by his
supposition that the bonds of consanguinity would prevent dissensions
from arising among his warriors. He should have known that many a home
is the scene of constant wrangling, and that quarrels between kinsfolk
are the bitterest of any. Then, looking on the State as a great school,
Plato imagined that the obedience, docility, and credulity of young
scholars could be kept up through a lifetime; that full-grown citizens
would swallow the absurdest inventions; and that middle-aged officers
could be sent into retirement for several years to study dialectic. To
suppose that statesmen must necessarily be formed by the discipline
in question is another scholastic trait. The professional teacher
attributes far more practical importance to his abstruser lessons
than they really possess. He is not content to wait for the indirect
influence which they may exert at some remote period and in combination
with forces of perhaps a widely different character. He looks for
immediate and telling results. He imagines that the highest truth
must have a mysterious power of transforming all things into its own
likeness, or at least of making its learners more capable than other
men of doing the world’s work. Here also Plato, instead of being too
logical, was not logical enough. By following out the laws of economy,
as applied to mental labour, he might have arrived at the separation
of the spiritual and temporal powers, and thus anticipated the best
established social doctrine of our time.

With regard to the propagation of the race, Plato’s methods
are avowedly borrowed from those practised by bird-fanciers,
horse-trainers, and cattle-breeders. It had long been a Greek custom to
compare the people to a flock of sheep and their ruler to a shepherd,
phrases which still survive in ecclesiastical parlance. Socrates
habitually employed the same simile in his political discussions;
and the rhetoricians used it as a justification of the governors
who enriched themselves at the expense of those committed to their
charge. Plato twisted the argument out of their hands and showed that
the shepherd, as such, studies nothing but the good of his sheep.
He failed to perceive that the parallel could not be carried out in
every detail, and that, quite apart from more elevated considerations,
the system which secures a healthy progeny in the one case cannot be
transferred to creatures possessing a vastly more complex and delicate
organisation. The destruction of sickly and deformed children could
only be justified on the hypothesis that none but physical qualities
were of any value to the community. Our philosopher forgets his own
distinction between soul and body just when he most needed to remember
it.

The position assigned to women by Plato may perhaps have seemed to
his contemporaries the most paradoxical of all his projects, and it
has been observed that here he is in advance even of our own age. But
a true conclusion may be deduced from false premises; and Plato’s
conclusion is not even identical with that reached on other grounds by
the modern advocates of women’s rights, or rather of their equitable
claims. The author of the _Republic_ detested democracy; and the
enfranchisement of women is now demanded as a part of the general
democratic programme. It is an axiom, at least with liberals, that
no class will have its interests properly attended to which is left
without a voice in the election of parliamentary representatives;
and the interests of the sexes are not more obviously identical than
those of producers and consumers, or of capitalists and labourers.
Another democratic principle is that individuals are, as a rule, the
best judges of what occupation they are fit for; and as a consequence
of this it is further demanded that women should be admitted to every
employment on equal terms with men; leaving competition to decide in
each instance whether they are suited for it or not. Their continued
exclusion from the military profession would be an exception more
apparent than real; because, like the majority of the male sex, they
are physically disqualified for it. Now, the profession of arms is
the very one for which Plato proposes to destine the daughters of his
aristocratic caste, without the least intention of consulting their
wishes on the subject. He is perfectly aware that his own principle of
differentiation will be quoted against him, but he turns the difficulty
in a very dexterous manner. He contends that the difference of the
sexes, so far as strength and intelligence are concerned, is one not
of kind but of degree; for women are not distinguished from men by
the possession of any special aptitude, none of them being able to do
anything that some men cannot do better. Granting the truth of this
rather unflattering assumption, the inference drawn from it will still
remain economically unsound. The division of labour requires that each
task should be performed, not by those who are absolutely, but by
those who are relatively, best fitted for it. In many cases we must be
content with work falling short of the highest attainable standard,
that the time and abilities of the best workmen may be exclusively
devoted to functions for which they alone are competent. Even if women
could be trained to fight, it does not follow that their energies
might not be more advantageously expended in another direction. Here,
again, Plato improperly reasons from low to high forms of association.
He appeals to the doubtful example of nomadic tribes, whose women took
part in the defence of the camps, and to the fighting power possessed
by the females of predatory animals. In truth, the elimination of home
life left his women without any employment peculiar to themselves;
and so, not to leave them completely idle, they were drafted into the
army, more with the hope of imposing on the enemy by an increase of
its apparent strength than for the sake of any real service which they
were expected to perform.[151] When Plato proposes that women of proved
ability should be admitted to the highest political offices, he is far
more in sympathy with modern reformers; and his freedom from prejudice
is all the more remarkable when we consider that no Greek lady (except,
perhaps, Artemisia) is known to have ever displayed a talent for
government, although feminine interference in politics was common
enough at Sparta; and that personally his feeling towards women was
unsympathetic if not contemptuous.[152] Still we must not exaggerate
the importance of his concession. The Platonic polity was, after all,
a family rather than a true State; and that women should be allowed a
share in the regulation of marriage and in the nurture of children,
was only giving them back with one hand what had been taken away with
the other. Already, among ourselves, women have a voice in educational
matters; and were marriage brought under State control, few would doubt
the propriety of making them eligible to the new Boards which would be
charged with its supervision.

The foregoing analysis will enable us to appreciate the true
significance of the resemblance pointed out by Zeller[153] between
the Platonic republic and the organisation of mediaeval society. The
importance given to religious and moral training; the predominance
of the priesthood; the sharp distinction drawn between the military
caste and the industrial population; the exclusion of the latter from
political power; the partial abolition of marriage and property;
and, it might be added, the high position enjoyed by women as
regents, châtelaines, abbesses, and sometimes even as warriors or
professors,—are all innovations more in the spirit of Plato than
in the spirit of Pericles. Three converging influences united to
bring about this extraordinary verification of a philosophical deal.
The profound spiritual revolution effected by Greek thought was
taken up and continued by Catholicism, and unconsciously guided to
the same practical conclusions the teaching which it had in great
part originally inspired. Social differentiation went on at the
same time, and led to the political consequences logically deduced
from it by Plato. And the barbarian conquest of Rome brought in its
train some of those more primitive habits on which his breach with
civilisation had equally thrown him back. Thus the coincidence between
Plato’s _Republic_ and mediaeval polity is due in one direction to
causal agency, in another to speculative insight, and in a third to
parallelism of effects, independent of each other but arising out of
analogous conditions.

If, now, we proceed to compare the _Republic_ with more recent schemes
having also for their object the identification of public with private
interests, nothing, at first sight, seems to resemble it so closely
as the theories of modern Communism; especially those which advocate
the abolition not only of private property but also of marriage. The
similarity, however, is merely superficial, and covers a radical
divergence, For, to begin with, the Platonic polity is not a system of
Communism at all, in our sense of the word. It is not that the members
of the ruling caste are to throw their property into a common fund;
neither as individuals nor as a class do they possess any property
whatever. Their wants are provided for by the industrial classes, who
apparently continue to live under the old system of particularism.
What Plato had in view was not to increase the sum of individual
enjoyments by enforcing an equal division of their material means, but
to eliminate individualism altogether, and thus give human feeling the
absolute generality which he so much admired in abstract ideas. On the
other hand, unless we are mistaken, modern Communism has no objection
to private property as such, could it remain divided either with
absolute equality or in strict proportion to the wants of its holders;
but only as the inevitable cause of inequalities which advancing
civilisation seems to aggravate rather than to redress. So also with
marriage; the modern assailants of that institution object to it as a
restraint on the freedom of individual passion, which, according to
them, would secure the maximum of pleasure by perpetually varying its
objects. Plato would have looked on such reasonings as a parody and
perversion of his own doctrine; as in very truth, what some of them
have professed to be, pleas for the rehabilitation of the flesh in its
original supremacy over the spirit, and therefore the direct opposite
of a system which sought to spiritualise by generalising the interests
of life. And so, when in the _Laws_ he gives his Communistic principles
their complete logical development by extending them to the whole
population, he is careful to preserve their philosophical character as
the absorption of individual in social existence.[154]

The parentage of the two ideas will further elucidate their
essentially heterogeneous character. For modern Communism is an
outgrowth of the democratic tendencies which Plato detested; and
as such had its counterpart in ancient Athens, if we may trust the
_Ecclêsiazusae_ of Aristophanes, where also it is associated with
unbridled licentiousness.[155] Plato, on the contrary, seems to have
received the first suggestion of his Communism from the Pythagorean and
aristocratic confraternities of Southern Italy, where the principle
that friends have all things in common was an accepted maxim.

If Plato stands at the very antipodes of Fourier and St. Simon, he is
connected by a real relationship with those thinkers who, like Auguste
Comte and Mr. Herbert Spencer, have based their social systems on a
wide survey of physical science and human history. It is even probable
that his ideas have exercised a decided though not a direct influence
on the two writers whom we have named. For Comte avowedly took many of
his proposed reforms from the organisation of mediaeval Catholicism,
which was a translation of philosophy into dogma and discipline, just
as Positivism is a re-translation of theology into the human thought
from which it sprang. And Mr. Spencer’s system, while it seems to be
the direct antithesis of Plato’s, might claim kindred with it through
the principle of differentiation and integration, which, after passing
from Greek thought into political economy and physiology, has been
restored by our illustrious countryman to something more than its
original generality. It has also to be observed that the application of
very abstract truths to political science needs to be most jealously
guarded, since their elasticity increases in direct proportion to
their width. When one thinker argues from the law of increasing
specialisation to a vast extension of governmental interference with
personal liberty, and another thinker to its restriction within the
narrowest possible limits, it seems time to consider whether experience
and expediency are not, after all, the safest guides to trust.


VIII.

The social studies through which we have accompanied Plato seem to have
reacted on his more abstract speculations, and to have largely modified
the extreme opposition in which these had formerly stood to current
notions, whether of a popular or a philosophical character. The change
first becomes perceptible in his theory of Ideas. This is a subject on
which, for the sake of greater clearness, we have hitherto refrained
from entering; and that we should have succeeded in avoiding it so long
would seem to prove that the doctrine in question forms a much less
important part of his philosophy than is commonly imagined. Perhaps,
as some think, it was not an original invention of his own, but was
borrowed from the Megarian school; and the mythical connexion in which
it frequently figures makes us doubtful how far he ever thoroughly
accepted it. The theory is, that to every abstract name or conception
of the mind there corresponds an objective entity possessing a separate
existence quite distinct from that of the scattered particulars by
which it is exemplified to our senses or to our imagination. Just as
the Heracleitean flux represented the confusion of which Socrates
convicted his interlocutors, so also did these Ideas represent the
definitions by which he sought to bring method and certainty into
their opinions. It may be that, as Grote suggests, Plato adopted this
hypothesis in order to escape from the difficulty of defining common
notions in a satisfactory manner. It is certain that his earliest
Dialogues seem to place true definitions beyond the reach of human
knowledge. And at the beginning of Plato’s constructive period we
find the recognition of abstract conceptions, whether mathematical or
moral, traced to the remembrance of an ante-natal state, where the soul
held direct converse with the transcendent realities to which those
conceptions correspond. Justice, temperance, beauty, and goodness, are
especially mentioned as examples of Ideas revealed in this manner.
Subsequent investigations must, however, have led Plato to believe
that the highest truths are to be found by analysing not the loose
contents but the fixed forms of consciousness; and that, if each virtue
expressed a particular relation between the various parts of the soul,
no external experience was needed to make her acquainted with its
meaning; still less could conceptions arising out of her connexion with
the material world be explained by reference to a sphere of purely
spiritual existence. At the same time, innate ideas would no longer be
required to prove her incorporeality, when the authority of reason over
sense furnished so much more satisfactory a ground for believing the
two to be of different origin. To all who have studied the evolution
of modern thought, the substitution of Kantian forms for Cartesian
ideas will at once elucidate and confirm our hypothesis of a similar
reformation in Plato’s metaphysics.

Again, the new position occupied by Mind as an intermediary between
the world of reality and the world of appearance, tended more and more
to obliterate or confuse the demarcations by which they had hitherto
been separated. The most general headings under which it was usual to
contrast them were, the One and the Many, Being and Nothing, the Same
and the Different, Rest and Motion. Parmenides employed the one set of
terms to describe his Absolute, and the other to describe the objects
of vulgar belief. They also served respectively to designate the wise
and the ignorant, the dialectician and the sophist, the knowledge
of gods and the opinions of men; besides offering points of contact
with the antithetical couples of Pythagoreanism. But Plato gradually
found that the nature of Mind could not be understood without taking
both points of view into account. Unity and plurality, sameness and
difference, equally entered into its composition; although undoubtedly
belonging to the sphere of reality, it was self-moved and the cause
of all motion in other things. The dialectic or classificatory method,
with its progressive series of differentiations and assimilations, also
involved a continual use of categories which were held to be mutually
exclusive. And on proceeding to an examination of the summa genera, the
highest and most abstract ideas which it had been sought to distinguish
by their absolute purity and simplicity from the shifting chaos of
sensible phenomena, Plato discovered that even these were reduced
to a maze of confusion and contradiction by a sincere application
of the cross-examining elenchus. For example, to predicate being of
the One was to mix it up with a heterogeneous idea and let in the
very plurality which it denied. To distinguish them was to predicate
difference of both, and thus open the door to fresh embarrassments.

Finally, while the attempt to attain extreme accuracy of definition was
leading to the destruction of all thought and all reality within the
Socratic school, the dialectic method had been taken up and parodied
in a very coarse style by a class of persons called Eristics. These
men had, to some extent, usurped the place of the elder Sophists
as paid instructors of youth; but their only accomplishment was to
upset every possible assertion by a series of verbal juggles. One of
their favourite paradoxes was to deny the reality of falsehood on the
Parmenidean principle that ‘nothing cannot exist.’ Plato satirises
their method in the _Euthydêmus_, and makes a much more serious
attempt to meet it in the _Sophist_; two Dialogues which seem to have
been composed not far from one another.[156] The _Sophist_ effects a
considerable simplification in the ideal theory by resolving negation
into difference, and altogether omitting the notions of unity and
plurality,—perhaps as a result of the investigations contained in the
_Parmenides_, another dialogue belonging to the same group, where the
couple referred to are analysed with great minuteness, and are shown to
be infected with numerous self-contradictions. The remaining five ideas
of Existence, Sameness, Difference, Rest, and Motion, are allowed to
stand; but the fact of their inseparable connexion is brought out with
great force and clearness. The enquiry is one of considerable interest,
including, as it does, the earliest known analysis of predication,
and forming an indispensable link in the transition from Platonic to
Aristotelian logic—that is to say, from the theory of definition and
classification to the theory of syllogism.

Once the Ideas had been brought into mutual relation and shown to be
compounded with one another, the task of connecting them with the
external world became considerably easier; and the same intermediary
which before had linked them to it as a participant in the nature of
both, was now raised to a higher position and became the efficient
cause of their intimate union. Such is the standpoint of the
_Philêbus_, where all existence is divided into four classes, the
limit, the unlimited, the union of both, and the cause of their union.
Mind belongs to the last and matter to the second class. There can
hardly be a doubt that the first class is either identical with the
Ideas or fills the place once occupied by them. The third class is the
world of experience, the Cosmos of early Greek thought, which Plato
had now come to look on as a worthy object of study. In the _Timaeus_,
also a very late Dialogue, he goes further, and gives us a complete
cosmogony, the general conception of which is clear enough, although
the details are avowedly conjectural and figurative; nor do they seem
to have exercised any influence or subsequent speculation until the
time of Descartes. We are told that the world was created by God,
who is absolutely good, and, being without jealousy, wished that all
things should be like himself. He makes it to consist of a soul and
a body, the former constructed in imitation of the eternal archetypal
ideas which now seem to be reduced to three—Existence, Sameness, and
Difference.[157] The soul of the world is formed by mixing these three
elements together, and the body is an image of the soul. Sameness is
represented by the starry sphere rotating on its own axis; Difference
by the inclination of the ecliptic to the equator; Existence, perhaps,
by the everlasting duration of the heavens. The same analogy extends
to the human figure, of which the head is the most essential part, all
the rest of the body being merely designed for its support. Plato seems
to regard the material world as a sort of machinery designed to meet
the necessities of sight and touch, by which the human soul arrives
at a knowledge of the eternal order without;—a direct reversal of
his earlier theories, according to which matter and sense were mere
encumbrances impeding the soul in her efforts after truth.

What remains of the visible world after deducting its ideal elements is
pure space. This, which to some seems the clearest of all conceptions,
was to Plato one of the obscurest. He can only describe it as the
formless substance out of which the four elements, fire, air, water,
and earth, are differentiated. It closes the scale of existence and
even lies half outside it, just as the Idea of Good in the _Republic_
transcends the same scale at the other end. We may conjecture that
the two principles are opposed as absolute self-identity and absolute
self-separation; the whole intermediate series of forms serving
to bridge over the interval between them. It will then be easy to
understand how, as Aristotle tells us, Plato finally came to adopt the
Pythagorean nomenclature and designated his two generating principles
as the monad and the indefinite dyad. Number was formed by their
combination, and all other things were made out of number. Aristotle
complains that the Platonists had turned philosophy into mathematics;
and perhaps in the interests of science it was fortunate that the
transformation occurred. To suppose that matter could be built up out
of geometrical triangles, as Plato teaches in the _Timaeus_, was,
no doubt, a highly reprehensible confusion; but that the systematic
study of science should be based on mathematics was an equally new and
important aperçu. The impulse given to knowledge followed unforeseen
directions; and at a later period Plato’s true spirit was better
represented by Archimedes and Hipparchus than by Arcesilaus and
Carneades.

It is remarkable that the spontaneous development of Greek thought
should have led to a form of Theism not unlike that which some persons
still imagine was supernaturally revealed to the Hebrew race; for the
absence of any connexion between the two is now almost universally
admitted. Modern science has taken up the attitude of Laplace towards
the hypothesis in question; and those critics who, like Lange, are most
imbued with the scientific spirit, feel inclined to regard its adoption
by Plato as a retrograde movement. We may to a certain extent agree
with them, without admitting that philosophy, as a whole, was injured
by departing from the principles of Democritus. An intellectual like
an animal organism may sometimes have to choose between retrograde
metamorphosis and total extinction. The course of events drove
speculation to Athens, where it could only exist on the condition of
assuming a theological form. Moreover, action and reaction were equal
and contrary. Mythology gained as much as philosophy lost. It was
purified from immoral ingredients, and raised to the highest level
which supernaturalism is capable of attaining. If the _Republic_ was
the forerunner of the Catholic Church, the _Timaeus_ was the forerunner
of the Catholic faith.


IX.

The old age of Plato seems to have been marked by restless activity
in more directions than one. He began various works which were never
finished, and projected others which were never begun. He became
possessed by a devouring zeal for social reform. It seemed to him that
nothing was wanting but an enlightened despot to make his ideal State
a reality. According to one story, he fancied that such an instrument
might be found in the younger Dionysius. If so, his expectations were
speedily disappointed. As Hegel acutely observes, only a man of half
measures will allow himself to be guided by another; and such a man
would lack the energy needed to carry out Plato’s scheme.[158] However
this may be, the philosopher does not seem to have given up his idea
that absolute monarchy was, after all, the government from which most
good might be expected. A process of substitution which runs through
his whole intellectual evolution was here exemplified for the last
time. Just as in his ethical system knowledge, after having been
regarded solely as the means for procuring an ulterior end, pleasure,
subsequently became an end in itself; just as the interest in knowledge
was superseded by a more absorbing interest in the dialectical
machinery which was to facilitate its acquisition, and this again by
the social re-organisation which was to make education a department of
the State; so also the beneficent despotism originally invoked for the
purpose of establishing an aristocracy on the new model, came at last
to be regarded by Plato as itself the best form of government. Such,
at least, seems to be the drift of a remarkable Dialogue called the
_Statesman_, which we agree with Prof. Jowett in placing immediately
before the _Laws_. Some have denied its authenticity, and others have
placed it very early in the entire series of Platonic compositions.
But it contains passages of such blended wit and eloquence that no
other man could have written them; and passages so destitute of life
that they could only have been written when his system had stiffened
into mathematical pedantry and scholastic routine. Moreover, it seems
distinctly to anticipate the scheme of detailed legislation which Plato
spent his last years in elaborating. After covering with ridicule the
notion that a truly competent ruler should ever be hampered by written
enactments, the principal spokesman acknowledges that, in the absence
of such a ruler, a definite and unalterable code offers the best
guarantees for political stability.

This code Plato set himself to construct in his last and longest work,
the _Laws_. Less than half of that Dialogue, however, is occupied
with the details of legislation. The remaining portions deal with the
familiar topics of morality, religion, science, and education. The
first book propounds a very curious theory of asceticism, which has
not, we believe, been taken up by any subsequent moralist. On the
principle of _in vino veritas_ Plato proposes that drunkenness should
be systematically employed for the purpose of testing self-control.
True temperance is not abstinence, but the power of resisting
temptation; and we can best discover to what extent any man possesses
that power by surprising him when off his guard. If he should be
proof against seductive influences even when in his cups, we shall
be doubly sure of his constancy at other times. Prof. Jowett rather
maliciously suggests that a personal proclivity may have suggested
this extraordinary apology for hard drinking. Were it so, we should be
reminded of the successive revelations by which indulgences of another
kind were permitted to Mohammed, and of the one case in which divorce
was sanctioned by Auguste Comte. We should also remember that the
Christian Puritanism to which Plato approached so near has always been
singularly lenient to this disgraceful vice. But perhaps a somewhat
higher order of considerations will help us to a better understanding
of the paradox. Plato was averse from rejecting any tendency of his
age that could possibly be turned to account in his philosophy.
Hence, as we have seen, the use which he makes of love, even under
its most unlawful forms, in the _Symposium_ and the _Phaedrus_. Now,
it would appear, from our scanty sources of information, that social
festivities, always very popular at Athens, had become the chief
interest in life about the time when Plato was composing his _Laws_.
According to one graceful legend, the philosopher himself breathed his
last at a marriage-feast. It may, therefore, have occurred to him that
the prevalent tendency could, like the amorous passions of a former
generation, be utilised for moral training and made subservient to the
very cause with which, at first sight, it seemed to conflict.

The concessions to common sense and to contemporary schools of thought,
already pointed out in those Dialogues which we suppose to have been
written after the _Republic_, are still more conspicuous in the _Laws_.
We do not mean merely the project of a political constitution avowedly
offered as the best possible in existing circumstances, though not
the best absolutely; but we mean that there is throughout a desire to
present philosophy from its most intelligible, practical, and popular
side. The extremely rigorous standard of sexual morality (p. 838)
seems, indeed, more akin to modern than to ancient notions, but it was
in all probability borrowed from the naturalistic school of ethics,
the forerunner of Stoicism; for not only is there a direct appeal to
Nature’s teaching in that connexion; but throughout the entire work
the terms ‘nature’ and ‘naturally’ occur with greater frequency, we
believe, than in all the rest of Plato’s writings put together. When,
on the other hand, it is asserted that men can be governed by no other
motive than pleasure (p. 663, B), we seem to see in this declaration
a concession to the Cyrenaic school, as well as a return to the
forsaken standpoint of the _Protagoras_. The increasing influence of
Pythagoreanism is shown by the exaggerated importance attributed to
exact numerical determinations. The theory of ideas is, as Prof. Jowett
observes, entirely absent, its place being taken by the distinction
between mind and matter.[159]

The political constitution and code of laws recommended by Plato to
his new city are adapted to a great extent from the older legislation
of Athens. As such they have supplied the historians of ancient
jurisprudence with some valuable indications. But from a philosophic
point of view the general impression produced is wearisome and even
offensive. A universal system of espionage is established, and the
odious trade of informer receives ample encouragement. Worst of all,
it is proposed, in the true spirit of Athenian intolerance, to uphold
religious orthodoxy by persecuting laws. Plato had actually come to
think that disagreement with the vulgar theology was a folly and a
crime. One passage may be quoted as a warning to those who would set
early associations to do the work of reason; and who would overbear new
truths by a method which at one time might have been used with fatal
effect against their own opinions:—

 Who can be calm when he is called upon to prove the existence of the
 gods? Who can avoid hating and abhorring the men who are and have been
 the cause of this argument? I speak of those who will not believe the
 words which they have heard as babes and sucklings from their mothers
 and nurses, repeated by them both in jest and earnest like charms;
 who have also heard and seen their parents offering up sacrifices and
 prayers—sights and sounds delightful to children—sacrificing, I say,
 in the most earnest manner on behalf of them and of themselves, and
 with eager interest talking to the gods and beseeching them as though
 they were firmly convinced of their existence; who likewise see and
 hear the genuflexions and prostrations which are made by Hellenes and
 barbarians to the rising and setting sun and moon, in all the various
 turns of good and evil fortune, not as if they thought that there
 were no gods, but as if there could be no doubt of their existence,
 and no suspicion of their non-existence; when men, knowing all these
 things, despise them on no real grounds, as would be admitted by all
 who have any particle of intelligence, and when they force us to say
 what we are now saying, how can any one in gentle terms remonstrate
 with the like of them, when he has to begin by proving to them the
 very existence of the gods?[160]

Let it be remembered that the gods of whom Plato is speaking are the
sun, moon, and stars; that the atheists whom he denounces only taught
what we have long known to be true, which is that those luminaries
are no more divine, no more animated, no more capable of accepting
our sacrifices or responding to our cries than is the earth on which
we tread; and that he attempts to prove the contrary by arguments
which, even if they were not inconsistent with all that we know about
mechanics, would still be utterly inadequate to the purpose for which
they are employed.

Turning back once more from the melancholy decline of a great genius
to the splendour of its meridian prime, we will endeavour briefly
to recapitulate the achievements which entitle Plato to rank among
the five or six greatest Greeks, and among the four or five greatest
thinkers of all time. He extended the philosophy of mind until it
embraced not only ethics and dialectics but also the study of politics,
of religion, of social science, of fine art, of economy, of language,
and of education. In other words, he showed how ideas could be applied
to life on the most comprehensive scale. Further, he saw that the study
of Mind, to be complete, necessitates a knowledge of physical phenomena
and of the realities which underlie them; accordingly, he made a return
on the objective speculations which had been temporarily abandoned,
thus mediating between Socrates and early Greek thought; while on
the other hand by his theory of classification he mediated between
Socrates and Aristotle. He based physical science on mathematics, thus
establishing a method of research and of education which has continued
in operation ever since. He sketched the outlines of a new religion in
which morality was to be substituted for ritualism, and intelligent
imitation of God for blind obedience to his will; a religion of
monotheism, of humanity, of purity, and of immortal life. And he
embodied all these lessons in a series of compositions distinguished
by such beauty of form that their literary excellence alone would
entitle them to rank among the greatest masterpieces that the world
has ever seen. He took the recently-created instrument of prose style
and at once raised it to the highest pitch of excellence that it has
ever attained. Finding the new art already distorted by false taste and
overlaid with meretricious ornament, he cleansed and regenerated it in
that primal fount of intellectual life, that richest, deepest, purest
source of joy, the conversation of enquiring spirits with one another,
when they have awakened to the desire for truth and have not learned to
despair of its attainment. Thus it was that the philosopher’s mastery
of expression gave added emphasis to his protest against those who made
style a substitute for knowledge, or, by a worse corruption, perverted
it into an instrument of profitable wrong. They moved along the surface
in a confused world of words, of sensations, and of animal desires;
he penetrated through all those dumb images and blind instincts,
to the central verity and supreme end which alone can inform them
with meaning, consistency, permanence, and value. To conclude: Plato
belonged to that nobly practical school of idealists who master all the
details of reality before attempting its reformation, and accomplish
their great designs by enlisting and reorganising whatever spontaneous
forces are already working in the same direction; but the fertility of
whose own suggestions it needs more than one millennium to exhaust.
There is nothing in heaven or earth that was not dreamt of in his
philosophy: some of his dreams have already come true; others still
await their fulfilment; and even those which are irreconcilable with
the demands of experience will continue to be studied with the interest
attaching to every generous and daring adventure, in the spiritual no
less than in the secular order of existence.

FOOTNOTES:

[134] See the chapter on the Metaphysics of Sexual Love in
Schopenhauer’s _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_.

[135] Cf. for the whole following passage Havet, _Le Christianisme et
ses Origines_, I., 286-8. It was, however, written before the author
had become acquainted with M. Havet’s work.

[136] In order to avoid misconception it may be as well to mention
that the above remarks apply only to mystical passion assuming the
form of religion; they have nothing to do with intellectual and moral
convictions.

[137] _Phaedr._, 266, B. Jowett, II., 144. According to Teichmüller
(_Literarische Fehden im vierten Jahrhundert vor Chr._, p. 135)—the
god here spoken of is no other than Plato himself. Even granting the
pantheistic interpretation of Platonism to be true, this seems a
somewhat strained application of it.

[138] Adapting Plato’s formula to modern ideas we might say: A literary
education: knowledge of the world: mathematics: physical science.

[139] _Phaedo_, 69, A. Jowett, I., 442.

[140] _Repub._, I., 348, B ff.; Zeller, _op. cit._, 507-8.

[141] See especially the argument with Callicles in the _Gorgias_.

[142] _Repub._, II., 379, A; 380, D.

[143] Zeller, 678-8.

[144] ‘Un monde qui est l’injustice même.’—Ernest Renan, _L’Église
Chrétienne_, p. 139.

[145] Cf. _Lysis_, 210, E. Jowett, I., 54.

[146] _Meno_, 71, E. Jowett, I., 270.

[147] _Gesch. d. Ph._, II., 272.

[148] _Op. cit._, p. 777.

[149] _Timaeus_, 24, A. Jowett, III., 608.

[150] Cf. the excellent remarks of Teichmüller, _Lit. Fehden_, p. 107.

[151] _Repub._, V., 471, D.

[152] He mentions as one of the worst effects of a democracy that it
made them assume airs of equality with men. _Repub._, 563, B.; cf. 569,
E. _Timaeus_, 90, E. It is to be feared that Plato regarded woman as
the missing link.

[153] In his _Vorträge und Abhandlungen_, first series, p. 68.

[154] _Legg._, 739, B. Jowett, V., 311.

[155] [Since the above was first published, Teichmüller has brought
forward new arguments to prove that it was Plato’s scheme of Communism
which Aristophanes intended to satirise (_Lit. Fehden_, pp. 14, ff.);
but I do not think that even the first half of the _Republic_ could
possibly have been composed at such an early date as that assigned to
it by this learned and ingenious critic.]

[156] [Here, also, the recent arguments of Teichmüller (_Lit. Fehden_,
p. 51) deserve attention, but they have failed to convince me that an
earlier date should be assigned to the _Euthydêmus_.]

[157] We may even say that they are reduced to two; for Existence is a
product of Sameness and Difference.

[158] _Gesch. d. Ph._, II., 175.

[159] In the work already referred to, Teichmüller advances the
startling theory that Aristotle’s _Nicomachean Ethics_ was published
before the completion of the _Laws_, and that Plato took the
opportunity thus offered him for replying to the criticisms of his
former pupil. (_Lit. Fehden_, pp. 194-226).

[160] _Legg._, 887-8. Jowett, V., 456.




CHAPTER VI.

CHARACTERISTICS OF ARISTOTLE.


I.

Within the last twelve years several books, both large and small, have
appeared, dealing either with the philosophy of Aristotle as a whole,
or with the general principles on which it is constructed. The Berlin
edition of Aristotle’s collected works was supplemented in 1870 by
the publication of a magnificent index, filling nearly nine hundred
quarto pages, for which we have to thank the learning and industry of
Bonitz.[161] Then came the unfinished treatise of George Grote, planned
on so vast a scale that it would, if completely carried out, have
rivalled the author’s _History of Greece_ in bulk, and perhaps exceeded
the authentic remains of the Stagirite himself. As it is, we have a
full account, expository and critical, of the _Organon_, a chapter on
the _De Animâ_, and some fragments on other Aristotelian writings, all
marked by Grote’s wonderful sagacity and good sense. In 1879 a new and
greatly enlarged edition brought that portion of Zeller’s work on Greek
Philosophy which deals with Aristotle and the Peripatetics[162] fully
up to the level of its companion volumes; and we are glad to see that,
like them, it is shortly to appear in an English dress. The older work
of Brandis[163] goes over the same ground, and, though much behind the
present state of knowledge, may still be consulted with advantage, on
account of its copious and clear analyses of the Aristotelian texts.
Together with these ponderous tomes, we have to mention the little
work of Sir Alexander Grant,[164] which, although intended primarily
for the unlearned, is a real contribution to Aristotelian scholarship,
and, probably as such, received the honours of a German translation
almost immediately after its first publication. Mr. Edwin Wallace’s
_Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle_[165] is of a different
and much less popular character. Originally designed for the use of
the author’s own pupils, it does for Aristotle’s entire system what
Trendelenburg has done for his logic, and Ritter and Preller for all
Greek philosophy—that is to say, it brings together the most important
texts, and accompanies them with a remarkably lucid and interesting
interpretation. Finally we have M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire’s
Introduction to his translation of Aristotle’s _Metaphysics_,
republished in a pocket volume.[166] We can safely recommend it to
those who wish to acquire a knowledge of the subject with the least
possible expenditure of trouble. The style is delightfully simple,
and that the author should write from the standpoint of the French
spiritualistic school is not altogether a disadvantage, for that school
is partly of Aristotelian origin, and its adherents are, therefore,
most likely to reproduce the master’s theories with sympathetic
appreciation.

In view of such extensive labours, we might almost imagine ourselves
transported back to the times when Chaucer could describe a student as
being made perfectly happy by having

                  ‘At his beddes hed
    Twenty bookes clothed in blake or red
    Of Aristotle and his philosophie.’

It seems as if we were witnessing a revival of Mediaevalism under
another form; as if, after neo-Gothic architecture, pre-Raphaelitism,
and ritualism, we were threatened with a return to the scholastic
philosophy which the great scientific reformers of the seventeenth
century were supposed to have irrevocably destroyed. And, however
chimerical may seem the hopes of such a restoration, we are bound
to admit that they do actually exist. One of the most cultivated
champions of Ultramontanism in this country, Prof. St. George Mivart,
not long ago informed us, at the close of his work on _Contemporary
Evolution_, that, ‘if metaphysics are possible, there is not, and never
was or will be, more than one philosophy which, properly understood,
unites all truths and eliminates all errors—_the_ Philosophy of _the_
Philosopher—Aristotle.’ It may be mentioned also, as a symptom of
the same movement, that Leo XIII. has recently directed the works
of St. Thomas Aquinas to be reprinted for use in Catholic colleges;
having, according to the newspapers, laid aside 300,000 _lire_ for
that purpose—a large sum, considering his present necessities; but
not too much for the republication of eighteen folio volumes. Now, it
is well known that the philosophy of Aquinas is simply the philosophy
of Aristotle, with such omissions and modifications as were necessary
in order to piece it on to Christian theology. Hence, in giving his
sanction to the teaching of the Angelic Doctor, Leo XIII. indirectly
gives it to the source from which so much of that teaching is derived.

It may, perhaps, be considered natural that obsolete authorities
should command the assent of a Church whose boast is to maintain
the traditions of eighteen centuries intact. But the Aristotelian
reaction extends to some who stand altogether aloof from Catholicism.
M. Saint-Hilaire speaks in his preface of theology with dislike and
suspicion; he has recently held office in a bitterly anti-clerical
Government; yet his acceptance of Aristotle’s metaphysics is almost
unreserved. The same tone is common to all official teaching in
France; and any departure from the strict Peripatetic standard has to
be apologised for as if it were a dangerous heresy. On turning to our
own country, we find, indeed, a marked change since the time when,
according to Mr. Matthew Arnold, Oxford tutors regarded the _Ethics_
as absolutely infallible. The great place given to Plato in public
instruction, and the rapidly increasing ascendency of evolutionary
ideas, are at present enough to hold any rival authority in check;
still, not only are the once neglected portions of Aristotle’s
system beginning to attract fresh attention—which is an altogether
commendable movement—but we also find the eminent Oxford teacher,
whose work on the subject has been already referred to, expressing
himself as follows:—

 We are still anxious to know whether our perception of a real world
 comes to us by an exercise of thought, or by a simple impression of
 sense—whether it is the universal that gives the individual reality,
 or the individual that shapes itself, by some process not explained,
 into a universal—whether bodily movements are the causal antecedents
 of mental functions, or mind rather the reality which gives truth
 to body—whether the highest life is a life of thought or a life of
 action—whether intellectual also involves moral progress—whether
 the state is a mere combination for the preservation of goods and
 property, or a moral organism developing the idea of right. And
 about these and such like questions Aristotle has still much to tell
 us.... His theory of a creative reason, fragmentary as that theory is
 left, is the answer to all materialistic theories of the universe.
 To Aristotle, as to a subtle Scottish preacher [Principal Caird]
 ‘the real pre-supposition of all knowledge, or the thought which is
 the _prius_ of all things, is not the individual’s consciousness of
 himself as individual, but a thought or self-consciousness which is
 beyond all individual selves, which is the unity of all individual
 selves and their objects, of all thinkers and all objects of all
 thought.’[167]

Our critics are not content with bringing up Aristotle as an authority
on the metaphysical controversies of the present day, and reading into
him theories of which he never dreamed: they proceed to credit him
with modern opinions which he would have emphatically repudiated, and
modern methods which directly reverse his scientific teaching. Thus
Sir A. Grant takes advantage of an ambiguity in the word Matter, as
used respectively by Aristotle and by contemporary writers, to claim
his support for the peculiar theories of Prof. Ferrier; although the
Stagirite has recorded his belief in the reality and independence of
material objects (if not of what he called matter) with a positiveness
which one would have thought left no possibility of misunderstanding
him.[168] And Mr. Wallace says that Aristotle ‘recognises the genesis
of things by evolution and development;’ a statement which, standing
where it does, and with no more qualifications than are added to it,
would make any reader not versed in the subject think of the Stagirite
rather as a forerunner of Mr. Darwin and Mr. Herbert Spencer, than as
the intellectual ancestor of their opponents; while, on a subsequent
occasion, he quotes a passage about the variations of plants under
domestication, from a work considered to be un-Aristotelian by the best
critics, apparently with no other object than that of finding a piece
of Darwinism in his author.[169]

In Germany, Neo-Aristotelianism has already lived out the appointed
term of all such movements; having, we believe, been brought into
fashion by Trendelenburg about forty years ago. Since then, the
Aristotelian system in all its branches has been studied with such
profound scholarship that any illusions respecting its value for our
present needs must, by this time, have been completely dissipated;
while the Hegelian dialectic, which it was originally intended to
combat, no longer requires a counterbalance, having been entirely
driven from German university teaching. Moreover, Lange’s famous
_History of Materialism_ has dealt a staggering blow to the reputation
of Aristotle, not merely in itself, but relatively to the services of
early Greek thought; although Lange goes too far into the opposite
extreme when exalting Democritus at his expense.[170] We have to
complain, however, that Zeller and other historians of Greek philosophy
start with an invariable prejudice in favour of the later speculators
as against the earlier, and especially in favour of Aristotle as
against all his predecessors, even Plato included, which leads them
to slur over his weak points, and to bring out his excellencies into
disproportionate relief.[171]

It is evident, then, that Aristotle cannot be approached with the same
perfect dispassionateness as the other great thinkers of antiquity.
He is, if not a living force, still a force which must be reckoned
with in contemporary controversy. His admirers persist in making an
authority of him, or at least of quoting him in behalf of their own
favourite convictions. We are, therefore, bound to sift his claims
with a severity which would not be altogether gracious in a purely
historical review. At the same time it is hoped that historical justice
will not lose, but gain, by such a procedure. We shall be the better
able to understand what Aristotle was, after first showing what he
neither was nor could be. And the utility of our investigations will be
still further enhanced if we can show that he represents a fixed type
regularly recurring in the revolutions of thought.


II.

Personally, we know more about Aristotle than about any other Greek
philosopher of the classic period; but what we know does not amount
to much. It is little more than the skeleton of a life, a bald
enumeration of names and dates and places, with a few more or less
doubtful anecdotes interspersed. These we shall now relate, together
with whatever inferences the facts seem to warrant. Aristotle was born
384 B.C., at Stageira, a Greek colony in Thrace. It is remarkable
that every single Greek thinker of note, Socrates and Plato alone
excepted, came from the confines of Hellenedom and barbarism. It has
been conjectured by Auguste Comte, we know not with how much reason,
that religious traditions were weaker in the colonies than in the
parent states, and thus allowed freer play to independent speculation.
Perhaps, also, the accumulation of wealth was more rapid, thus
affording greater leisure for thought; while the pettiness of political
life liberated a fund of intellectual energy, which in more powerful
communities might have been devoted to the service of the State. Left
an orphan in early youth, Aristotle was brought up by one Proxenus,
to whose son, Nicanor, he afterwards repaid the debt of gratitude. In
his eighteenth year he settled at Athens, and attended the school of
Plato until the death of that philosopher twenty years afterwards. It
is not clear whether the younger thinker was quite conscious of his
vast intellectual debt to the elder, and he continually emphasises
the points on which they differ; but personally his feeling towards
the master was one of deep reverence and affection. In some beautiful
lines, still extant, he speaks of ‘an altar of solemn friendship
dedicated to one of whom the bad should not speak even in praise;
who alone, or who first among mortals, proved by his own life and by
his system, that goodness and happiness go hand in hand;’ and it is
generally agreed that the reference can only be to Plato. Again, in
his _Ethics_, Aristotle expresses reluctance to criticise the ideal
theory, because it was held by dear friends of his own; adding the
memorable declaration, that to a philosopher truth should be dearer
still. What opinion Plato formed of his most illustrious pupil is less
certain. According to one tradition, he surnamed Aristotle the Nous of
his school. It could, indeed, hardly escape so penetrating an observer
that the omnivorous appetite for knowledge, which he regarded as most
especially characteristic of the philosophic temperament, possessed
this young learner to a degree never before paralleled among the
sons of men. He may, however, have considered that the Stagirite’s
method of acquiring knowledge was unfavourable to its fresh and vivid
apprehension. An expression has been preserved which can hardly be
other than genuine, so distinguished is it by that delicate mixture
of compliment and satire in which Plato particularly excelled. He is
said to have called Aristotle’s house the ‘house of the reader.’ The
author of the _Phaedrus_, himself a tolerably voluminous writer, was,
like Carlyle, not an admirer of literature. Probably it occurred to him
that a philosophical student, who had the privilege of listening to
his own lectures, might do better than shut himself up with a heap of
manuscripts, away from the human inspiration of social intercourse, and
the divine inspiration of solitary thought. We moderns have no reason
to regret a habit which has made Aristotle’s writings a storehouse
of ancient speculations; but from a scientific, no less than from an
artistic point of view, those works are overloaded with criticisms of
earlier opinions, some of them quite undeserving of serious discussion.

Philosophy was no sooner domiciled at Athens than its professors came
in for their full share of the scurrilous personalities which seem to
have formed the staple of conversation in that enlightened capital.
Aristotle, himself a trenchant and sometimes a bitterly scornful
controversialist, did not escape; and some of the censures passed on
him were, rightly or wrongly, attributed to Plato. The Stagirite, who
had been brought up at or near the Macedonian Court, and had inherited
considerable means, was, if report speaks truly, somewhat foppish in
his dress, and luxurious, if not dissipated in his habits. It would not
be surprising if one who was left his own master at so early an age had
at first exceeded the limits of that moderation which he afterwards
inculcated as the golden rule of morals; but the charge of extravagance
was such a stock accusation at Athens, where the continued influence of
country life seems to have bred a prejudice in favour of parsimony,
that it may be taken almost as an exoneration from graver imputations;
and, perhaps, an admonition from Plato, if any was needed, sufficed to
check his disciple’s ambition for figuring as a man of fashion.

We cannot tell to what extent the divergences which afterwards
made Plato and Aristotle pass for types of the most extreme
intellectual opposition were already manifested during their personal
intercourse.[172] The tradition is that the teacher compared his pupil
to a foal that kicks his mother after draining her dry. There is a
certain rough truth as well as rough wit about the remark; but the
author of the _Parmenides_ could hardly have been much affected by
criticisms on the ideal theory which he had himself reasoned out with
equal candour and acuteness; and if, as we sometimes feel tempted to
conjecture, those criticisms were first suggested to him by Aristotle
in conversation, it will be still more evident that they were received
without offence.[173]

In some respects, Aristotle began not only as a disciple but as
a champion of Platonism. On the popular side, that doctrine was
distinguished by its essentially religious character, and by its
opposition to the rhetorical training then in vogue. Now, Aristotle’s
dialogues, of which only a few fragments have been preserved, contained
elegant arguments in favour of a creative First Cause, and of human
immortality; although in the writings which embody his maturer views,
the first of these theories is considerably modified, and the second is
absolutely rejected. Further, we are informed that Aristotle expressed
himself in terms of rather violent contempt for Isocrates, the greatest
living professor of declamation; and opened an opposition school of
his own. This step has, curiously enough, been adduced as a further
proof of disagreement with Plato, who, it is said, objected to all
rhetorical teaching whatever. It seems to us that what he condemned
was rather the method and aim of the then fashionable rhetoric; and
a considerable portion of his _Phaedrus_ is devoted to proving how
much more effectually persuasion might be produced by the combined
application of dialectics and psychology to oratory. Now, this is
precisely what Aristotle afterwards attempted to work out in the
treatise on Rhetoric still preserved among his writings; and we may
safely assume that his earlier lectures at Athens were composed on the
same principle.

In 347 Plato died, leaving his nephew Speusippus to succeed him in the
headship of the Academy. Aristotle then left Athens, accompanied by
another Platonist, Xenocrates, a circumstance tending to prove that
his relations with the school continued to be of a cordial character.
The two settled in Atarneus, at the invitation of its tyrant Hermeias,
an old fellow-student from the Academy. Hermeias was a eunuch who
had risen from the position of a slave to that of vizier, and then,
after his master’s death, to the possession of supreme power. Three
years subsequently a still more abrupt turn of fortune brought his
adventurous career to a close. Like Polycrates, he was treacherously
seized and crucified by order of the Persian Government. Aristotle,
who had married Pythias, his deceased patron’s niece, fled with her
to Mitylênê. Always grateful, and singularly enthusiastic in his
attachments, he celebrated the memory of Hermeias in a manner which
gave great offence to the religious sentiment of Hellas, by dedicating
a statue to him at Delphi, and composing an elegy, still extant,
in which he compares the eunuch-despot to Heracles, the Dioscuri,
Achilles, and Ajax; and promises him immortality from the Muses in
honour of Xenian Zeus.

When we next hear of Aristotle he is at the Macedonian Court,[174]
acting as tutor to Alexander, the future conqueror of Asia, who
remained under his charge between the ages of thirteen and sixteen
years. The philosopher is more likely to have obtained this appointment
by Court interest—his father was Court-physician to Alexander’s
grandfather, Amyntas—than by his reputation, which could hardly have
been made until several years afterwards. Much has been made of a
connexion which, although it did not last very long, appeals strongly
to the imagination, and opens a large field for surmise. The greatest
speculative and the greatest practical genius of that age—some might
say of all ages—could not, one would think, come into such close
contact without leaving a deep impression on each other. Accordingly,
the philosopher is supposed to have prepared the hero for his future
destinies. Milton has told us how Aristotle ‘bred great Alexander to
subdue the world.’ Hegel tells us that this was done by giving him the
consciousness of himself, the full assurance of his own powers; for
which purpose, it seems, the infinite daring of thought was required;
and he observes that the result is a refutation of the silly talk about
the practical inutility of philosophy.[175] It would be unfortunate
if philosophy had no better testimonial to show for herself than the
character of Alexander. It is not the least merit of Grote’s History to
have brought out in full relief the savage traits by which his conduct
was marked from first to last. Arrogant, drunken, cruel, vindictive,
and grossly superstitious, he united the vices of a Highland chieftain
to the frenzy of an Oriental despot. No man ever stood further from
the gravity, the gentleness, the moderation—in a word, the Sôphrosynê
of a true Hellenic hero. The time came when Aristotle himself would
have run the most imminent personal risk had he been within the
tyrant’s immediate grasp. His nephew, Callisthenes, had incurred
deep displeasure by protesting against the servile adulation, or
rather idolatry, which Alexander exacted from his attendants. A charge
of conspiracy was trumped up against him, and even the exculpatory
evidence, taken under torture, of his alleged accomplices did not save
him. ‘I will punish the sophist,’ wrote Alexander, ‘and those who sent
him out.’ It was understood that his old tutor was included in the
threat. Fortunately, as Grote observes, Aristotle was not at Ecbatana
but at Athens; he therefore escaped the fate of Callisthenes, who
suffered death in circumstances, according to some accounts, of great
atrocity.

Zeller finds several good qualities in Alexander—precocious
statesmanship, zeal for the extension of Hellenic civilisation,
long-continued self-restraint under almost irresistible temptation,
and through all his subsequent aberrations a nobility, a moral
purity, a humanity, and a culture, which raise him above every other
great conqueror; and these he attributes, in no small degree, to the
fostering care of Aristotle;[176] yet, with the exception of moral
purity, which was probably an affair of temperament, and has been
remarked to an equal extent in other men of the same general character,
he was surpassed, in all these respects, by Julius Caesar; while the
ruthless vindictiveness, which was his worst passion, exhibited itself
at the very beginning of his reign by the destruction of Thebes. A
varnish of literary culture he undoubtedly had, and for this Aristotle
may be thanked; but any ordinary sophist would probably have effected
as much. As to the Hellenising of Western Asia, this, according to
Grote, was the work, not of Alexander, but of the Diadochi after him.

The profit reaped by Aristotle from the connexion seems equally
doubtful. Tradition tells us that enormous sums of money were spent in
aid of his scientific researches, and a whole army of crown servants
deputed to collect information bearing on his zoological studies.
Modern explorations, however, have proved that the conquests of
Alexander, at least, did not, as has been pretended, supply him with
any new specimens; nor does the knowledge contained in his extant
treatises exceed what could be obtained either by his own observations
or by private enquiries. At the same time we may suppose that his
services were handsomely rewarded, and that his official position at
the Macedonian Court gave him numerous opportunities for conversing
with the grooms, huntsmen, shepherds, fishermen, and others, from whom
most of what he tells us about the habits of animals was learned. In
connexion with the favour enjoyed by Aristotle, it must be mentioned
as a fresh proof of his amiable character, that he obtained the
restoration of Stageira, which had been ruthlessly destroyed by Philip,
together with the other Greek cities of the Chalcidic peninsula.

Two passages in Aristotle’s writings have been supposed to give
evidence of his admiration for Alexander. One is the description of
the magnanimous man in the _Ethics_. The other is a reference in the
_Politics_ to an ideal hero, whose virtue raises him so high above the
common run of mortals that their duty is to obey him as if he were
a god. But the magnanimous man embodies a grave and stately type of
character quite unlike the chivalrous, impulsive theatrical nature of
Alexander,[177] while probably not unfrequent among real Hellenes; and
the god-like statesman of the _Politics_ is spoken of rather as an
unattainable ideal than as a contemporary fact. On the whole, then,
we must conclude that the intercourse between these two extraordinary
spirits has left no distinct trace on the actions of the one or on the
thoughts of the other.

On Alexander’s departure for the East, Aristotle returned to Athens,
where he now placed himself at the head of a new philosophical
school. The ensuing period of thirteen years was fully occupied by
the delivery of public lectures, and by the composition of those
encyclopaedic writings which will preserve his memory for ever, along,
perhaps, with many others which have not survived. Like Anaxagoras,
he was not allowed to end his days in the city of his adoption. His
youthful attacks on Isocrates had probably made him many enemies among
that rhetor’s pupils. It is supposed by Grote, but warmly disputed
by Zeller, that his trenchant criticisms on Plato had excited a
similar animosity among the sectaries of the Academy.[178] Anyhow,
circumstances had unavoidably associated him with the detested
Macedonian party, although his position, as a metic, or resident alien,
debarred him from taking any active part in politics. With Alexander’s
death the storm broke loose. A charge was trumped up against Aristotle,
on the strength of his unlucky poem in honour of Hermeias, which was
described as an insult to religion. That such an accusation should
be chosen is characteristic of Athenian bigotry, even should there
be no truth in the story that certain philosophical opinions of his
were likewise singled out for prosecution. Before the case came on
for trial, Aristotle availed himself of the usual privilege allowed
on such occasions, and withdrew to Chalcis, in order, as he said,
that the Athenians need not sin a second time against philosophy.
But his constitution, naturally a feeble one, was nearly worn out.
A year afterwards he succumbed to a stomach complaint, aggravated,
if not produced, by incessant mental application. His contemporary,
Demosthenes, perished about the same time, and at the same age,
sixty-two. Within little more than a twelvemonth the world had lost its
three greatest men; and after three centuries of uninterrupted glory,
Hellas was left unrepresented by a single individual of commanding
genius.

We are told that when his end began to approach, the dying philosopher
was pressed to choose a successor in the headship of the School.
The manner in which he did this is characteristic of his singular
gentleness and unwillingness to give offence. It was understood
that the choice must lie between his two most distinguished pupils,
Theophrastus of Lesbos, and Eudêmus of Rhodes. Aristotle asked for
specimens of the wine grown in those islands. He first essayed the
Rhodian vintage, and praised it highly, but remarked after tasting the
other, ‘The Lesbian is sweeter,’ thus revealing his preference for
Theophrastus, who accordingly reigned over the Lyceum in his stead.[179]

A document purporting to be Aristotle’s will has been preserved by
Diogenes Laertius, and although some objections to its authenticity
have been raised by Sir A. Grant, they have, in our opinion, been
successfully rebutted by Zeller.[180] The philosopher’s testamentary
dispositions give one more proof of his thoughtful consideration for
the welfare of those about him, and his devotion to the memory of
departed friends. Careful provision is made for the guardianship of his
youthful children, and for the comfort of his second wife, Herpyllis,
who, he says, had ‘been good to’ him. Certain slaves, specified by
name, are to be emancipated, and to receive legacies. None of the young
slaves who waited on him are to be sold, and on growing up they are to
be set free ‘if they deserve it.’ The bones of his first wife, Pythias,
are, as she herself desired, to be laid by his. Monuments are to be
erected in memory of his mother, and of certain friends, particularly
Proxenus, who had been Aristotle’s guardian, and his family.

In person Aristotle resembled the delicate student of modern times
rather than the athletic figures of his predecessors. He was not a
soldier like Socrates, nor a gymnast like Plato. To judge from several
allusions in his works, he put great faith in walking as a preservative
of health—even when lecturing he liked to pace up and down a shady
avenue. And, probably, a constitutional was the severest exercise that
he ever took. He spoke with a sort of lisp, and the expression of his
mouth is said to have been sarcastic; but the traits preserved to us
in marble tell only of meditation, and perhaps of pain. A free-spoken
and fearless critic, he was not over-sensitive on his own account.
When told that somebody had been abusing him in his absence, the
philosopher replied, ‘He may beat me, too, if he likes—in my absence.’
He might be abused, even in his own presence, without departing from
the same attitude of calm disdain, much to the disappointment of his
petulant assailants. His equanimity was but slightly disturbed by more
public and substantial affronts. When certain honorary distinctions,
conferred on him by a popular vote at Delphi, were withdrawn, probably
on the occasion of his flight from Athens, he remarked with his usual
studied moderation, that, while not entirely indifferent, he did not
feel very deeply concerned; a trait which illustrates the character of
the ‘magnanimous man’ far better than anything related of Alexander.
Two other sayings have an almost Christian tone; when asked how we
should treat our friends, he replied, ‘As we should wish them to treat
us;’ and on being reproached with wasting his bounty on an unworthy
object, he observed, ‘it was not the person, but the human being that I
pitied.’[181]

Still, taking it altogether, the life of Aristotle gives one the
impression of something rather desultory and dependent, not proudly
self-determined, like the lives of the thinkers who went before him.
We are reminded of the fresh starts and the appeals to authority so
frequent in his writings. He is first detained at Athens twenty years
by the attraction of Plato; and no sooner is Plato gone, than he falls
under the influence of an entirely different character—Hermeias. Even
when his services are no longer needed he lingers near the Macedonian
Court, until Alexander’s departure leaves him once more without a
patron. The most dignified period of his whole career is that during
which he presided over the Peripatetic School; but he owes this
position to foreign influence, and loses it with the temporary revival
of Greek liberty. A longer life would probably have seen him return to
Athens in the train of his last patron Antipater, whom, as it was, he
appointed executor to his will. This was just the sort of character
to lay great stress on the evidentiary value of sensation and popular
opinion. It was also the character of a conservative who was likely to
believe that things had always been very much what they were in his
time, and would continue to remain so ever afterwards. Aristotle was
not the man to imagine that the present order of nature had sprung out
of a widely different order in the remote past, nor to encourage such
speculations when they were offered to him by others. He would not
readily believe that phenomena, as he knew them, rested on a reality
which could neither be seen nor felt. Nor, finally, could he divine the
movements which were slowly undermining the society in which he lived,
still less construct an ideal polity for its reorganisation on a higher
and broader basis. And here we at once become conscious of the chief
difference separating him from his master, Plato.


III.

It is an often-quoted observation of Friedrich Schlegel’s that every
man is born either a Platonist or an Aristotelian. If we narrow the
remark to the only class which, perhaps, its author recognised as human
beings, namely, all thinking men, it will be found to contain a certain
amount of truth, though probably not what Schlegel intended; at any
rate something requiring to be supplemented by other truths before its
full meaning can be understood. The common opinion seems to be that
Plato was a transcendentalist, while Aristotle was an experientialist;
and that this constitutes the most typical distinction between them.
It would, however, be a mistake to suppose that the _à priori_ and _à
posteriori_ methods were marked off with such definiteness in Plato’s
time as to render possible a choice between them. The opposition was
not between general propositions and particular facts, but between
the most comprehensive and the most limited notions. It was as if
the question were now to be raised whether we should begin to teach
physiology by at once dividing the organic from the inorganic world,
or by directing the learner’s attention to some one vital act. Now,
we are expressly told that Plato hesitated between these two methods;
and in his Dialogues, at least, we find the easier and more popular
one employed by preference. It is true that he often appeals to wide
principles which do not rest on an adequate basis of experimental
evidence; but Aristotle does so also, more frequently even, and, as
the event proved, with more fatal injury to the advance of knowledge.
In his _Rhetoric_ he even goes beyond Plato, constructing the entire
art from the general principles of dialectics, psychology, and ethics,
without any reference, except for the sake of illustration, to existing
models of eloquence.

According to Sir A. Grant, it is by the mystical and poetical side
of his nature that Plato differs from Aristotle. The one ‘aspired
to a truth above the truth of scientific knowledge’; the other to
‘methodised experience and the definite.’[182] Now, setting aside the
question whether there is any truth above the truth of scientific
knowledge, we doubt very much whether Plato believed in its existence.
He held that the most valuable truth was that which could be imparted
to others by a process even more rigorous than mathematical reasoning;
and there was no reality, however transcendent, that he did not hope to
bring within the grasp of a dialectic without which even the meanest
could not be understood. He did, indeed, believe that, so far, the
best and wisest of mankind had owed much more to a divinely implanted
instinct than to any conscious chain of reflection; but he distinctly
asserted the inferiority of such guidance to the light of scientific
knowledge, if this could be obtained, as he hoped that it could. On the
other hand, Aristotle was probably superior to Plato as a poet; and in
speaking about the highest realities he uses language which, though
less rich and ornate than his master’s, is not inferior to it in force
and fervour; while his metaphysical theories contain a large element of
what would now be considered mysticism, that is, he often sees evidence
of purpose and animation where they do not really exist. His advantage
in definiteness is, of course, indisputable, but this was, perhaps,
because he came after Plato and profited by his lessons.

Yet there _was_ a difference between them, marking off each as the
head of a whole School much wider than the Academy or the Lyceum;
a difference which we can best express by saying that Plato was
pre-eminently a practical, Aristotle pre-eminently a speculative
genius. The object of the one was to reorganise all human life, that
of the other to reorganise all human knowledge. Had the one lived
earlier, he would more probably have been a great statesman or a great
general than a great writer; the other would at no time have been
anything but a philosopher, a mathematician, or a historian. Even
from birth they seemed to be respectively marked out for an active
and for a contemplative life: the one, a citizen of the foremost
State in Hellas, sprung from a family in which political ambition was
hereditary, himself strong, beautiful, fascinating, eloquent, and
gifted with the keenest insight into men’s capacities and motives;
the other a Stagirite and an Asclepiad, that is to say, without
opportunities for a public career, and possessing a hereditary aptitude
for anatomy and natural history, fitted by his insignificant person
and delicate constitution for sedentary pursuits, and better able to
acquire a knowledge even of human nature from books than from a living
converse with men and affairs. Of course, we are not for a moment
denying to Plato a foremost place among the masters of those who
know; he embraced all the science of his age, and to a great extent
marked out the course which the science of future ages was to pursue;
nevertheless, for him, knowledge was not so much an end in itself as a
means for the attainment of other ends, among which the preservation
of the State seems to have been, in his eyes, the most important.[M]
Aristotle, on the other hand, after declaring happiness to be the
supreme end, defines it as an energising of man’s highest nature, which
again he identifies with the reasoning process or cognition in its
purest form.

The same fundamental difference comes out strongly in their respective
theologies. Plato starts with the conception that God is good, and
being good wishes everything to resemble himself; an assumption from
which the divine origin and providential government of the world
are deduced. Aristotle thinks of God as exclusively occupied in
self-contemplation, and only acting on Nature through the love which
his perfection inspires. If, further, we consider in what relation the
two philosophies stand to ethics, we shall find that, to Plato, its
problems were the most pressing of any, that they haunted him through
his whole life, and that he made contributions of extraordinary value
towards their solution; while to Aristotle, it was merely a branch
of natural history, a study of the different types of character to
be met with in Greek society, without the faintest perception that
conduct required to be set on a wider and firmer basis than the
conventional standards of his age. Hence it is that, in reading Plato,
we are perpetually reminded of the controversies still raging among
ourselves. He gives us an exposition, to which nothing has ever been
added, of the theory now known as Egoistic Hedonism; he afterwards
abandons that theory, and passes on to the social side of conduct, the
necessity of justice, the relation of private to public interest, the
bearing of religion, education, and social institutions on morality,
along with other kindred topics, which need not be further specified,
as they have been discussed with sufficient fulness in the preceding
chapter. Aristotle, on the contrary, takes us back into old Greek life
as it was before the days of Socrates, noticing the theories of that
great reformer only that he may reject them in favour of a narrow,
common-sense standard. Virtuous conduct, he tells us, consists in
choosing a mean between two extremes. If we ask how the proper mean
is to be discovered, he refers us to a faculty called φρόνησις, or
practical reason; but on further enquiry it turns out that this faculty
is possessed by none who are not already virtuous. To the question,
How are men made moral? he answers, By acquiring moral habits; which
amounts to little more than a restatement of the problem, or, at any
rate, suggests another more difficult question—How are good habits
acquired?

An answer might conceivably have been supplied, had Aristotle been
enable to complete that sketch of an ideal State which was originally
intended to form part of his _Politics_. But the philosopher evidently
found that to do so was beyond his powers. If the seventh and eighth
books of that treatise, which contain the fragmentary attempt in
question, had originally occupied the place where they now stand in
our manuscripts, it might have been supposed that Aristotle’s labours
were interrupted by death. Modern criticism has shown, however, that
they should follow immediately after the first three books, and that
the author broke off, almost at the beginning of his ideal polity,
to take up the much more congenial task of analysing and criticising
the actually existing Hellenic constitutions. But the little that he
has done proves him to have been profoundly unfitted for the task of
a practical reformer. What few actual recommendations it contains
are a compromise—somewhat in the spirit of Plato’s _Laws_—between
the _Republic_ and real life. The rest is what he never fails to
give us—a mass of details about matters of fact, and a summary of
his speculative ethics, along with counsels of moderation in the
spirit of his practical ethics; but not one practical principle of
any value, not one remark to show that he understood what direction
history was taking, or that he had mastered the elements of social
reform as set forth in Plato’s works. The progressive specialisation
of political functions; the necessity of a spiritual power; the
formation of a trained standing army; the admission of women to public
employments; the elevation of the whole race by artificial selection;
the radical reform of religion; the reconstitution of education,
both literary and scientific, the redistribution of property; the
enactment of a new code; the use of public opinion as an instrument of
moralisation;—these are the ideas which still agitate the minds of
men, and they are also the ideas of the _Republic_, the _Statesman_,
and the _Laws_. Aristotle, on the other hand, occupies himself
chiefly with discussing how far a city should be built from the sea,
whether it should be fortified; how its citizens should _not_ be
employed; when people should _not_ marry; what children should _not_
be permitted to see; and what music they should _not_ be taught. Apart
from his enthusiasm for philosophy, there is nothing generous, nothing
large-minded, nothing inspiring. The territory of the city is to be
self-sufficing, that it may be isolated from other States; the citizens
are to keep aloof from all industrial occupations; science is put out
of relation to the material well-being of mankind. It was, in short, to
be a city where every gentleman should hold an idle fellowship; a city
where Aristotle could live without molestation, and in the enjoyment of
congenial friendships; just as the God of his system was a still higher
Aristotle, perpetually engaged in the study of formal logic.

Even in his much-admired criticisms on the actually existing types of
government our philosopher shows practical weakness and vacillation
of character. There is a good word for them all—for monarchy, for
aristocracy, for middle-class rule, and even for pure democracy.[183]
The fifth book, treating of political revolutions, is unquestionably
the ablest and most interesting in the whole work; but when
Aristotle quits the domain of natural history for that of practical
suggestions, with a view to obviate the dangers pointed out, he can
think of nothing better than the old advice—to be moderate, even
where the constitutions which moderation is to preserve are by their
very nature so excessive that their readjustment and equilibration
would be equivalent to their destruction. And in fact, Aristotle’s
proposals amount to this—that government by the middle class should
be established wherever the ideal aristocracy of education is
impracticable; or else a government in which the class interests of
rich and poor should be so nicely balanced as to obviate the danger of
oligarchic or democratic injustice. His error lay in not perceiving
that the only possible means of securing such a happy mean was to break
through the narrow circle of Greek city life; to continue the process
which had united families into villages, and villages into towns; to
confederate groups of cities into larger states; and so, by striking
an average of different inequalities, to minimise the risk of those
incessant revolutions which had hitherto secured the temporary triumph
of alternate factions at the expense of their common interest. And, in
fact, the spontaneous process of aggregation, which Aristotle did not
foresee, has alone sufficed to remedy the evils which he saw, but could
not devise any effectual means of curing, and at the same time has bred
new evils of which his diagnosis naturally took no account.

But, if this be so, it follows that Mr. Edwin Wallace’s appeal to
Aristotle as an authority worth consulting on our present social
difficulties cannot be upheld. Take the question quoted by Mr. Wallace
himself: ‘Whether the State is a mere combination for the preservation
of goods and property, or a moral organism developing the idea of
right?’ Aristotle certainly held very strong opinions in favour of
State interference with education and private morality, if that is
what the second alternative implies; but does it follow that he would
agree with those who advocate a similar supervision at the present day?
By no means; because experience has shown that in enormous industrial
societies like ours, protection is attended with difficulties and
dangers which he could no more foresee than he could foresee the
discoveries on which our physical science is based. Or, returning for
a moment to ethics, let us take another of Mr. Wallace’s problems:
‘Whether intellectual also involves moral progress?’ What possible
light can be thrown on it by Aristotle’s exposure of the powerlessness
of right knowledge to make an individual virtuous, when writers like
Buckle have transferred the whole question from a particular to a
general ground; from the conduct of individuals to the conduct of men
acting in large masses, and over vast periods of time? Or, finally,
take the question which forms a point of junction between Aristotle’s
ethics and his politics: ‘Whether the highest life is a life of thought
or a life of action?’ Of what importance is his decision to us, who
attend far more to the social than to the individual consequences of
actions; who have learned to take into account the emotional element
of happiness, which Aristotle neglected; who are uninfluenced by his
appeal to the blissful theorising of gods in whom we do not believe;
for whom, finally, experience has altogether broken down the antithesis
between knowledge and practice, by showing that speculative ideas may
revolutionise the whole of life? Aristotle is an interesting historical
study; but we are as far beyond him in social as in physical science.


IV.

On turning to Aristotle’s _Rhetoric_ we find that, from a practical
point of view, his failure here is, if possible, still more complete.
This treatise contains, as we have already observed, an immense mass
of more or less valuable information on the subject of psychology,
ethics, and dialectic, but gives exceedingly little advice about the
very essence of rhetoric as an art, which is to say whatever you have
to say in the most telling manner, by the arrangement of topics and
arguments, by the use of illustrations, and by the choice of language;
and that little is to be found in the third book, the genuineness of
which is open to very grave suspicion. It may be doubted whether any
orator or critic of oratory was ever benefited in the slightest degree
by the study of Aristotle’s rules. His collections of scientific data
add nothing to our knowledge, but only throw common experience into
abstract formulas; and even as a body of memoranda they would be
useless, for no memory could contain them, or if any man could remember
them he would have intellect enough not to require them.[184] The
professional teachers whom Aristotle so heartily despised seem to have
followed a much more effectual method than his; they gave their pupils
ready-made speeches to analyse and learn by heart, rightly trusting to
the imitative instinct to do the rest. He compares them to a master who
should teach his apprentices how to make shoes by supplying them with
a great variety of ready-made pairs. But this would be a much better
plan than to give them an elaborate lecture on the anatomy of the foot,
with a full enumeration of its bones, muscles, tendons, nerves, and
blood-vessels, which is the most appropriate parallel to _his_ system
of instruction.

The _Poetics_ of Aristotle contains some hints on the subject of
composition which entitle it to be mentioned in the present connexion.
The deficiencies, even from a purely theoretical point of view, of
this work, once pronounced infallible, have at last become so obvious
that elaborate hypotheses have been constructed, according to which
the recension handed down to us is a mere mutilated extract from the
original treatise. Enough, however, remains to convince us that poetry
was not, any more than eloquence, a subject with which Aristotle was
fitted to cope. He begins by defining it, in common with all other
art, as an imitation. Here, we at once recognise the spirit of a
philosophy, the whole power and interest of which lay in knowledge;
and, in fact, he tells us that the love of art is derived from the
love of knowledge. But the truth seems to be that aesthetic enjoyment
is due to an ideal exercise of our faculties, among which the power
of perceiving identities is sometimes, though not always, included.
That the materials of which every artistic creation is composed are
taken from the world of our experience makes no difference; for it is
by the new forms in which they are arranged that we are interested,
not because we remember having met them in some natural combination
already. Aristotle could not help seeing that this was true in the
case of music at least; and he can only save his principle by treating
musical effects as representations of passions in the soul. To say,
however, that musical pleasure arises from a perception of resemblance
between certain sounds and the emotions with which they are associated,
would be an extremely forced interpretation; the pleasure is due
rather to a sympathetic participation in the emotion itself. And when
Aristotle goes on to tell us that the characters imitated in epic and
dramatic poetry may be either better or worse than in ordinary life, he
is obviously admitting other aesthetic motives not accounted for by his
general theory. If, on the other hand, we start with ideal energising
as the secret of aesthetic emotion, we can easily understand how an
imaginary exaltation of our faculties is yielded by the spectacle of
something either rising above, or falling below, the level on which we
stand. In the one case we become momentarily invested with the strength
put into action before our eyes; in the other, the consciousness of
our own superiority amounts to a fund of reserve power, which _not_
being put into action, is entirely available for ideal enjoyment.
And, if this be the correct view, it will follow that Aristotle was
quite wrong when he declared the plot to be more important than the
characters of a drama. The reason given for his preference is, even on
the principles of his own philosophy, a bad one. He says that there
can be plot without character-drawing, but never character-drawing
without plot. Yet he has taught us elsewhere that the human soul is of
more value than the physical organism on which its existence depends.
This very parallel suggests itself to him in his _Poetics_; but, by an
almost inconceivable misjudgment, it is the plot which he likens to the
soul of the piece, whereas in truth it should be compared to the body.
The practice and preference of his own time may have helped to mislead
him, for he argues (rather inconsistently, by the way) that plot must
be more indispensable, as young writers are able to construct good
stories before they are able to portray character; and more artistic,
as it was developed much later in the historical evolution of tragedy.
Fortunately for us, the Alexandrian critics were guided by other canons
of taste, or the structurally faulty pieces of Aeschylus might have
been neglected, and the ingeniously constructed pieces of Agathon
preserved in their place.

It is probable, however, that Aristotle’s partiality was determined
more by the systematising and analytical character of his own genius
than by the public opinion of his age; or rather, the same tendency was
at work in philosophy and in art at the same time, and the theories
of the one were unconsciously pre-adapted to the productions of the
other. In both there was a decay of penetration and of originality, of
life and of inspiration; in both a great development of whatever could
be obtained by technical proficiency; in both an extension of surface
at the expense of depth, a gain of fluency, and a loss of force. But
poetry lost far more than philosophy by the change; and so the works of
the one have perished while the works of the other have survived.

Modern literature offers abundant materials for testing Aristotle’s
theory, and the immense majority of critics have decided against
it. Even among fairly educated readers few would prefer Molière’s
_L’Étourdi_ to his _Misanthrope_, or Schiller’s _Maria Stuart_ to
Goethe’s _Faust_, or Lord Lytton’s _Lucretia_ to George Eliot’s
_Romola_, or Dickens’s _Tale of Two Cities_ to the same writer’s
_Nicholas Nickleby_, or his _Great Expectations_ to his _David
Copperfield_, although in each instance the work named first has the
better plot of the two.

Characters, then, are not introduced that they may perform actions;
but actions are represented for the sake of the characters who do
them, or who suffer by them. It is not so much a ghostly apparition
or a murder which interests us as the fact that the ghost appears to
Hamlet, and that the murder is committed by Macbeth. And the same is
true of the Greek drama, though not perhaps to the same extent. We may
care for Oedipus chiefly on account of his adventures; but we care
far more for what Prometheus or Clytemnestra, Antigone or Ajax, say
about themselves than for what they suffer or what they do. Thus, and
thus only, are we enabled to understand the tragic element in poetry,
the production of pleasure by the spectacle of pain. It is not the
satisfaction caused by seeing a skilful imitation of reality, for few
have witnessed such awful events in real life as on the stage; nor
is it pain, as such, which interests us, for the scenes of torture
exhibited in some Spanish and Bolognese paintings do not gratify,
they revolt and disgust an educated taste. The true tragic emotion
is produced, not by the suffering itself, but by the reaction of the
characters against it; for this gives, more than anything else, the
idea of a force with which we can synergise, because it is purely
mental; or by the helpless submission of the victims whom we wish to
assist because they are lovable, and whom we love still more from our
inability to assist them, through the transformation of arrested action
into feeling, accompanied by the enjoyment proper to tender emotion.
Hence the peculiar importance of the female parts in dramatic poetry.
Aristotle tells us that it is bad art to represent women as nobler and
braver than men, because they are not so in reality.[185] Nevertheless,
he should have noticed that on the tragic stage of Athens women first
competed with men, then equalled, and finally far surpassed them in
loftiness of character.[186] But with his philosophy he could not see
that, if heroines did not exist, it would be necessary to create them.
For, if women are conceived as reacting against outward circumstances
at all, their very helplessness will lead to the storing of a greater
mental tension in the shape of excited thought and feeling debarred
from any manifestation except in words; and it is exactly with this
mental tension that the spectator can most easily synergise. The
wrath of Orestes is not interesting, because it is entirely absorbed
into the premeditation and execution of his vengeance. The passion
of Electra is profoundly interesting, because it has no outlet but
impotent denunciations of her oppressors, and abortive schemes for her
deliverance from their yoke. Hence, also, Shakspeare produces some of
his greatest effects by placing his male characters, to some extent,
in the position of women, either through their natural weakness and
indecision, as with Hamlet, and Brutus, and Macbeth, or through the
paralysis of unproved suspicion, as with Othello; while the greatest
of all his heroines, Lady Macbeth, is so because she has the intellect
and will to frame resolutions of dauntless ambition, and eloquence to
force them on her husband, without either the physical or the moral
force to execute them herself. In all these cases it is the arrest of
an electric current which produces the most intense heat, or the most
brilliant illumination. Again, by their extreme sensitiveness, and by
the natural desire felt to help them, women excite more pity, which,
as we have said, means more love, than men; and this in the highest
degree when their sufferings are undeserved. We see, then, how wide
Aristotle went of the mark when he made it a rule that the sufferings
of tragic characters should be partly brought on by their own fault,
and that, speaking generally, they should not be distinguished for
justice or virtue, nor yet for extreme wickedness.[187] The ‘immoderate
moderation’ of the Stagirite was never more infelicitously exhibited.
For, in order to produce truly tragic effects, excess of every kind
not only may, but must, be employed. It is by the reaction of heroic
fortitude, either against unmerited outrage, or against the whole
pressure of social law, that our synergetic interest is wound up
to the intensest pitch. It is when we see a beautiful soul requited
with evil for good that our eyes are filled with the noblest tears.
Yet so absolutely perverted have men’s minds been by the Aristotelian
dictum that Gervinus, the great Shakspearian critic, actually tries to
prove that Duncan, to some extent, deserved his fate by imprudently
trusting himself to the hospitality of Macbeth; that Desdemona was very
imprudent in interceding for Cassio; and that it was treasonable for
Cordelia to bring a French army into England! The Greek drama might
have supplied Aristotle with several decisive contradictions of his
canons. He should have seen that the _Prometheus_, the _Antigone_,
and the _Hippolytus_ are affecting in proportion to the pre-eminent
virtue of their protagonists. The further fallacy of excluding very
guilty characters is, of course, most decisively refuted by Shakspeare,
whose Richard III., whose Iago, and whose Macbeth excite keen interest
by their association of extraordinary villainy with extraordinary
intellectual gifts.

So far Aristotle gives us a purely superficial and sensational view of
the drama. Yet he could not help seeing that there was a moral element
in tragedy, and he was anxious to show, as against Plato, that it
exercised an improving effect on the audience. The result is his famous
theory of the Catharsis, so long misunderstood, and not certainly
understood even now. The object of Tragedy, he tells us, is to purify
(or purge away) pity and terror by means of those emotions themselves.
The _Poetics_ seems originally to have contained an explanation of
this mysterious utterance, now lost, and critics have endeavoured to
supply the gap by writing eighty treatises on the subject. The result
has been at least to show what Aristotle did _not_ mean. The popular
version of his dictum, which is that tragedy purges the passions by
pity and terror, is clearly inconsistent with the wording of the
original text. Pity and terror are both the object and the instrument
of purification. Nor yet does he mean, as was once supposed, that each
of these emotions is to counterbalance and moderate the other; for
this would imply that they are opposed to one another, whereas in the
_Rhetoric_ he speaks of them as being akin; while a parallel passage
in the _Politics_[188] shows him to have believed that the passions
are susceptible of homoeopathic treatment. Violent enthusiasm, he
tells us, is to be soothed and carried off by a strain of exciting,
impassioned music. But whence come the pity and terror which are
to be dealt with by tragic poetry? Not, apparently, from the piece
itself, for to inoculate the patient with a new disease, merely for
the sake of curing it, could do him no imaginable good. To judge from
the passage in the _Politics_ already referred to, he believes that
pity and terror are always present in the minds of all, to a certain
extent; and the theory apparently is, that tragedy brings them to the
surface, and enables them to be thrown off with an accompaniment of
pleasurable feeling. Now, of course, we have a constant capacity for
experiencing every passion to which human nature is liable; but to say
that in the absence of its appropriate external stimulus we are ever
perceptibly and painfully affected by any passion, is to assert what
is not true of any sane mind. And, even were it so, were we constantly
haunted by vague presentiments of evil to ourselves or others, it is
anything but clear that fictitious representations of calamity would
be the appropriate means for enabling us to get rid of them. Zeller
explains that it is the insight into universal laws controlling our
destiny, the association of misfortune with a divine justice, which,
according to Aristotle, produces the purifying effect;[189] but this
would be the purgation of pity and terror, not by themselves, but by
the intellectual framework in which they are set, the concatenation of
events, the workings of character, or the reference of everything to an
eternal cause. The truth is that Aristotle’s explanation of the moral
effect produced by tragedy is irrational, because his whole conception
of tragedy is mistaken. The emotions excited by its highest forms are
not terror and pity, but admiration and love, which, in their ideal
exercise, are too holy for purification, too high for restriction, and
too delightful for relief.

Before parting with the _Poetics_ we must add that it contains
one excellent piece of advice to dramatists, which is, to imagine
themselves present at the scenes which they are supposing to happen,
and also at the representation of their own play. This, however, is an
exception which proves the rule, for Aristotle’s exclusively theoretic
standpoint here, as will sometimes happen, coincides with the truly
practical standpoint.

A somewhat similar observation applies to the art of reasoning, which
it would be possible to compile by bringing together all the rules on
the subject, scattered through the _Organon_. Aristotle has discovered
and formulated every canon of theoretical consistency, and every
artifice of dialectical debate, with an industry and acuteness which
cannot be too highly extolled; and his labours in this direction have
perhaps contributed more than those of any other single writer to
the intellectual stimulation of after ages; but the kind of genius
requisite for such a task was speculative rather than practical; there
was no experience of human nature in its concrete manifestations, no
prevision of real consequences involved. Such a code might be, and
probably was to a great extent, abstracted from the Platonic dialogues;
but to work up the processes of thought into a series of dramatic
contests, carried on between living individuals, as Plato has done,
required a vivid perception and grasp of realities which, and not any
poetical mysticism, is what positively distinguishes a Platonist from
an Aristotelian.[190]


V.

But if Aristotle had not his master’s enthusiasm for practical reforms,
nor his master’s command of all the forces by which humanity is raised
to a higher life, he had, more even than his master, the Greek passion
for knowledge as such, apart from its utilitarian applications, and
embracing in its vast orb the lowliest things with the loftiest, the
most fragmentary glimpses and the largest revelations of truth. He
demanded nothing but the materials for generalisation, and there was
nothing from which he could not generalise. There was a place for
everything within the limits of his world-wide system. Never in any
human soul did the theorising passion burn with so clear and bright
and pure a flame. Under its inspiration his style more than once breaks
into a strain of sublime, though simple and rugged eloquence. Speaking
of that eternal thought which, according to him, constitutes the divine
essence, he exclaims:

 On this principle the heavens and Nature hang. This is that best
 life which we possess during a brief period only, for there it is
 so always, which with us is impossible. And its activity is pure
 pleasure; wherefore waking, feeling, and thinking, are the most
 pleasurable states, on account of which hope and memory exist.... And
 of all activities theorising is the most delightful and the best,
 so that if God always has such happiness as we have in our highest
 moments, it is wonderful, and still more wonderful if he has more.[191]

Again, he tells us that—

 If happiness consists in the appropriate exercise of our vital
 functions, then the highest happiness must result from the highest
 activity, whether we choose to call that reason or anything else which
 is the ruling and guiding principle within us, and through which
 we form our conceptions of what is noble and divine; and whether
 this be intrinsically divine, or only the divinest thing in us, its
 appropriate activity must be perfect happiness. Now this, which we
 call the theoretic activity, must be the mightiest; for reason is
 supreme in our souls and supreme over the objects which it cognises;
 and it is also the most continuous, for of all activities theorising
 is that which can be most uninterruptedly carried on. Again, we think
 that some pleasure ought to be mingled with happiness; if so, of all
 our proper activities philosophy is confessedly the most pleasurable,
 the enjoyments afforded by it being wonderfully pure and steady;
 for the existence of those who are in possession of knowledge is
 naturally more delightful than the existence of those who merely
 seek it. Of all virtues this is the most self-sufficing; for while
 in common with every other virtue it presupposes the indispensable
 conditions of life, wisdom does not, like justice and temperance and
 courage, need human objects for its exercise; theorising may go on in
 perfect solitude; for the co-operation of other men, though helpful,
 is not absolutely necessary to its activity. All other pursuits are
 exercised for some end lying outside themselves; war entirely for
 the sake of peace, and statesmanship in great part for the sake of
 honour and power; but theorising yields no extraneous profit great or
 small, and is loved for itself alone. If, then, the energising of pure
 reason rises above such noble careers as war and statesmanship by its
 independence, by its inherent delightfulness, and, so far as human
 frailty will permit, by its untiring vigour, this must constitute
 perfect human happiness; or rather such a life is more than human,
 and man can only partake of it through the divine principle within
 him; wherefore let us not listen to those who tell us that we should
 have no interests except what are human and mortal like ourselves;
 but so far as may be put on immortality, and bend all our efforts
 towards living up to that element of our nature which, though small in
 compass, is in power and preciousness supreme.[192]

Let us now see how he carries this passionate enthusiasm for knowledge
into the humblest researches of zoology:—

 Among natural objects, some exist unchanged through all eternity,
 while others are generated and decay. The former are divinely
 glorious, but being comparatively inaccessible to our means of
 observation, far less is known of them than we could wish; while
 perishable plants and animals offer abundant opportunities of study to
 us who live under the same conditions with them. Each science has a
 charm of its own. For knowledge of the heavenly bodies is so sublime
 a thing that even a little of it is more delightful than all earthly
 science put together; just as the smallest glimpse of a beloved
 beauty is more delightful than the fullest and nearest revelation of
 ordinary objects; while, on the other hand, where there are greater
 facilities for observation, science can be carried much further; and
 our closer kinship with the creatures of earth is some compensation
 for the interest felt in that philosophy which deals with the divine.
 Wherefore, in our discussions on living beings we shall, so far as
 possible, pass over nothing, whether it rank high or low in the scale
 of estimation. For even such of them as displease the senses, when
 viewed with the eye of reason as wonderful works of Nature afford an
 inexpressible pleasure to those who can enter philosophically into
 the causes of things. For, surely, it would be absurd and irrational
 to look with delight at the images of such objects on account of our
 interest in the pictorial or plastic skill which they exhibit, and
 not to take still greater pleasure in a scientific explanation of
 the realities themselves. We ought not then to shrink with childish
 disgust from an examination of the lower animals, for there is
 something wonderful in all the works of Nature; and we may repeat
 what Heracleitus is reported to have said to certain strangers who
 had come to visit him, but hung back at the door when they saw him
 warming himself before a fire, bidding them come in boldly, for
 that there also there were gods; not allowing ourselves to call any
 creature common or unclean, because there is a kind of natural beauty
 about them all. For, if anywhere, there is a pervading purpose in the
 works of Nature, and the realisation of this purpose is the beauty of
 the thing. But if anyone should look with contempt on the scientific
 examination of the lower animals, he must have the same opinion about
 himself; for the greatest repugnance is felt in looking at the parts
 of which the human body is composed, such as blood, muscles, bones,
 veins, and the like.[193] Similarly, in discussing any part or organ
 we should consider that it is not for the matter of which it consists
 that we care, but for the whole form; just as in talking about a house
 it is not bricks and mortar and wood that we mean; and so the theory
 of Nature deals with the essential structure of objects, not with the
 elements which, apart from that structure, would have no existence at
 all.[194]

It is well for the reputation of Aristotle that he could apply himself
with such devotion to the arduous and, in his time, inglorious
researches of natural history and comparative anatomy, since it was
only in those departments that he made any real contributions to
physical science. In the studies which were to him the noblest and most
entrancing of any, his speculations are one long record of wearisome,
hopeless, unqualified delusion. If, in the philosophy of practice and
the philosophy of art, he afforded no real guidance at all, in the
philosophy of Nature his guidance has always led men fatally astray.
So far as his means of observation extended, there was nothing that
he did not attempt to explain, and in every single instance he was
wrong. He has written about the general laws of matter and motion,
astronomy, chemistry, meteorology, and physiology, with the result
that he has probably made more blunders on those subjects than any
human being ever made before or after him. And, if there is one thing
more astounding than his unbroken infelicity of speculation, it is
the imperturbable self-confidence with which he puts forward his
fallacies as demonstrated scientific certainties. Had he been right,
it was no ‘slight or partial glimpses of the beloved’ that would have
been vouchsafed him, but the ‘fullest and nearest revelation’ of her
beauties. But the more he looked the less he saw. Instead of drawing
aside he only thickened and darkened the veils of sense which obscured
her, by mistaking them for the glorious forms that lay concealed
beneath.

Modern admirers of Aristotle labour to prove that his errors were
inevitable, and belonged more to his age than to himself; that without
the mechanical appliances of modern times science could not be
cultivated with any hope of success. But what are we to say when we
find that on one point after another the true explanation had already
been surmised by Aristotle’s predecessors or contemporaries, only to be
scornfully rejected by Aristotle himself? Their hypotheses may often
have been very imperfect, and supported by insufficient evidence; but
it must have been something more than chance which always led him wrong
when they were so often right. To begin with, the infinity of space is
not even now, nor will it ever be, established by improved instruments
of observation and measurement; it is deduced by a very simple
process of reasoning, of which Democritus and others were capable,
while Aristotle apparently was not. He rejects the idea because it is
inconsistent with certain very arbitrary assumptions and definitions
of his own, whereas he should have rejected them because they were
inconsistent with it. He further rejects the idea of a vacuum, and with
it the atomic theory, entirely on _à priori_ grounds, although, even
in the then existing state of knowledge, atomism explained various
phenomena in a perfectly rational manner which he could only explain by
unmeaning or nonsensical phrases.[195] It had been already maintained,
in his time, that the apparent movements of the heavenly bodies were
due to the rotation of the earth on its own axis.[196] Had Aristotle
accepted this theory one can imagine how highly his sagacity would have
been extolled. We may, therefore, fairly take his rejection of it as
a proof of blind adherence to old-fashioned opinions. When he argues
that none of the heavenly bodies rotate, because we can see that the
moon does not, as is evident from her always turning the same side to
us,[197] nothing is needed but the simplest mathematics to demonstrate
the fallacy of his reasoning. Others had surmised that the Milky Way
was a collection of stars, and that comets were bodies of the same
nature as planets. Aristotle is satisfied that both are appearances
like meteors, and the aurora borealis—caused by the friction of our
atmosphere against the solid aether above it. A similar origin is
ascribed to the heat and light derived from the sun and stars; for it
would be derogatory to the dignity of those luminaries to suppose,
with Anaxagoras, that they are formed of anything so familiar and
perishable as fire. On the contrary, they consist of pure aether like
the spheres on which they are fixed as protuberances; though how
such an arrangement can co-exist with absolute contact between each
sphere and that next below it, or how the effects of friction could
be transmitted through such enormous thicknesses of solid crystal, is
left unexplained.[198] By a happy anticipation of Roemer, Empedocles
conjectured that the transmission of light occupied a certain time:
Aristotle declares it to be instantaneous.[199]

On passing to terrestrial physics, we find that Aristotle is, as usual,
the dupe of superficial appearances, against which other thinkers were
on their guard. Seeing that fire always moved up, he assumed that it
did so by virtue of a natural tendency towards the circumference of the
universe, as opposed to earth, which always moved towards the centre.
The atomists erroneously held that all matter gravitated downwards
through infinite space, but correctly explained the ascent of heated
particles by the pressure of surrounding matter, in accordance, most
probably, with the analogy of floating bodies.[200] Chemistry as a
science is, of course, an entirely modern creation, but the first
approach to it was made by Democritus, while no ancient philosopher
stood farther from its essential principles than Aristotle. He analyses
bodies, not into their material elements, but into the sensuous
qualities, hot and cold, wet and dry, between which he supposes the
underlying substance to be perpetually oscillating; a theory which, if
it were true, would make any fixed laws of nature impossible.

It might have been expected that, on reaching physiology, the Stagirite
would stand on firmer ground than any of his contemporaries. Such,
however, is not the case. As already observed, his achievements belong
entirely to the dominion of anatomy and descriptive zoology. The whole
internal economy of the animal body is, according to him, designed
for the purpose of creating and moderating the vital heat; and in
apportioning their functions to the different organs he is entirely
dominated by this fundamental error. It was a common notion among the
Greeks, suggested by sufficiently obvious considerations, that the
brain is the seat of the psychic activities. These, however, Aristotle
transports to the heart, which, in his system, not only propels the
blood through the body, but is also the source of heat, the common
centre where the different special sensations meet to be compared,
and the organ of imagination and of passion. The sole function of
the brain is to cool down the blood—a purpose which the lungs also
subserve. Some persons believe that air is a kind of food, and is
inhaled in order to feed the internal fire; but their theory would
involve the absurd consequence that all animals breathe, for all have
some heat. Anaxagoras and Diogenes did, indeed, make that assertion,
and the latter even went so far as to say that fish breathe with
their gills, absorbing the air held in solution by the water passed
through them—a misapprehension, says Aristotle, which arose from not
having studied the final cause of respiration.[201] His physiological
theory of generation is equally unfortunate. In accordance with his
metaphysical system, hereafter to be explained, he distinguishes two
elements in the reproductive process, of which one, that contributed by
the male, is exclusively formative; and the other, that contributed by
the female, exclusively material. The prevalent opinion was evidently,
what we know now to be true, that each parent has both a formative and
a material share in the composition of the embryo. Again, Aristotle,
strangely enough, regards the generative element in both sexes as
an unappropriated portion of the animal’s nutriment, the last and
most refined product of digestion, and therefore not a portion of
the parental system at all; while other biologists, anticipating Mr.
Darwin’s theory of pangenesis in a very wonderful manner, taught that
the semen is a conflux of molecules derived from every part of the
body, and thus strove to account for the hereditary transmission of
individual peculiarities to offspring.[202]

All these, however, are mere questions of detail. It is on a subject of
the profoundest philosophical importance that Aristotle differs most
consciously, most radically, and most fatally from his predecessors.
They were evolutionists, and he was a stationarist. They were
mechanicists, and he was a teleologist. They were uniformitarians, and
he was a dualist. It is true that, as we mentioned at the beginning of
this chapter, Mr. Edwin Wallace makes him ‘recognise the genesis of
things by evolution and development,’ but the meaning of this phrase
requires to be cleared up. In one sense it is, of course, almost an
identical proposition. The genesis of things must be by genesis of some
kind or other. The great question is, what things have been evolved,
and how have they been evolved? Modern science tells us, that not
only have all particular aggregates of matter and motion now existing
come into being within a finite period of time, but also that the
specific types under which we arrange those aggregates have equally
been generated; and that their characteristics, whether structural
or functional, can only be understood by tracing out their origin
and history. And it further teaches us that the properties of every
aggregate result from the properties of its ultimate elements, which,
within the limits of our experience, remain absolutely unchanged. Now,
Aristotle taught very nearly the contrary of all this. He believed
that the cosmos, as we now know it, had existed, and would continue
to exist, unchanged through all eternity. The sun, moon, planets,
and stars, together with the orbs containing them, are composed of
an absolutely ungenerable, incorruptible substance. The earth, a
cold, heavy, solid sphere, though liable to superficial changes, has
always occupied its present position in the centre of the universe.
The specific forms of animal life—except a few which are produced
spontaneously—have, in like manner, been preserved unaltered through
an infinite series of generations. Man shares the common lot. There is
no continuous progress of civilisation. Every invention and discovery
has been made and lost an infinite number of times. Our philosopher
could not, of course, deny that individual living things come into
existence and gradually grow to maturity; but he insists that their
formation is teleologically determined by the parental type which they
are striving to realise. He asks whether we should study a thing by
examining how it grows, or by examining its completed form: and Mr.
Wallace quotes the question without quoting the answer.[203] Aristotle
tells us that the genetic method was followed by his predecessors, but
that the other method is his. And he goes on to censure Empedocles for
saying that many things in the animal body are due simply to mechanical
causation; for example, the segmented structure of the backbone, which
that philosopher attributes to continued doubling and twisting—the
very same explanation, we believe, that would be given of it by a
modern evolutionist.[204] Finally, Aristotle assumes the only sort of
transformation which we deny, and which Democritus equally denied—that
is to say, the transformation of the ultimate elements into one
another by the oscillation of an indeterminate matter between opposite
qualities.


VI.

The truth is that while our philosopher had one of the most powerful
intellects ever possessed by any man, it was an intellect strictly
limited to the surface of things. He was utterly incapable of divining
the hidden forces by which inorganic nature and life and human society
are moved. He had neither the genius which can reconstruct the past,
nor the genius which partly moulds, partly foretells the future. But
wherever he has to observe or to report, to enumerate or to analyse, to
describe or to define, to classify or to compare; and whatever be the
subject, a mollusc or a mammal, a mouse or an elephant; the structure
and habits of wild animals; the different stages in the development
of an embryo bird; the variations of a single organ or function
through the entire zoological series; the hierarchy of intellectual
faculties; the laws of mental association; the specific types of
virtuous character; the relation of equity to law; the relation of
reason to impulse; the ideals of friendship; the different members of a
household; the different orders in a State; the possible variations of
political constitutions, or within the same constitution; the elements
of dramatic or epic poetry; the modes of predication; the principles
of definition, classification, judgment, and reasoning; the different
systems of philosophy; all varieties of passion, all motives to action,
all sources of conviction;—there we find an enormous accumulation of
knowledge, an unwearied patience of research, a sweep of comprehension,
a subtlety of discrimination, an accuracy of statement, an impartiality
of decision, and an all-absorbing enthusiasm for science, which, if
they do not raise him to the supreme level of creative genius, entitle
him to rank a very little way below it.

It was natural that one who ranged with such consummate mastery over
the whole world of apparent reality, should believe in no other
reality; that for him truth should only mean the systematisation of
sense and language, of opinion, and of thought. The visible order of
nature was present to his imagination in such precise determination
and fulness of detail that it resisted any attempt he might have made
to conceive it under a different form. Each of his conclusions was
supported by analogies from every other department of enquiry, because
he carried the peculiar limitations of his thinking faculty with him
wherever he turned, and unconsciously accommodated every subject to the
framework which they imposed. The clearness of his ideas necessitated
the use of sharply-drawn distinctions, which prevented the free play
of generalisation and fruitful interchange of principles between the
different sciences. And we shall have occasion to show hereafter, that,
when he attempted to combine rival theories, it was done by placing
them in juxtaposition rather than by mutual interpenetration. Again,
with his vivid perceptions, it was impossible for him to believe in
the justification of any method claiming to supersede, or even to
supplement, their authority. Hence he was hardly less opposed to the
atomism of Democritus than to the scepticism of Protagoras or the
idealism of Plato. Hence, also, his dislike for all explanations which
assumed that there were hidden processes at work below the surface
of things, even taking surface in its most literal sense. Thus, in
discussing the question why the sea is salt, he will not accept the
theory that rivers dissolve out the salt from the strata through which
they pass, and carry it down to the sea, because river-water tastes
fresh; and propounds in its stead the utterly false hypothesis of a
dry saline evaporation from the earth’s surface, which he supposes to
be swept seawards by the wind.[205] Even in his own especial province
of natural history the same tendency leads him astray. He asserts that
the spider throws off its web from the surface of its body like a skin,
instead of evolving it from within, as Democritus had taught.[206] The
same thinker had endeavoured to prove by analogical reasoning that the
invertebrate animals must have viscera, and that only their extreme
minuteness prevents us from perceiving them; a view which his successor
will not admit.[207] In fact, wherever the line between the visible and
the invisible is crossed, Aristotle’s powers are suddenly paralysed, as
if by enchantment.

Another circumstance which led Aristotle to disregard the happy aperçus
of earlier philosophers was his vast superiority to them in positive
knowledge. It never occurred to him that their sagacity might be
greater than his, precisely because its exercise was less impeded by
the labour of acquiring and retaining such immense masses of irrelevant
facts. And his confidence was still further enhanced by the conviction
that all previous systems were absorbed into his own, their scattered
truths co-ordinated, their aberrations corrected, and their discords
reconciled. But in striking a general average of existing philosophies,
he was in reality bringing them back to that anonymous philosophy which
is embodied in common language and common opinion. And if he afterwards
ruled the minds of men with a more despotic sway than any other
intellectual master, it was because he gave an organised expression to
the principle of authority, which, if it could, would stereotype and
perpetuate the existing type of civilisation for all time.

Here, then, are three main points of distinction between our
philosopher and his precursors, the advantage being, so far, entirely
on their side. He did not, like the Ionian physiologists, anticipate
in outline our theories of evolution. He held that the cosmos had
always been, by the strictest necessity, arranged in the same manner;
the starry revolutions never changing; the four elements preserving
a constant balance; the earth always solid; land and water always
distributed according to their present proportions; living species
transmitting the same unalterable type through an infinite series of
generations; the human race enjoying an eternal duration, but from time
to time losing all its conquests in some great physical catastrophe,
and obliged to begin over again with the depressing consciousness that
nothing could be devised which had not been thought of an infinite
number of times already; the existing distinctions between Hellenes and
barbarians, masters and slaves, men and women, grounded on everlasting
necessities of nature. He did not, like Democritus, distinguish between
objective and subjective properties of matter; nor admit that void
space extends to infinity round the starry sphere, and honeycombs the
objects which seem most incompressible and continuous to our senses. He
did not hope, like Socrates, for the regeneration of the individual,
nor, like Plato, for the regeneration of the race, by enlightened
thought. It seemed as if Philosophy, abdicating her high function, and
obstructing the paths which she had first opened, were now content to
systematise the forces of prejudice, blindness, immobility, and despair.

For the restrictions under which Aristotle thought were not determined
by his personality alone; they followed on the logical development of
speculation, and would have imposed themselves on any other thinker
equally capable of carrying that development to its predetermined goal.
The Ionian search for a primary cause and substance of nature led to
the distinction, made almost simultaneously, although from opposite
points of view, by Parmenides and Heracleitus, between appearance and
reality. From that distinction sprang the idea of mind, organised by
Socrates into a systematic study of ethics and dialectics. Time and
space, the necessary conditions of physical causality, were eliminated
from a method having for its form the eternal relations of difference
and resemblance, for its matter the present interests of humanity.
Socrates taught that before enquiring whence things come we must
first determine what it is they are. Hence he reduced science to the
framing of exact definitions. Plato followed on the same track, and
refused to answer a single question about anything until the subject of
investigation had been clearly determined. But the form of causation
had taken such a powerful hold on Greek thought, that it could not
be immediately shaken off; and Plato, as he devoted more and more
attention to the material universe, saw himself compelled, like the
older philosophers, to explain its construction by tracing out the
history of its growth. What is even more significant, he applied the
same method to ethics and politics, finding it easier to describe how
the various virtues and types of social union came into existence,
than to analyse and classify them as fixed ideas without reference to
time. Again, while taking up the Eleatic antithesis of reality and
appearance, and re-interpreting it as a distinction between noumena and
phenomena, ideas and sensations, spirit and matter, he was impelled by
the necessity of explaining himself, and by the actual limitations of
experience to assimilate the two opposing series, or, at least, to view
the fleeting, superficial images as a reflection and adumbration of the
being which they concealed. And of all material objects, it seemed as
if the heavenly bodies, with their orderly, unchanging movements, their
clear brilliant light, and their remoteness from earthly impurities,
best represented the philosopher’s ideal. Thus, Plato, while on the
one side he reaches back to the pre-Socratic age, on the other reaches
forward to the Aristotelian system.

Nor was this all. As the world of sense was coming back into
favour, the world of reason was falling into disrepute. Just as the
old physical philosophy had been decomposed by the Sophisticism
of Protagoras and Gorgias, so also the dialectic of Socrates was
corrupted into the sophistry of Eubulides and Euthydêmus. Plato himself
discovered that by reasoning deductively from purely abstract premises,
contradictory conclusions could be established with apparently equal
force. It was difficult to see how a decision could be arrived at
except by appealing to the testimony of sense. And a moral reform could
hardly be effected except by similarly taking into account the existing
beliefs and customs of mankind.

It is possible, we think, to trace a similar evolution in the history
of the Attic drama. The tragedies of Aeschylus resemble the old Ionian
philosophy in this, that they are filled with material imagery,
and that they deal with remote interests, remote times, and remote
places. Sophocles withdraws his action into the subjective sphere, and
simultaneously works out a pervading contrast between the illusions by
which men are either lulled to false security or racked with needless
anguish, and the terrible or consolatory reality to which they finally
awaken. We have also, in his well-known irony, in the unconscious
self-betrayal of his characters, that subtle evanescent allusiveness
to a hidden truth, that gleaming of reality through appearance which
constitutes, first the dialectic, then the mythical illustration,
and finally the physics of Plato. In Aeschylus also we have the
spectacle of sudden and violent vicissitudes, the abasement of insolent
prosperity, and the punishment of long successful crime; only with him
the characters which attract most interest are not the blind victims,
but the accomplices or the confidants of destiny—the great figures of
a Prometheus, a Darius, an Eteocles, a Clytemnestra, and a Cassandra,
who are raised above the common level to an eminence where the
secrets of past and future are unfolded to their gaze. Far otherwise
with Sophocles. The leading actors in his most characteristic works,
Oedipus, Electra, Dejanira, Ajax, and Philoctetes, are surrounded by
forces which they can neither control nor understand; moving in a
world of illusion, if they help to work out their own destinies it is
unconsciously, or even in direct opposition to their own designs.[208]
Hence in Aeschylus we have something like that superb self-confidence
which distinguishes a Parmenides and a Heracleitus; in Sophocles that
confession of human ignorance which the Athenian philosophers made
on their own behalf, or strove to extract from others. Euripides
introduces us to another mode of thought, more akin to that which
characterises Aristotle. For, although there is abundance of mystery
in his tragedies, it has not the profound religious significance of
the Sophoclean irony; he uses it rather for romantic and sentimental
purposes, for the construction of an intricate plot, or for the
creation of pathetic situations. His whole power is thrown into the
immediate and detailed representation of living passion, and of the
surroundings in which it is displayed, without going far back into its
historical antecedents like Aeschylus, or, like Sophocles, into the
divine purposes which underlie it. On the other hand, as a Greek writer
could not be other than philosophical, he uses particular incidents
as an occasion for wide generalisations and dialectical discussions;
these, and not the idea of justice or of destiny, being the pedestal
on which his figures are set. And it may be noticed as another curious
coincidence that, like Aristotle again, he is disposed to criticise his
predecessors, or at least one of them, Aeschylus, with some degree of
asperity.

The critical tendency just alluded to suggests one more reason why
philosophy, from having been a method of discovery, should at last
become a mere method of description and arrangement. The materials
accumulated by nearly three centuries of observation and reasoning were
so enormous that they began to stifle the imaginative faculty. If there
was any opening for originality it lay in the task of carrying order
into this chaos by reducing it to a few general heads, by mapping out
the whole field of knowledge, and subjecting each particular branch to
the new-found processes of definition and classification. And along
with the incapacity for framing new theories there arose a desire to
diminish the number of those already existing, to frame, if possible, a
system which should select and combine whatever was good in any or all
of them.


VII.

This, then, was the revolution effected by Aristotle, that he found
Greek thought in the form of a solid, and unrolled into a surface of
the utmost possible tenuity, transparency, and extension. In so doing,
he completed what Socrates and Plato had begun, he paralleled the
course already described by Greek poetry, and he offered the first
example of what since then has more than once recurred in the history
of philosophy. It was thus that the residual substance of Locke and
Berkeley was resolved into phenomenal succession by Hume. It was thus
that the unexplained reality of Kant and Fichte was drawn out into
a play of logical relations by Hegel. And, if we may venture on a
forecast of the future towards which speculation is now advancing,
it is thus that the limits imposed on human knowledge by positivists
and agnostics in our own day, are yielding to the criticism of those
who wish to establish either a perfect identity or a perfect equation
between consciousness and being. This is the position represented in
France by M. Taine, a thinker offering many points of resemblance to
Aristotle, which it would be interesting to work out had we space at
our command for the purpose. The forces which are now guiding English
philosophy in an analogous direction have hitherto escaped observation
on account of their disunion among themselves, and their intermixture
with others of a different character. But on the whole we may say
that the philosophy of Mill and his school corresponds very nearly in
its practical idealism to Plato’s teaching; that Mr. Herbert Spencer
approaches Aristotle on the side of theorising systematisation, while
sharing to a more limited extent the metaphysical and political realism
which accompanied it: that Lewes was carrying the same transformation
a step further in his unfinished _Problems of Life and Mind_; that the
philosophy of Mr. Shadworth Hodgson is marked by the same spirit of
actuality, though not without a vista of multitudinous possibilities
in the background; that the Neo-Hegelian school are trying to do over
again for us what their master did in Germany; and that the lamented
Professor Clifford had already given promise of one more great attempt
to widen the area of our possible experience into co-extension with the
whole domain of Nature.[209]

The systematising power of Aristotle, his faculty for bringing the
isolated parts of a surface into co-ordination and continuity, is
apparent even in those sciences with whose material truths he was
utterly unacquainted. Apart from the falseness of their fundamental
assumptions, his scientific treatises are, for their time, masterpieces
of method. In this respect they far surpass his moral and metaphysical
works, and they are also written in a much more vigorous style,
occasionally even rising into eloquence. He evidently moves with much
more assurance on the solid ground of external nature than in the
cloudland of Platonic dialectics, or among the possibilities of an
ideal morality. If, for example, we open his _Physics_, we shall find
such notions as Causation, Infinity, Matter, Space, Time, Motion, and
Force, for the first time in history separately discussed, defined,
and made the foundation of natural philosophy. The treatise _On the
Heavens_ very properly regards the celestial movements as a purely
mechanical problem, and strives throughout to bring theory and
practice into complete agreement. While directly contradicting the
truths of modern astronomy, it stands on the same ground with them;
and anyone who had mastered it would be far better prepared to receive
those truths than if he were only acquainted with such a work as
Plato’s _Timaeus_. The remaining portions of Aristotle’s scientific
encyclopaedia follow in perfect logical order, and correspond very
nearly to Auguste Comte’s classification, if, indeed, they did not
directly or indirectly suggest it. We cannot, however, view the
labours of Aristotle with unmixed satisfaction until he comes on to
deal with the provinces of natural history, comparative anatomy, and
comparative psychology. Here, as we have shown, the subject exactly
suited the comprehensive observation and systematising formalism in
which he excelled. Here, accordingly, not only the method but the
matter of his teaching is good. In theorising about the causes of
phenomena he was behind the best science of his age; in dissecting
the phenomena themselves he was far before it. Of course very much
of what he tells was learned at second-hand, and some of it is not
authentic. But to collect such masses of information from the reports
of uneducated hunters, fishermen, grooms, shepherds, beemasters,
and the like, required an extraordinary power of putting pertinent
questions, such as could only be acquired in the school of Socratic
dialectic. Nor should we omit to notice the vivid intelligence which
enabled even ordinary Greeks to supply him with the facts required for
his generalisations. But some of his most important researches must be
entirely original. For instance, he must have traced the development
of the embryo chicken with his own eyes; and, here, we have it on good
authority that his observations are remarkable for their accuracy, in
a field where accuracy, according to Caspar Friedrich Wolff, is almost
impossible.[210]

Still more important than these observations themselves is the great
truth he derives from them—since rediscovered and worked out in detail
by Von Baer—that in the development of each individual the generic
characters make their appearance before the specific characters.[211]
Nor is this a mere accidental or isolated remark, but, as we shall show
in the next chapter, intimately connected with one of the philosopher’s
metaphysical theories. Although not an evolutionist, he has made other
contributions to biology, the importance of which has been first
realised in the light of the evolution theory. Thus he notices the
antagonism between individuation and reproduction;[212] the connexion
of increased size with increased vitality;[213] the connexion of
greater mobility,[214] and of greater intelligence,[215] with increased
complexity of structure; the physiological division of labour in the
higher animals;[216] the formation of heterogeneous organs out of
homogeneous tissues;[217] the tendency towards greater centralisation
in the higher organisms[218]—a remark connected with his two great
anatomical discoveries, the central position of the heart in the
vascular system, and the possession of a backbone by all red-blooded
animals;[219] the resemblance of animal intelligence to a rudimentary
human intelligence, especially as manifested in children;[220] and,
finally, he attempts to trace a continuous series of gradations
connecting the inorganic with the organic world, plants with animals,
and the lower animals with man.[221]

The last mentioned principle gives one more illustration of the
distinction between Aristotle’s system and that of the evolutionist,
properly so called. The continuity recognised by the former only
obtains among a number of coexisting types; it is a purely logical
or ideal arrangement, facilitating the acquisition and retention of
knowledge, but adding nothing to its real content. The continuity of
the latter implies a causal connexion between successive types evolved
from each other by the action of mechanical forces. Moreover, our
modern theory, while accounting for whatever is true in Aristotle’s
conception, serves, at the same time, to correct its exaggeration. The
totality of existing species only imperfectly fill up the interval
between the highest human life and the inorganic matter from which
we assume it to be derived, because they are collaterally, and not
lineally, related. Probably no one of them corresponds to any less
developed stage of another, although some have preserved, with more
constancy than others, the features of a common parent. In diverging
from a single stock (if we accept the monogenetic hypothesis,) they
have become separated by considerable spaces, which the innumerable
multitude of extinct species alone could fill up.

Our preliminary survey of the subject is now completed. So far, we have
been engaged in studying the mind of Aristotle rather than his system
of philosophy. In the next chapter we shall attempt to give a more
complete account of that system in its internal organisation not less
than in its relations to modern science and modern thought.

FOOTNOTES:

[161] _Aristotelis Opera._ Edidit Academia Regia Borussica. Berlin.
1831-70.

[162] _Die Philosophie der Griechen._ Zweiter Theil, Zweite Abtheilung:
_Aristoteles u. d. alten Peripatetiker_. By Dr. Eduard Zeller. Leipzig.
1879.

[163] _Aristoteles._ By Christian Aug. Brandis. Berlin. 1853-57.

[164] _Aristotle._ By Sir Alexander Grant, Bart., LL.D. Edinburgh and
London. 1877.

[165] _Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle._ Compiled by Edwin
Wallace, M.A. Oxford and London. 1880.

[166] _De la Métaphysique: Introduction à la Métaphysique d’ Aristote._
By Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire. Paris. 1879.

[167] Wallace’s _Outlines_, preface, pp. vi-viii.

[168] As will be shown in the next chapter.

[169] _Outlines_, pp. 29 and 38.

[170] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 513.

[171] _Ibid._, p. 407.

[172] Written before the appearance of Teichmüller’s _Lit. Fehden_
(already referred to in the preceding chapter).

[173] Zeller’s opinion that all the Platonic Dialogues except the
_Laws_ were composed before Aristotle’s arrival in Athens, does not
seem to be supported by any satisfactory evidence. [Since the above was
first published I have found that a similar view of the _Parmenides_
had already been maintained by Tocco (_Ricerche Platoniche_, p. 105);
and afterwards, but independently, by Teichmüller (_Neue Studien_, III.
363). See Chiapelli, _Della Interpretazione panteistica di Platone_, p.
152.]

[174] Teichmüller infers, from certain expressions in the
_Panathenaicus_ of Isocrates, that Aristotle had returned from Mitylênê
to Athens and resumed his former position as a teacher of rhetoric when
the summons to Pella reached him. (_Lit. Fehden_, 261.)

[175] _Gesch. d. Phil._, II., 302.

[176] Zeller, _op. cit._, p. 25.

[177] Cf. Teichmüller, _Lit. Fehden_, 192.

[178] Zeller, p. 38.

[179] Ritter and Preller, _Hist. Ph._, p. 329.

[180] Zeller, p. 41, _note_ 2.

[181] Diog. L., V., 17-21.

[182] Grant’s _Aristotle_, p. 7.

[183] We think, however, that Mr. Edwin Wallace has overstated the
case, when he makes Aristotle say that ‘democracy is not unlikely with
the spread of population to become the ultimate form of government; and
may be anticipated without dread by considering that the _collective_
voice of a people is as likely to be sound in state administration as
in criticisms on art,’ pp. 57-8. In the first place, the expressions
of opinion which are brought together in Mr. Wallace’s summary are
separated in the original text by a considerable interval—an important
circumstance when we are dealing with so inconsistent a writer; then
what Aristotle says about the collective wisdom of the people, besides
being advanced with extreme hesitation, is not a reassurance against
any danger to be dreaded from their supremacy, but an answer to the
argument that the few had a natural right to political power from their
greater wealth and better education; the whole question being, in this
connexion, one of political justice, not of political expediency;
finally, not only is ‘ultimate form of government’ a very strong
rendering of the Greek words, but what Aristotle says on the subject in
his third book is virtually retracted in the fifth, where oligarchy,
democracy, and tyranny are regarded as succeeding each other in any
order indifferently, and Plato (or the Platonic Socrates) is censured
for assuming a constant sequence of revolutions. The explanation of
this change seems to be that when Aristotle wrote his third book he
was only acquainted with the history of Athens and a few other of
the greater states, but that subsequently a vast collection of facts
bearing on the subject came to his knowledge, showing that each form of
government embraced more varieties and admitted of more mutations than
he had been originally aware of; and this led to a complete recast of
his opinions.

[184] Many of the topics noted are not only trite enough, but have no
possible bearing on the subject under which they stand. For instance,
in discussing judicial eloquence Aristotle goes into the motives for
committing crime; among these are pleasurable feelings of every kind,
including the remembrance of past trouble. Even the hero of a spasmodic
tragedy would hardly have committed an offence for the purpose of
procuring himself this form of experience.

[185] _Poet._, xv., p. 1454, a, 20.

[186]

    Μάτην ἄρ’ εἰς γυναῖκας ἐξ ἀνδρῶν ψόγος
    Ψάλλει κενὸν τόξευμα καὶ κακῶς λέγει.
    αἱ δ’ εἴσ’ ἀμείνους ἀρσένων, ἐγὼ λέγω.
                  Euripides, _Frag._ 512. (Didot.)

[187] _Poet._, xiii., p. 1453, a, 8.

[188] _Pol._, VIII., vii., p. 1342, a, 10.

[189] Zeller, p. 780.

[190] As an illustration of the stimulating effect produced by the
study of Aristotle’s logic, we quote the following anecdote from the
notes to Whately’s edition of Bacon’s _Essays_:—‘The late Sir Alexander
Johnstone, when acting as temporary Governor of Ceylon (soon after its
cession), sat once as judge in a trial of a prisoner for a robbery
and murder; and the evidence seemed to him so conclusive, that he
was about to charge the jury (who were native Cingalese) to find a
verdict of guilty. But one of the jurors asked and obtained permission
to examine the witnesses himself. He had them brought in one by one,
and cross-examined them so ably as to elicit the fact that they were
_themselves_ the perpetrators of the crime, which they afterwards had
conspired to impute to the prisoner. And they were accordingly put on
their trial and convicted. Sir Alexander Johnstone was greatly struck
by the intelligence displayed by this juror, the more so as he was only
a small farmer, who was not known to have had any remarkable advantages
of education. He sent for him, and after commending the wonderful
sagacity he had shown, inquired eagerly what his studies had been.
The man replied that he had never read but one book, the only one he
possessed, which had long been in his family, and which he delighted
to study in his leisure hours. This book he was prevailed on to show
to Sir Alexander Johnstone, who put it into the hands of one who knew
the Cingalese language. It turned out to be a translation into that
language of a large portion of Aristotle’s _Organon_. It appears that
the Portuguese, when they first settled in Ceylon and other parts of
the East, translated into the native languages several of the works
then studied in the European Universities, among which were the Latin
versions of Aristotle. The Cingalese in question said that if his
understanding had been in any degree cultivated and improved, it was
to that book that he owed it. It is likely, however (as was observed
to me [Whately] by the late Bishop Copleston), that any other book,
containing an equal amount of close reasoning and accurate definition,
might have answered the same purpose in sharpening the intellect of the
Cingalese.’ Possibly, but not to the same effect. What the Cingalese
got into his hands was a triple-distilled essence of Athenian legal
procedure. The cross-examining elenchus was first borrowed by Socrates
from the Athenian courts and applied to philosophical purposes; it was
still further elaborated by Plato, and finally reduced to abstract
rules by Aristotle; so that in using it as he did the juror was only
restoring it to its original purposes.

[191] _Metaph._, XII., vii., p. 1072, b, 13.

[192] _Eth. Nic._, X., vii. (somewhat condensed).

[193] It is perfectly possible that Aristotle was not acquainted at
first hand with human anatomy. But Sir A. Grant is hardly justified in
observing that the words quoted above ‘do not show the hardihood of the
practised dissecter’ (_Aristotle_, p 3). Aristotle simply takes the
popular point of view in order to prove that the internal structure
of the lower animals is no more offensive to the eye than that of
man. And, as he took so much delight in the former, nothing but want
of opportunity is likely to have prevented him from extending his
researches to the latter.

[194] _De Part. An._, I. v.

[195] Compare the arguments in _Phys._, IV., ix.

[196] The hypothesis of the earth’s diurnal rotation had clearly
been suggested by a celebrated passage in Plato’s _Timaeus_, though
whether Plato himself held it is still doubtful. That he accepted the
revolution of the celestial spheres is absolutely certain; but while
to our minds the two beliefs are mutually exclusive, Grote thinks that
Plato overlooked the inconsistency. It seems probable that the one was
at first actually a generalisation from the other; it was thought that
the earth must revolve _because_ the crystal spheres revolved; then the
new doctrine, thus accidentally struck out, was used to destroy the old
one.

[197] _De Coel._, II., viii., 290, a, 26.

[198] Zeller, p. 469.

[199] _De Sens._, vi., 446, a, 26.

[200] _De Coel._, I., viii., 277, b, 2.

[201] _De Respir._, i. and ii.

[202] _De Gen. An._, I., xvii.

[203] _Outlines_, p. 30.

[204] There is a passage in the _Politics_ (I., ii., _sub. in._) in
which Aristotle distinctly inculcates the method of studying things
by observing how they are first produced, and how they grow; but this
is quite inconsistent with the more deliberate opinion referred to in
the text (_De Part. An._, I., i., p. 640, a, 10). Perhaps, in writing
the first book of the _Politics_ he was more immediately under the
influence of Plato, who preferred the old genetic method in practice,
though not in theory.

[205] _Meteor._, II., iii., 357, a, 15 ff.

[206] _Hist. An._, IX., xxxix., _sub fin._

[207] _De Part. An._, III., iv., _sub in._

[208] This characterisation applies neither to the _Antigone_ nor to
the _Oedipus in Colônus_, the first and the last extant dramas of
Sophocles. The reason is that the one is still half Aeschylean, and the
other distinctly an imitation of Euripides.

[209] Cf. the memorable declaration of Mr. F. Pollock: ‘To me it
amounts to a contradiction in terms to speak of unknowable existence or
unknowable reality in an absolute sense. I cannot tell what existence
means if not the possibility of being known or perceived.’—_Spinoza_,
p. 163.

[210] _Aristoteles von d. Zeugung u. Entwickelung d. Thiere._ Aubert u.
Wimmer, Einleitung, p. 15.

[211] _De Gen. An._, II., iii., 736, b, 1.

[212] _Ibid._, I., xviii., 725, b, 25.

[213] _De Respir._, 477, a, 18.

[214] _De Part. An._, I., vii., _sub. in._

[215] _Ibid._, II., x., 656, a, 4.

[216] _Ibid._, IV., vi., 683, a, 25.

[217] _Ibid._, II., i.

[218] _Ibid._, IV., v., 682, a, 8; _De Long._, vi., 467, a, 18; _De
Ingr. An._, vii., 707, a, 24.

[219] _De Part. An._, II., ix., 664, b, 11; Zeller, p. 522.

[220] _Hist. An._, VIII., i., _sub in._

[221] Zeller, p. 553.




CHAPTER VII.

THE SYSTEMATIC PHILOSOPHY OF ARISTOTLE.


I.

We have considered the Aristotelian philosophy in relation to the great
concrete interests of life, morals, politics, literature, and science.
We have now to ask what it has to tell us about the deepest and gravest
problems of any, the first principles of Being and Knowing, God and
the soul, spirit and matter, metaphysics, psychology, and logic. We
saw that very high claims were advanced on behalf of Aristotle in
respect to his treatment of these topics; and had we begun with them,
we should only have been following the usual example of his expositors.
We have, however, preferred keeping them to the last, that our
readers might acquire some familiarity with the Aristotelian method,
by seeing it applied to subjects where the results were immediately
intelligible, and could be tested by an appeal to the experience of
twenty-two centuries. We know that there are some who will demur
to this proceeding, who will say that Aristotle the metaphysician
stands on quite different ground from Aristotle the man of science,
because in the one capacity he had, and in the other capacity he had
not, sufficient facts to warrant an authoritative conclusion. They
will say, with Prof. St. George Mivart, that in accumulating natural
knowledge men’s minds have become deadened to spiritual truth; or with
Mr. Edwin Wallace, that the questions opened by Aristotle have not
yet been closed, and that we may with advantage begin our study of
them under his guidance. We, on the other hand, will endeavour to show
that there is a unity of composition running through the Stagirite’s
entire labours, that they everywhere manifest the same excellences and
defects, which are those of an anatomising, critical, descriptive,
classificatory genius; that his most important conclusions, however
great their historical interest, are without any positive or even
educational value for us, being almost entirely based on false physical
assumptions; that his ontology and psychology are not what his admirers
suppose them to be; and that his logic, though meriting our gratitude,
is far too confused and incomplete to throw any light on the questions
raised by modern thinkers.

Here, as elsewhere, we shall employ the genetic method of
investigation. Aristotle’s writings do not, indeed, present that
gradual development of ideas which makes the Platonic Dialogues so
interesting. Still they exhibit traces of such a development, and the
most important among them seems to have been compiled from notes taken
by the philosopher before his conclusions were definitely reasoned
out, or worked up into a consistent whole. It is this fragmentary
collection which, from having been placed by some unknown editor after
the _Physics_, has received a name still associated with every kind of
speculation that cannot be tested by a direct or indirect appeal to the
evidence of external sense.

Whether there exist any realities beyond what are revealed to us
by this evidence, and what sensible evidence itself may be worth,
were problems already actively canvassed in Aristotle’s time. His
_Metaphysics_ at once takes us into the thick of the debate. The
first question of that age was, What are the causes and principles of
things? On one side stood the materialists—the old Ionian physicists
and their living representatives. They said that all things came from
water or air or fire, or from a mixture of the four elements, or from
the interaction of opposites, such as wet and dry, hot and cold.
Aristotle, following in the track of his master, Plato, blames them
for ignoring the incorporeal substances, by which he does not mean
what would now be understood—feelings or states of consciousness, or
even the spiritual substratum of consciousness—but rather the general
qualities or assemblages of qualities which remain constant amid the
fluctuations of sensible phenomena; considered, let us observe, not as
subjective thoughts, but as objective realities. Another deficiency in
the older physical theories is that they either ignore the efficient
cause of motion altogether (like Thales), or assign causes not adequate
to the purpose (like Empedocles); or when they hit on the true cause
do not make the right use of it (like Anaxagoras). Lastly, they have
omitted to study the final cause of a thing—the good for which it
exists.

The teleology of Aristotle requires a word of explanation, which may
appropriately find its place in the present connexion. In speaking
of a purpose in Nature, he does not mean that natural productions
subserve an end lying outside themselves; as if, to use Goethe’s
illustration, the bark of cork-trees was intended to be made into
stoppers for ginger-beer bottles; but that in every perfect thing the
parts are interdependent, and exist for the sake of the whole to which
they belong. Nor does he, like so many theologians, both ancient and
modern, argue from the evidence of design in Nature to the operation
of a designing intelligence outside her. Not believing in any creation
at all apart from works of art, he could not believe in a creative
intelligence other than that of man. He does, indeed, constantly speak
of Nature as if she were a personal providence, continually exerting
herself for the good of her creatures. But, on looking a little closer,
we find that the agency in question is completely unconscious, and
may be identified with the constitution of each particular thing, or
rather of the type to which it belongs. We have said that Aristotle’s
intellect was essentially descriptive, and we have here another
illustration of its characteristic quality. The teleology which he
parades with so much pomp adds nothing to our knowledge of causes,
implies nothing that a positivist need not readily accept. It is a
mere study of functions, an analysis of statical relations. Of course,
if there were really any philosophers who said that the connexion
between teeth and mastication was entirely accidental, the Aristotelian
doctrine was a useful protest against such an absurdity; but when we
have established a fixed connexion between organ and function, we are
bound to explain the association in some more satisfactory manner than
by reaffirming it in general terms, which is all that Aristotle ever
does. Again, whatever may be the relative justification of teleology
as a study of functions in the living body, we have no grounds for
interpreting the phenomena of inorganic nature on an analogous
principle. Some Greek philosophers were acute enough to perceive the
distinction. While admitting that plants and animals showed traces of
design, they held that the heavenly bodies arose spontaneously from
the movements of a vortex or some such cause;[222] just as certain
religious savants of our own day reject the Darwinian theory while
accepting the nebular hypothesis.[223] But to Aristotle the unbroken
regularity of the celestial movements, which to us is the best proof
of their purely mechanical nature, was, on the contrary, a proof that
they were produced and directed by an absolutely reasonable purpose;
much more so indeed than terrestrial organisms, marked as these are by
occasional deviations and imperfections; and he concludes that each
of those movements must be directed towards the attainment of some
correspondingly consummate end;[224] while, again, in dealing with
those precursors of Mr. Darwin, if such they can be called, who argued
that the utility of an organ does not disprove its spontaneous origin,
since only the creatures which, by a happy accident, came to possess
it would survive—he answers that the constant reproduction of such
organs is enough to vindicate them from being the work of chance;[225]
thus displaying his inability to distinguish between the two ideas of
uniform causation and design.

As a result of the foregoing criticism, Aristotle distinguishes four
different causes or principles by which all things are determined
to be what they are—Matter, Form, Agent, and Purpose.[226] If, for
example, we take a saw, the matter is steel; the form, a toothed
blade; the agent or cause of its assuming that shape, a smith; the
purpose, to divide wood or stone. When we have enumerated these four
principles, we have told everything that can be known about a saw.
But Aristotle could not keep the last three separate; he gradually
extended the definition of form until it absorbed, or became identified
with, agent and purpose.[227] It was what we should call the idea
of function that facilitated the transition. If the very essence or
nature of a saw implies use, activity, movement, how can we define it
without telling its purpose? The toothed blade is only intelligible as
a cutting, dividing instrument. Again, how came the saw into being?
What shaped the steel into that particular form? We have said that
it was the smith. But surely that is too vague. The smith is a man,
and may be able to exercise other trades as well. Suppose him to be a
musician, did he make the saw in that capacity? No; and here comes in
a distinction which plays an immense part in Aristotle’s metaphysics,
whence it has passed into our every-day speech. He does not make the
saw _quâ_ musician but _quâ_ smith. He can, however, in the exercise
of his trade as smith make many other tools—knives, axes, and so
forth. Nevertheless, had he only learned to make saws it would be
enough. Therefore, he does not make the saw _quâ_ axe-maker, he makes
it _quâ_ saw-maker. Nor, again, does he make it with his whole mind
and body, but only with just those thoughts and movements required to
give the steel that particular shape. Now, what are these thoughts but
the idea of a saw present in his mind and passing through his eyes
and hands, till it fixes itself on the steel? The immaterial form of
a saw creates the real saw which we use. Let us apply the preceding
analogies to a natural object; for example, a man. What is the Form,
the definition of a man? Not a being possessing a certain outward
shape, for then a marble statue would be a man, which it is not; nor
yet a certain assemblage of organs, for then a corpse would be a man,
which, according to Aristotle, criticising Democritus, it is not; but
a living, feeling, and reasoning being, the end of whose existence is
to fulfil all the functions involved in this definition. So, also, the
creative cause of a man is another man, who directly impresses the
human form on the material supplied by the female organism. In the same
way, every definite individual aggregate becomes what it is through the
agency of another individual representing the same type in its perfect
manifestation.[228]

The substantial forms of Aristotle, combining as they do the notion
of a definition with that of a moving cause and a fulfilled purpose,
are evidently derived from the Platonic Ideas; a reflection which
at once leads us to consider the relation in which he stands to
the spiritualism of Plato and to the mathematical idealism of the
Neo-Pythagoreans. He agrees with them in thinking that general
conceptions are the sole object of knowledge—the sole enduring reality
in a world of change. He differs from them in maintaining that such
conceptions have no existence apart from the particulars in which they
reside. It has been questioned whether Aristotle ever really understood
his master’s teaching on the subject. Among recent critics, M.
Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire asserts, with considerable vehemence, that he
did not. It is certain that in some respects Aristotle is not just to
the Platonic theory, that he exaggerates its absurdities, ignores its
developments, and occasionally brings charges against it which might be
retorted with at least equal effect against his own philosophy. But on
the most important point of all, whether Plato did or did not ascribe
a separate existence to his Ideas, we could hardly believe a disciple
of twenty years’ standing[229] to be mistaken, even if the master had
not left on record a decisive testimony to the affirmative side in his
_Parmenides_, and one scarcely less decisive in his _Timaeus_.[230]
And so far as the controversy reduces itself to this particular issue,
Aristotle is entirely right. His most powerful arguments are not,
indeed, original, having been anticipated by Plato himself; but as
they were left unanswered he had a perfect right to repeat them, and
his dialectical skill was great enough to make him independent of
their support. The extreme minuteness of his criticism is wearisome to
us, who can hardly conceive how another opinion could ever have been
held. Yet such was the fascination exercised by Plato’s idealism, that
not only was it upheld with considerable acrimony by his immediate
followers,[231] but under one form or another it has been revived
over and over again, in the long period which has elapsed since its
first promulgation, and on every one of these occasions the arguments
of Aristotle have been raised up again to meet it, each time with
triumphant success. Ockham’s razor, _Entia non sunt sine necessitate
multiplicanda_, is borrowed from the _Metaphysics_; Locke’s principal
objection to innate ideas closely resembles the sarcastic observation
in the last chapter of the _Posterior Analytics_, that, according to
Plato’s theory, we must have some very wonderful knowledge of which we
are not conscious.[232] And the weapons with which Trendelenburg and
others have waged war on Hegel are avowedly drawn from the Aristotelian
arsenal.[233]

In his criticism on the ideal theory, Aristotle argues that it is
unproved; that the consequences to which it leads would be rejected
by the idealists themselves; that it involves a needless addition to
the sum of existence; that it neither explains the origin of things
nor helps us to understand them, while taking away from them their
substantial reality; that the Ideas are merely sensible objects
hypostasised, like the anthropomorphic divinities of primitive men;
that, to speak of them as patterns, in whose likeness the world was
created, is a mere idle metaphor; that, even assuming the existence of
such patterns, each individual must be made in the likeness, not of
one, but of many ideas—a human being, for instance, must be modelled
after the ideal biped and the ideal animal, as well as after the ideal
man; while many of the ideas themselves, although all are supposed
to exist absolutely, must be dependent on other and simpler types;
finally, that, assuming an idea for every abstract relation, there must
be ideas to represent the relation between every sensible object and
its prototype, others for the new relations thus introduced, and so on
to infinity.

Aristotle’s objections to the Neo-Pythagorean theory of ideal numbers
need not delay us here. They are partly a repetition of those brought
against the Platonic doctrine in its original form, partly derived
from the impossibility of identifying qualitative with quantitative
differences.[234]

Such arguments manifestly tell not only against Platonism, but against
every kind of transcendental realism, from the natural theology of
Paley to the dogmatic agnosticism of Mr. Herbert Spencer. A modern
Aristotle might say that the hypothesis of a creative first cause,
personal or otherwise, logically involves the assumption of as many
original specific energies as there are qualities to be accounted
for, and thus gives us the unnecessary trouble of counting everything
twice over; that every difficulty and contradiction from which the
transcendental assumption is intended to free us, must, on analysis,
reappear in the assumption itself—for example, the God who is to
deliver us from evil must be himself conceived as the creator of evil;
that the infinite and absolute can neither cause, nor be apprehended
by, the finite and relative; that to separate from Nature all the
forces required for its perpetuation, and relegate them to a sphere
apart, is a false antithesis and a sterile abstraction; lastly, that
causation, whether efficient or final, once begun, cannot stop; that if
this world is not self-existing, nothing is; that the mutual adaptation
of thoughts in a designing intelligence requires to be accounted for
just like any other adaptation; that if the relative involves the
absolute, so also does the relation between the two involve another
absolute, and so on to infinity.

       *       *       *       *       *

These are difficulties which will continue to perplex us until
every shred of the old metaphysics has been thrown off. To that
task Aristotle was not equal. He was profoundly influenced by the
very theory against which he contended; and, at the risk of being
paradoxical, we may even say that it assumed a greater importance in
his system than had ever been attributed to it by Plato himself. To
prove this, we must resume the thread of our exposition, and follow
the Stagirite still further in his analysis of the fundamental reality
with which the highest philosophy is concerned.


II.

Ever since the age of Parmenides and Heracleitus, Greek thought had
been haunted by a pervading dualism which each system had in turn
attempted to reconcile, with no better result than its reproduction
under altered names. And speculation had latterly become still further
perplexed by the question whether the antithetical couples supposed
to divide all Nature between them could or could not be reduced to so
many aspects of a single opposition. In the last chapter but one we
showed that there were four such competing pairs—Being and Not-Being,
the One and the Many, the Same and the Other, Rest and Motion. Plato
employed his very subtlest dialectic in tracing out their connexions,
readjusting their relationships, and diminishing the total number
of terms which they involved. In what was probably his last great
speculative effort, the _Timaeus_, he seems to have selected Sameness
and Difference as the couple best adapted to bear the heaviest strain
of thought. There is some reason for believing that in his spoken
lectures he followed the Pythagorean system more closely, giving the
preference to the One and the Many; or he may have employed the two
expressions indifferently. The former would sooner commend itself to a
dialectician, the latter to a mathematician. Aristotle was both, but he
was before all things a naturalist. As such, the antithesis of Being
and Not-Being, to which Plato attached little or no value, suited him
best. Accordingly, he proceeds to work it out with a clearness before
unknown in Greek philosophy. The first and surest of all principles,
he declares, is, that a thing cannot both be and not be, in the same
sense of the words, and furthermore that it must either be or not be.
Subsequent logicians prefixed to these axioms another, declaring that
whatever is is. The three together are known as the laws of Identity,
Contradiction, and Excluded Middle. By all, except Hegelians, they are
recognised as the highest laws of thought; and even Hegel was indebted
to them, through Fichte, for the ground-plan of his entire system.[235]

The whole meaning and value of such excessively abstract propositions
must lie in their application to the problems which they are employed
to solve. Aristotle made at once too much and too little of his. Too
much—for he employed them to refute doctrines not really involving
any logical inconsistency—the theory of Heracleitus, that everything
is in motion; the theory of Anaxagoras, that everything was originally
confused together; the theory of Protagoras, that man is the measure of
all things. Too little—for he admitted a sphere of possibilities where
logical definition did not apply, and where subjects simultaneously
possessed the capacity of taking on one or other of two contradictory
attributes.

Nor is this all. After sharply distinguishing what is from what is
not, and refusing to admit any intermediary between them, Aristotle
proceeds to discover such an intermediary in the shape of what he
calls Accidental Predication.[236] An accident is an attribute not
necessarily or usually inhering in its subject—in other words,
a co-existence not dependent on causation. Aristotle could never
distinguish between the two notions of cause and kind, nor yet
between interferences with the action of some particular cause and
exceptions to the law of causation in general; and so he could not
frame an intelligible theory of chance. Some propositions, he tells
us, are necessarily true, others are only generally true; and it
is the exceptions to the latter which constitute accident; as, for
instance, when a cold day happens to come in the middle of summer.
So also a man is necessarily an animal, but only exceptionally white.
Such distinctions are not uninteresting, for they prove with what
difficulties the idea of invariable sequence had to contend before even
the highest intellects could grasp it. There was a constant liability
to confound the order of succession with the order of co-existence, the
order of our sensations with the order of objective existence, and the
subjection of human actions to any fixed order, with the impossibility
of deliberation and choice. The earlier Greek thinkers had proclaimed
that all things existed by necessity; but with their purely geometrical
or historical point of view, they entirely ignored the more complex
questions raised by theories about classification, logical attribution,
and moral responsibility. And the modifications introduced by Epicurus,
into the old physics, show us how unanswerable Aristotle’s reasonings
seemed to some of his ablest successors.

Absolute being is next distinguished from truth, which, we are told,
has no objective existence[237]—a remarkable declaration, which throws
much light on other parts of the Aristotelian system, and to which we
shall subsequently return.[238]

After explaining at considerable length what Being is not, Aristotle
now proceeds to ascertain what it is. He tells us that just as all
number _quâ_ number must be either odd or even, so all Being _quâ_
Being must have certain universal attributes. These he sets himself to
discover. When Descartes long afterwards entered on a somewhat similar
inquiry, he fell back on the facts of his own individual consciousness.
Aristotle, on the contrary, appeals to the common consciousness of
mankind as embodied in ordinary language. In how many senses do we
say that a thing is? The first answer is contained in his famous
Ten Categories.[239] These are not what some have supposed them to
be, _summa genera_ of existence, but _summa genera_ of predication.
In other words, they are not a classification of things, but of the
information which it is possible to receive about a single thing, more
especially about the richest and most concrete thing known to us—a
human being. If we want to find out all about a thing we ask, What is
it? Of what sort? How large? To what does it belong? Where and when
can we find it? What does it do? What happens to it? And if the object
of our investigations be a living thing, we may add, What are its
habits and dispositions? The question has been raised, how Aristotle
came to think of these ten particular categories, and a wonderful
amount of rubbish has been written on the subject, while apparently no
scholar could see what was staring him in the face all the time, that
Aristotle got them by collecting all the simple forms of interrogation
supplied by the Greek language,[240] and writing out their most general
expressions.

Having obtained his categories, Aristotle proceeds to mark off the
first from the other nine. The subject or substance named in answer
to the question, What is it? can exist without having any quality,
size, and so forth predicated of it; but they cannot exist without it.
Logically, they cannot be defined without telling _what_ they are;
really they cannot be conceived without something not themselves in
which they inhere. They are like the tail of a kite, giving greater
conspicuousness and buoyancy to the body, but entirely dependent on
it for support. What our philosopher fails to perceive is, that the
dependence is reciprocal, that substance can no more be conceived
without attributes than attributes without substance; or rather
that substance, like all other categories, can be resolved into
Relation.[241]

Meanwhile, he had a logical machine ready to hand, which could be used
with terrible effect against the Platonic Ideas. Any of these—and
there were a great number—that could be brought under one of the last
nine categories were at once deprived of all claim to independent
existence. Take Equality, for instance. It cannot be discovered outside
quantity, and quantity is always predicated of a substance. And the
same is true of number, to the utter destruction of the Neo-Pythagorean
theory which gave it a separate existence. Moreover, the categories
served not only to generalise and combine, but also to specificate
and divide. The idea of motion occurs in three of them; in quantity,
where it means increase or diminution; in quality, where it means
alteration, as from hot to cold, or _vice versâ_; and in place,
implying transport from one point to another. The Idea of Good, which
stands at the very summit of Plato’s system, may be traced through all
ten categories.[242] Thus, the supposed unity and simplicity of such
conceptions was shown to be an illusion. Platonism was, in truth, so
inconsistent with the notions embodied in common language, that it
could not but be condemned by a logic based on those notions.

Aristotle next takes the Idea of Substance and subjects it to a
fresh analysis.[243] Of all things none seem to possess so evident
an existence as the bodies about us—plants and animals, the four
elements, and the stars. But each of these has already been shown
to consist of Form and Matter. A statue, for instance, is a lump of
bronze shaped into the figure of a man. Of these two constituents,
Matter seems at first sight to possess the greater reality. The same
line of thought which led Aristotle to place substance before the
other categories now threatens to drive him back into materialism.
This he dreaded, not on sentimental or religious grounds, but because
he conceived it to be the negation of knowledge. He first shows that
Matter cannot be the real substance to which individuals owe their
determinate existence, since it is merely the unknown residuum left
behind when every predicate, common to them with others, has been
stripped off. Substance, then, must be either Form alone or Form
combined with Matter. Form, in its completest sense, is equivalent
to the essential definition of a thing—the collection of attributes
together constituting its essence or conception. To know the definition
is to know the thing defined. The way to define is to begin with the
most general notion, and proceed by adding one specific difference
after another, until we reach the most particular and concrete
expression. The union of this last with a certain portion of Matter
gives us the individual Socrates or Callias. There are no real
entities (as the Platonists pretend) corresponding to the successive
stages of generalisation, biped, animal, and so forth, any more than
there are self-existing quantities, qualities, and relations. Thus
the problem has been driven into narrower and narrower limits, until
at last we are left with the _infimæ species_ and the individuals
contained under them. It remains to discover in what relation these
stand to one another. The answer is unsatisfactory. We are told that
there is no definition of individuals, and also that the definition is
identical with the individual.[244] Such, indeed, is the conclusion
necessarily resulting from Aristotle’s repeated declarations that
all knowledge is of definitions, that all knowledge is of something
really existing, and that nothing really exists but individual things.
Nevertheless, against these we have to set equally strong declarations
to the effect that knowledge is of something general, not of the
perishing individuals which may pass out of existence at any moment.
The truth is, that we are here, as Zeller has shown,[245] in presence
of an insoluble contradiction, and we must try to explain, not how
Aristotle reconciled it with itself, for that was impossible, but how
he reconciled himself to it.

His analysis of individuality was the first step in this direction.
We have seen that he treats definition as a process of gradual
specification, beginning with the most general notions, and working
down by successive differentiations to the most particular. Now,
the completed conception is itself the integration of all these
differences, the bond of union holding them together. Turning to an
antithetical order of ideas, to the material substance of which bodies
are composed, and its various transformations, we find him working out
the same vein of thought. According to the Aristotelian chemistry,
an ultimate indeterminate unknowable something clothes itself with
one or other of the opposing attributes, dry and moist, hot and cold;
and when two of these are combined, manifests itself to our senses as
one of the four elements. The elements combine in a particular manner
to form homogeneous animal tissues, and these again are united into
heterogeneous organs, which together constitute the living body. Here,
then, we have two analogous series of specifications—one conceptual
and leading down from the abstract to the concrete, the other physical,
and leading up from the vague, the simple, and the homogeneous, to the
definite, the complex, and the heterogeneous. Aristotle embraces both
processes under a single comprehensive generalisation. He describes
each of them as the continuous conversion of a possibility into an
actuality. For the sake of greater clearness, let us take the liberty
of substituting modern scientific terms for his cumbrous and obsolete
classifications. We shall then say that the general notion, living
thing, contains under it the two less general notions—plant and
animal. If we only know of any given object that it has life, there
is implied the possibility of its being either the one or the other,
but not both together. On determining it to be (say) an animal, we
actualise one of the possibilities. But the actualisation is only
relative, and immediately becomes the possibility of being either
a vertebrate or an invertebrate animal. The actuality vertebrate
becomes the possibility of viviparous or oviparous, and so on through
successive differentiations until we come (say) to a man. Now let us
begin at the material end. Here are a mass of molecules, which, in
their actual state are only carbon, nitrogen, and so forth. But they
are potential starch, gluten, water, or any other article of food that
might be named; for under favourable conditions they will combine to
form it. Once actualised as such, they are possible blood-cells; these
are possible tissues; these, again, possible organs, and lastly we
come to the consensus of vital functions, which is a man. What the raw
material is to the finished product, that are the parts to the entire
organism, the elements to the compound, the genus to the species, and
such in its very widest sense is potency to realisation, δύναμις to
ἐντελέχεια, throughout the universe of growth and decay.[246]

It will be observed that, so far, this famous theory does not add one
single jot to our knowledge. Under the guise of an explanation, it is a
description of the very facts needing to be explained. We did not want
an Aristotle to tell us that before a thing exists it must be possible.
We want to know how it is possible, what are the real conditions of its
existence, and why they combine at a particular moment to produce it.
The Atomists showed in what direction the solution should be sought,
and all subsequent progress has been due to a development of their
method. Future ages will perhaps consider our own continued distinction
between force and motion as a survival of the Peripatetic philosophy.
Just as sensible aggregates of matter arise not out of potential
matter, but out of matter in an extremely fine state of diffusion, so
also sensible motion will be universally traced back, not to potential
motion, which is all that force means, but to molecular or ethereal
vibrations, like those known to constitute heat and light.

We have said, in comparing him with his predecessors, that the
Stagirite unrolled Greek thought from a solid into a continuous
surface. We have now to add that he gave his surface the false
appearance of a solid by the use of shadows, and of aërial perspective.
In other words, he made the indication of his own ignorance and
confusion do duty for depth and distance. For to say that a thing is
developed out of its possibility, merely means that it is developed out
of something, the nature of which we do not know. And to speak about
such possibilities as imperfect existences, or matter, or whatever
else Aristotle may be pleased to call them, is simply constructing the
universe, not out of our ideas, but out of our absolute want of ideas.

We have seen how, for the antithesis between Form and Matter, was
substituted the wider antithesis between Actuality and Possibility.
Even in this latter the opposition is more apparent than real. A
permanent possibility is only intelligible through the idea of its
realisation, and sooner or later is certain to be realised. Aristotle
still further bridges over the interval between them by a new
conception—that of motion. Motion, he tells us, is the process of
realisation, the transformation of power into act. Nearly the whole
of his _Physics_ is occupied with an enquiry into its nature and
origin. As first conceived, it is equivalent to what we call change
rather than to mechanical movement. The table of categories supplies
an exhaustive enumeration of its varieties. These are, as we have
already mentioned, alteration of quality or transformation, increase
or decrease of quantity, equivalent to growth and decay, and transport
from place to place. Sometimes a fourth variety is added, derived from
the first category, substance. He calls it generation and destruction,
the coming into existence or passing out of it again. A careful
analysis shows that motion in space is the primordial change on which
all others depend for their accomplishment. To account for it is the
most vitally important problem in philosophy.


III.

Before entering on the chain of reasoning which led Aristotle to
postulate the existence of a personal First Cause, we must explain the
difference between his scientific standpoint, and that which is now
accepted by all educated minds. To him the eternity not only of Matter,
but also of what he called Form,—that is to say, the collection of
attributes giving definiteness to natural aggregates, more especially
those known as organic species—was an axiomatic certainty. Every type,
capable of self-propagation, that could exist at all, had existed, and
would continue to exist for ever. For this, no explanation beyond the
generative power of Nature was required. But when he had to account for
the machinery by which the perpetual alternation of birth and death
below, and the changeless revolutions of the celestial spheres above
the moon were preserved, difficulties arose. He had reduced every
other change to transport through space; and with regard to this his
conceptions were entirely mistaken. He believed that moving matter
tended to stop unless it was sustained by some external force; and
whatever their advantages over him in other respects, we cannot say
that the Atomists were in a position to correct him here: for their
theory, that every particle of matter gravitated downward through
infinite space, was quite incompatible with the latest astronomical
discoveries. Aristotle triumphantly showed that the tendency of heavy
bodies was not to move indefinitely downwards in parallel lines, but
to move in converging lines to the centre of the earth, which he, in
common with most Greek astronomers, supposed to be also the centre of
the universe; and seeing light bodies move up, he credited them with
an equal and opposite tendency to the circumference of the universe,
which, like Parmenides and Plato, he believed to be of finite extent.
Thus each kind of matter has its appropriate place, motion to which
ends in rest, while motion away from it, being constrained, cannot
last. Accordingly, the constant periodicity of terrestrial phenomena
necessitates as constant a transformation of dry and wet, and of hot
and cold bodies into one another. This is explained with perfect
accuracy by the diurnal and annual revolutions of the sun. Here,
however, we are introduced to a new kind of motion, which, instead of
being rectilinear and finite, is circular and eternal. To account for
it, Aristotle assumes a fifth element entirely different in character
from the four terrestrial elements. Unlike them, it is absolutely
simple, and has a correspondingly simple mode of motion, which, as
our philosopher erroneously supposes, can be no other than circular
rotation.

Out of this eternal unchanging divine substance, which he calls aether,
are formed the heavenly bodies and the transparent spheres containing
them. But there is something beyond it of an even higher and purer
nature. Aristotle proves, with great subtlety, from his fundamental
assumptions, that the movement of an extended substance cannot be
self-caused. He also proves that motion must be absolutely continuous
and without a beginning. We have, therefore, no choice but to accept
the existence of an unextended, immaterial, eternal, and infinite Power
on which the whole cosmos depends.

So much only is established in the _Physics_. Further particulars
are given in the twelfth book of the _Metaphysics_. There we learn
that, all movement being from possibility to actuality, the source of
movement must be a completely realised actuality—pure form without any
admixture of matter. But the highest form known to us in the ascending
scale of organic life is the human soul, and the highest function of
soul is reason. Reason then must be that which moves without being
moved itself, drawing all things upwards and onwards by the love which
its perfection inspires. The eternal, infinite, absolute actuality
existing beyond the outermost starry sphere is God. Aristotle describes
God as the thought which thinks itself and finds in the simple act of
self-consciousness an everlasting happiness, wonderful if it always
equals the best moments of our mortal life, more wonderful still if it
surpasses them. There is only one supreme God, for plurality is due to
an admixture of matter, and He is pure form. The rule of many is not
good, as Homer says. Let there be one Lord.

Such are the closing words of what was possibly Aristotle’s last
work, the clear confession of his monotheistic creed. A monotheistic
creed, we have said, but one so unlike all other religions, that its
nature has been continually misunderstood. While some have found in
it a theology like that of the Jews or of Plato or of modern Europe,
others have resolved it into a vague pantheism. Among the latter we
are surprised to find Sir A. Grant, a writer to whom the Aristotelian
texts must be perfectly familiar both in spirit and in letter. Yet
nothing can possibly be more clear and emphatic than the declarations
they contain. Pantheism identifies God with the world; Aristotle
separates them as pure form from form more or less alloyed with matter.
Pantheism denies personality to God; Aristotle gives him unity,
spirituality, self-consciousness, and happiness. If these qualities do
not collectively involve personality, we should like to know what does.
Need we remind the accomplished editor of the _Nicomachean Ethics_ how
great a place is given in that work to human self-consciousness, to
waking active thought as distinguished from mere slumbering faculties
or unrealised possibilities of action? And what Aristotle regarded as
essential to human perfection, he would regard as still more essential
to divine perfection. Finally, the God of pantheism is a general idea;
the God of Aristotle is an individual. Sir A. Grant says that he (or
it) is the idea of Good.[247] We doubt very much whether there is a
single passage in the _Metaphysics_ to sanction such an expression.
Did it occur, however, that would be no warrant for approximating
the Aristotelian to the Platonic theology, in presence of such a
distinct declaration as that the First Mover is both conceptually
and numerically one,[248] coming after repeated repudiations of the
Platonic attempt to isolate ideas from the particulars in which they
are immersed. Then Sir A. Grant goes on to speak of the desire felt
by Nature for God as being itself God,[249] and therefore involving a
belief in pantheism. Such a notion is not generally called pantheism,
but hylozoism, the attribution of life to matter. We have no desire,
however, to quarrel about words. The philosopher who believes in
the existence of a vague consciousness, a spiritual effort towards
something higher diffused through nature, may, if you will, be called a
pantheist, but not unless this be the only divinity he recognises. The
term is altogether misleading when applied to one who also proclaims
the existence of something in his opinion far higher, better and more
real—a living God, who transcends Nature, and is independent of her,
although she is not independent of him.

We must also observe that the parallel drawn by Sir A. Grant between
the theology of Aristotle and that of John Stuart Mill is singularly
unfortunate. It is in the first place incorrect to say that Mill
represented God as benevolent but not omnipotent. He only suggested
the idea as less inconsistent with facts than other forms of
theism.[250] In the next place, Aristotle’s God was almost exactly
the reverse of this. He possesses infinite power, but no benevolence
at all. He has nothing to do with the internal arrangements of the
world, either as creator or as providence. He is, in fact, an egoist
of the most transcendent kind, who does nothing but think about
himself and his own perfections. Nothing could be more characteristic
of the unpractical Aristotelian philosophy; nothing more repugnant to
the eager English reformer, the pupil of Bentham and of Plato. And,
thirdly, Sir A. Grant takes what is not the God of Aristotle’s system
at all, but a mere abstraction, the immanent reason of Nature, the
Form which can never quite conquer Matter, and places it on the same
line with a God who, however hypothetical, is nothing if not a person
distinct from the world; while, as if to bewilder the unfortunate
‘English reader’ still further, he adds, in the very next sentence,
that ‘the great defect in Aristotle’s conception of God is’ the denial
‘that God can be a moral Being.’[251]

The words last quoted, which in a Christian sense are true enough,
lead us over to the contrasting view of Aristotle’s theology, to the
false theory of it held by critics like Prof. St. George Mivart. The
Stagirite agrees with Catholic theism in accepting a personal God,
and he agrees with the First Article of the English Church, though
not with the Pentateuch, in saying that God is without parts or
passions; but there his agreement ceases. Excluding such a thing as
divine interference with nature, his theology of course excludes the
possibility of revelation, inspiration, miracles, and grace. Nor is
this a mere omission; it is a necessity of the system. If there can be
no existence without time, no time without motion, no motion without
unrealised desire, no desire without an ideal, no ideal but eternally
self-thinking thought—then it logically follows that God, in the
sense of such a thought, must not interest himself in the affairs of
men. Again, Aristotelianism equally excludes the arguments by which
modern theologians have sought to prove the existence of God. Here
also the system is true to its contemporaneous, statical, superficial
character. The First Mover is not separated from us by a chain of
causes extending through past ages, but by an intervening breadth of
space and the wheels within wheels of a cosmic machine. Aristotle
had no difficulty in conceiving what some have since declared to be
inconceivable, a series of antecedents without any beginning in time;
it was rather the beginning of such a series that he could not make
intelligible to himself. Nor, as we have seen, did he think that the
adaptation in living organisms of each part to every other required an
external explanation. Far less did it occur to him that the production
of impressions on our senses was due to the agency of a supernatural
power. It is absolutely certain that he would have rejected the
Cartesian argument, according to which a perfect being must exist
if it be only conceivable—existence being necessarily involved in
the idea of perfection.[252] Finally, not recognising such a faculty
as conscience, he would not have admitted it to be the voice of God
speaking in the soul.

On the other hand, Aristotle’s own theistic arguments cannot stand for
a moment in the face of modern science. We know by the law of inertia
that it is not the continuance, but the arrest or the beginning of
motion which requires to be accounted for. We know by the Copernican
system that there is no solid sidereal sphere governing the revolutions
of all Nature. And we know by the Newtonian physics that gravitation
is not dependent on fixed points in space for its operation. _The_
Philosophy of _the_ Philosopher Aristotle is as inconsistent with the
demonstrations of modern astronomy as it is with the faith of mediaeval
Catholicism.

It remains to be seen whether the system which we are examining is
consistent with itself. It is not. The Prime Mover, being unextended,
cannot be located outside the sidereal sphere; nor can he be brought
into immediate contact with it more than with any other part of the
cosmos. If the aether has a motion proper to itself, then no spiritual
agency is required to keep it in perpetual rotation. If the crystalline
spheres fit accurately together, as they must, to avoid leaving a
vacuum anywhere, there can be no friction, no production of heat, and
consequently no effect produced on the sublunary sphere. Finally, no
rotatory or other movement can, taken alone, have any conceivable
connexion with the realisation of a possibility, in the sense of
progress from a lower to a higher state of being. It is merely the
perpetual exchange of one indifferent position for another.

We have now to consider what were the speculative motives that led
Aristotle to overlook these contradictions, and to find rest in a
theory even less satisfactory than the earlier systems which he is
always attacking with relentless animosity. The first motive, we
believe, was the train of reasoning, already laid before the reader,
by which universal essences, the objects of knowledge, gradually came
to be identified with particular objects, the sole existing realities.
For the arguments against such an identification, as put forward by
our philosopher himself, still remained unanswered. The individuals
comprising a species were still too transient for certainty and too
numerous for comprehension. But when for the antithesis between Form
and Matter was substituted the antithesis between Actuality and
Possibility, two modes of evasion presented themselves. The first was
to distinguish between actual knowledge and potential knowledge. The
former corresponded to existing particulars, the latter to general
ideas.[253] This, however, besides breaking up the unity of knowledge,
was inconsistent with the whole tenor of Aristotle’s previous
teaching. What can be more actual than demonstration, and how can
there be any demonstration of transient particulars? The other mode of
reconciliation was perhaps suggested by the need of an external cause
to raise Possibility into Actuality. Such a cause might be conceived
with all the advantages and without the drawbacks of a Platonic Idea.
It would be at once the moving agent and the model of perfection; it
could reconcile the general and the particular by the simple fact of
being eternal in time, comprehensive in space, and unique in kind.
Aristotle found such a cause, or rather a whole series of such causes,
in the celestial spheres. In his system, these bear just the same
relation to terrestrial phenomena that Plato’s Ideas bear to the world
of sense. They are, in fact, the Ideas made sensible and superficial,
placed alongside of, instead of beneath or behind, the transient
particulars which they irradiate and sustain.

The analogy may be carried even farther. If Plato regarded the things
of sense as not merely a veil, but an imperfect imitation of the only
true realities; so also did Aristotle represent the sublunary elements
as copying the disposition and activities of the ethereal spheres.
They too have their concentric arrangements—first fire, then air,
then water, and lastly earth in the centre; while their perpetual
transformation into one another presents an image in time of the
spatial rotation which those sublime beings perform. And although we
think that Sir A. Grant is quite mistaken in identifying Aristotle’s
Supreme Mind with the Idea of Good, there can be no doubt of its having
been suggested by that Idea. It is, in fact, the translation of Plato’s
abstraction into concrete reality, and the completion of a process
which Plato had himself begun. From another point of view we may say
that both master and disciple were working, each in his own way, at
the solution of a problem which entirely dominates Greek philosophy
from Empedocles on—the reconciliation of Parmenides and Heracleitus,
Being and Becoming, the eternal and the changeful, the one and the
many. Aristotle adopts the superficial, external method of placing the
two principles side by side in space; and for a long time the world
accepted his solution for the same reason that had commended it to his
own acceptance, its apparent agreement with popular tradition and with
the facts of experience. It must be confessed, however, that here also
he was following the lines laid down by Plato. The _Timaeus_ and the
_Laws_ are marked by a similar tendency to substitute astronomy for
dialectics, to study the celestial movements with religious veneration,
to rebuild on a scientific basis that ancient star-worship which,
even among the Greeks, enjoyed a much higher authority and prestige
than the humanised mythology of the poets. But for Christianity this
star-worship would probably have become the official faith of the
Roman world. As it is, Dante’s great poem presents us with a singular
compromise between the two creeds. The crystalline spheres are
retained, only they have become the abode of glorified spirits instead
of being the embodiment of eternal gods. We often hear it said that the
Copernican system was rejected as offensive to human pride, because it
removed the earth from the centre of the universe. This is a profound
mistake. Its offence was to degrade the heavenly bodies by assimilating
them to the earth.[254] Among several planets, all revolving round
the sun, there could not be any marked qualitative difference. In
the theological sense there was no longer any heaven; and with the
disappearance of the solid sidereal sphere there was no longer any
necessity for a Prime Mover.

There is, perhaps, no passage in Aristotle’s writings—there is
certainly none in his scientific writings—more eloquent than that
which describes the glory of his imaginary heavens. The following
translation may give some faint idea of its solemnity and splendour:—

 We believe, then, that the whole heaven is one and everlasting,
 without beginning or end through all eternity, but holding infinite
 time within its orb; not, as some say, created or capable of being
 destroyed. We believe it on account of the grounds already stated,
 and also on account of the consequences resulting from a different
 hypothesis. For, it must add great weight to our assurance of its
 immortality and everlasting duration that this opinion may, while the
 contrary opinion cannot possibly, be true. Wherefore, we may trust
 the traditions of old time, and especially of our own race, when
 they tell us that there is something deathless and divine about the
 things which, although moving, have a movement that is not bounded,
 but is itself the universal bound, a perfect circle enclosing in its
 revolutions the imperfect motions that are subject to restraint and
 arrest; while this, being without beginning or end or rest through
 infinite time, is the one from which all others originate, and into
 which they disappear. That heaven which antiquity assigned to the
 gods as an immortal abode, is shown by the present argument to be
 uncreated and indestructible, exempt alike from mortal weakness and
 from the weariness of subjection to a force acting in opposition
 to its natural inclination; for in proportion to its everlasting
 continuance such a compulsion would be laborious, and unparticipant in
 the highest perfection of design. We must not, then, believe with the
 old mythologists that an Atlas is needed to uphold it; for they, like
 some in more recent times, fancied that the heavens were made of heavy
 earthy matter, and so fabled an animated necessity for their support;
 nor yet that, as Empedocles says, they will last only so long as
 their own proper momentum is exceeded by the whirling motion of which
 they partake.[255] Nor, again, is it likely that their everlasting
 revolution can be kept up by the exercise of a conscious will; for
 no soul could lead a happy and blessed existence that was engaged in
 such a task, necessitating, as it would, an unceasing struggle with
 their native tendency to move in a different direction, without even
 the mental relaxation and bodily rest which mortals gain by sleep, but
 doomed to the eternal torment of an Ixion’s wheel. Our explanation,
 on the other hand, is, as we say, not only more consistent with the
 eternity of the heavens, but also can alone be reconciled with the
 acknowledged vaticinations of religious faith.[256]

It will be seen from the foregoing passage how strong a hold the old
Greek notion of an encircling limit had on the mind of Aristotle, and
how he transformed it back from the high intellectual significance
given to it by Plato into its original sense of a mere space-enclosing
figure. And it will also be seen how he credits his spheres with a full
measure of that moving power which, according to his rather unfair
criticism, the Platonic Ideas did not possess. His astronomy also
supplied him with that series of graduated transitions between two
extremes in which Greek thought so much delighted. The heavenly bodies
mediate between God and the earth; partly active and partly passive,
they both receive and communicate the moving creative impulse. The four
terrestrial elements are moved in the various categories of substance,
quantity, quality, and place; the aether moves in place only. God
remains ‘without variableness or shadow of a change.’ Finally, by its
absolute simplicity and purity, the aether mediates between the coarse
matter perceived by our senses and the absolutely immaterial Nous, and
is itself supposed to be pervaded by a similar gradation of fineness
from top to bottom. Furthermore, the upper fire, which must not be
confounded with flame, furnishes a connecting link between the aether
and the other elements, being related to them as Form to Matter, or
as agent to patient; and, when the elements are decomposed into their
constituent qualities, hot and cold occupy a similar position with
regard to wet and dry.


IV.

In mastering Aristotle’s cosmology, we have gained the key to his
entire method of systematisation. Henceforth, the Stagirite has no
secrets from us. Where we were formerly content to show that he
erred, we can now show why he erred; by generalising his principles
of arrangement, we can exhibit them still more clearly in their
conflict with modern thought. The method, then, pursued by Aristotle
is to divide his subject into two more or less unequal masses, one of
which is supposed to be governed by necessary principles, admitting
of certain demonstration; while the other is irregular, and can only
be studied according to the rules of probable evidence. The parts of
the one are homogeneous and concentrically disposed, the movements of
each being controlled by that immediately outside and above it. The
parts of the other are heterogeneous and distributed among a number
of antithetical pairs, between whose members there is, or ought to
be, a general equilibrium preserved, the whole system having a common
centre which either oscillates from one extreme to another, or holds
the balance between them. The second system is enclosed within the
first, and is altogether dependent on it for the impulses determining
its processes of metamorphosis and equilibration. Where the internal
adjustments of a system to itself or of one system to the other are not
consciously made, Aristotle calls them Nature. They are always adapted
to secure its everlasting continuance either in an individual or a
specific form. Actuality belongs more particularly to the first sphere,
and possibility to the second, but both are, to a certain extent,
represented in each.

We have already seen how this fundamental division is applied to
the universe as a whole. But our philosopher is not content with
classifying the phenomena as he finds them; he attempts to demonstrate
the necessity of their dual existence; and in so doing is guilty of
something very like a vicious circle. For, after proving from the
terrestrial movements that there must be an eternal movement to keep
them going, he now assumes the revolving aether, and argues that there
must be a motionless solid centre for it to revolve round, although a
geometrical axis would have served the purpose equally well. By a still
more palpable fallacy, he proceeds to show that a body whose tendency
is towards the centre, must, in the nature of things, be opposed by
another body whose tendency is towards the circumference. In order
to fill up the interval created by this opposition, two intermediate
bodies are required, and thus we get the four elements—earth, water,
air, and fire. These, again, are resolved into the antithetical
couples, dry and wet, hot and cold, the possible combinations of which,
by twos, give us the four elements once more. Earth is dry and cold,
water cold and wet, air wet and hot, fire hot and dry; each adjacent
pair having a quality in common, and each element being characterized
by the excess of a particular quality; earth is especially dry, water
cold, air wet, and fire hot. The common centre of each antithesis is
what Aristotle calls the First Matter, the mere abstract unformed
possibility of existence. This matter always combines two qualities,
and has the power of oscillating from one quality to another, but it
cannot, as a rule, simultaneously exchange both for their opposites.
Earth may pass into water, exchanging dry for wet, but not so readily
into air, which would necessitate a double exchange at the same moment.

Those who will may see in all this an anticipation of chemical
substitution and double decomposition. We can assure them that it will
be by no means the most absurd parallel discovered between ancient and
modern ideas. It is possible, however, to trace a more real connexion
between the Aristotelian physics and mediaeval thought. We do not
of course mean the scholastic philosophy, for there never was the
slightest doubt as to its derivation; we allude to the alchemy and
astrology which did duty for positive science during so many centuries,
and even overlapped it down to the time of Newton, himself an ardent
alchemist. The superstitions of astrology originated independently
of the peripatetic system, and probably long before it, but they
were likely to be encouraged by it instead of being repressed, as
they would have been by a less anthropomorphic philosophy. Aristotle
himself, as we have seen, limited the action of the heavens on the
sublunary sphere to their heating power; but, by crediting them with
an immortal reason and the pursuit of ends unknown to us, he opened
a wide field for conjecture as to what those ends were, and how they
could be ascertained. That the stars and planets were always thinking
and acting, but never about our affairs, was not a notion likely to
be permanently accepted. Neither was it easy to believe that their
various configurations, movements, and names (the last probably
revealed by themselves) were entirely without significance. From such
considerations to the casting of horoscopes is not a far remove. The
Aristotelian chemistry would still more readily lend itself to the
purposes of alchemy. If Nature is one vast process of transmutation,
then particular bodies, such as the metals, not only may, but must be
convertible into one another. And even those who rejected Aristotle’s
logic with scorn still clung to his natural philosophy when it
flattered their hopes of gain. Bacon kept the theory of substantial
forms. His originality consisted in looking for a method by which
any form, or assemblage of forms might be superinduced at pleasure
on the underlying matter. The real development of knowledge pursued
a far different course. The great discoverers of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries achieved their success by absolutely reversing
the method of Aristotle, by bringing into fruitful contact principles
which he had condemned to barren isolation. They carried terrestrial
physics into the heavens; they brought down the absoluteness and
eternity of celestial law to earth; they showed that Aristotle’s
antithetical qualities were merely quantitative distinctions. These
they resolved into modes of motion; and they also resolved all motions
into one, which was both rectilinear and perpetual. But they and their
successors put an end to all dreams of transmutation, when they showed
by another synthesis that all matter, at least within the limits of our
experience, has the changeless consistency once attributed exclusively
to the stellar spheres.

When Aristotle passes from the whole cosmos to the philosophy of life,
his method of systematic division is less distinctly illustrated, but
still it may be traced. The fundamental separation is between body
and soul. The latter has a wider meaning than what we associate with
it at present. It covers the psychic functions and the whole life of
the organism, which, again, is not what we mean by life. For life
with us is both individual and collective; it resides in each speck
of protoplasm, and also in the consensus of the whole organism. With
Aristotle it is more exclusively a central principle, the final cause
of the organism, the power which holds it together, and by which it
was originally shaped. Biology begins by determining the idea of the
whole, and then considers the means by which it is realised. The
psychic functions are arranged according to a system of teleological
subordination. The lower precedes the higher in time, but is logically
necessitated by it. Thus nutrition, or the vegetative life in general,
must be studied in close connexion with sensation and impulse, or
animal life; and this, again, with thought or pure reasoning. On
the other hand, anatomy and physiology are considered from a purely
chemical and mechanical point of view. A vital purpose is, indeed,
assigned to every organ, but with no more reference to its specifically
vital properties than if it formed part of a steam engine. Here, as
always with Aristotle, the idea of moderation determines the point of
view whence the inferior or material system is to be studied. Organic
tissue is made up of the four elemental principles—hot, cold, wet, and
dry—mixed together in proper proportions; and the object of organic
function is to maintain them in due equilibrium, an end effected by
the regulating power of the soul, which, accordingly, has its seat in
the heart or centre of the body. It has been already shown how, in
endeavouring to work out this chimerical theory, Aristotle went much
further astray from the truth than sundry other Greek physiologists
less biassed by the requirements of a symmetrical method.

After the formal and material elements of life have been separately
discussed, there comes an account of the process by which they
are first brought into connexion, for this is how Aristotle views
generation. With him it is the information of matter by psychic
force; and his notions about the part which each parent plays in
the production of a new being are vitiated throughout by this
mistaken assumption. Nevertheless his treatise on the subject is,
for its time, one of the most wonderful works ever written, and,
as we are told on good authority,[257] is now less antiquated than
the corresponding researches of Harvey. The philosopher’s peculiar
genius for observation, analysis, and comparison will partly account
for his success; but, if we mistake not, there is another and less
obvious reason. Here the fatal separation of form and matter was,
except at first starting, precluded by the very idea of generation;
and the teleological principle of spontaneous efforts to realise a
predetermined end was, as it happened, perfectly in accordance with the
facts themselves.

And now, looking back on his cosmology, we can see that Aristotle
was never so near the truth as when he tried to bridge over the gulf
between his two spheres, the one corruptible and the other eternal, by
the idea of motion considered as a specific property of all matter,
and persisting through all time; as a link between the celestial
revolutions and the changes occurring on or near the earth’s surface;
and, finally, as the direct cause of heat, the great agent acting in
opposition to gravity—which last view may have suggested Bacon’s
capital discovery, that heat is itself a mode of motion.

Another method by which Aristotle strove to overcome the antithesis
between life as a mechanical arrangement and life as a metaphysical
conception, was the newly created study of comparative anatomy. The
variations in structure and function which accompany variations in the
environment, though statically and not dynamically conceived, bring us
very near to the truth that biological phenomena are subject to the
same general laws of causation as all other phenomena; and it is this
truth which, in the science of life, corresponds to the identification
of terrestrial with celestial physics in the science of general
mechanics. Vitality is not an individualised principle stationed in
the heart and serving only to balance opposite forces against one
another; but it is diffused through all the tissues, and bestows on
them that extraordinary plasticity which responds to the actions of the
environment by spontaneous variations capable of being summed up in
any direction, and so creating entirely new organic forms without the
intervention of any supernatural agency.


V.

We have now to consider how Aristotle treats psychology, not in
connexion with biology, but as a distinct science—a separation not
quite consistent with his own definition of soul, but forced on him
by the traditions of Greek philosophy and by the nature of things.
Here the fundamental antithesis assumes a three-fold form. First the
theoretical activity of mind is distinguished from its practical
activity; the one being exercised on things which cannot, the other on
things which can, be changed. Again, a similar distinction prevails
within the special province of each. Where truth is the object,
knowledge stands opposed to sense; where good is sought, reason rises
superior to passion. The one antithesis had been introduced into
philosophy by the early physicists, the other by Socrates. They were
confounded in the psychology of Plato, and Aristotle had the merit of
separating them once more. Yet even he preserves a certain artificial
parallelism between them by using the common name Nous, or reason, to
denote the controlling member in each. To make his anthropology still
more complex, there is a third antithesis to be taken into account,
that between the individual and the community, which also sometimes
slides into a partial coincidence with the other two.

Aristotle’s treatise on the soul is mainly devoted to a description of
the theoretical faculties—sense, and thought or reason. By sense we
become acquainted with the material qualities of things; by thought
with their forms or ideas. It has been already mentioned that,
according to our philosopher, the organism is a system of contrary
forces held in equilibrium by the soul, whose seat he supposes to be
in the heart. We now learn that every sensation is a disturbance of
this equilibrium. In other words, the sensorium being virtually any
and every mode of matter, is raised from possibility to actuality by
the presence of some one force, such as heat or cold, in sufficient
strength to incline the balance that way. Here we have, quite in
Aristotle’s usual style, a description instead of an explanation. The
atomic notion of thin films thrown off from the object of sense, and
falling on the organs of sight or touch, was but a crude guess; still
it has more affinity with the discoveries of a Young or a Helmholtz
than scholastic phrases about potentiality and actuality. That
sensation implies a disturbance of equilibrium is, indeed, an important
truth; only, the equilibrium must be conceived as a balance, not of
possible sensations, but of molecular states; that is to say, it must
be interpreted according to the atomic theory.

Aristotle is more successful when he proceeds to discuss the
imagination. He explains it to be a continuance of the movement
originally communicated by the felt object to the organ of sense, kept
up in the absence of the object itself;—as near an approach to the
truth as could be made in his time. And he is also right in saying
that the operations of reason are only made possible by the help of
what he calls phantasms—that is, faint reproductions of sensations.
In addition to this, he points out the connexion between memory and
imagination, and enumerates the laws of association briefly, but with
great accuracy. He is, however, altogether unaware of their scope. So
far from using them to explain all the mental processes, he does not
even see that they account for involuntary reminiscence, and limits
them to the voluntary operation by which we recall a missing name or
other image to consciousness.

So far, Aristotle regards the soul as a function, or energy, or
perfection of the body, from which it can no more be separated than
vision from the eye. It is otherwise with the part of mind which
he calls Nous, or Reason—the faculty which takes cognisance of
abstract ideas or the pure forms of things. This corresponds, in the
microcosm, to the eternal Nous of the macrocosm, and, like it, is
absolutely immaterial, not depending for its activity on the exercise
of any bodily organ. There is, however, a general analogy between
sensation and thought considered as processes of cognition. Previous
to experience, the Nous is no thought in particular, but merely a
possibility of thinking, like a smooth wax tablet waiting to be written
on. It is determined to some particular idea by contact with the
objective forms of things, and in this determination is raised from
power to actuality. The law of moderation, however, does not apply to
thought. Excessive stimulation is first injurious and then destructive
to the organs of sense, but we cannot have too much of an idea; the
more intense it is the better are we able to conceive all the ideas
that come under it, just because ideation is an incorporeal process.
And there seems to be this further distinction between sensation and
thought, that the latter is much more completely identified with its
object than the former; it is in the very act of imprinting themselves
on the Nous that the forms of things become perfectly detached from
matter, and so attain their final realisation. It is only in our
consciousness that the eternal ideas of transient phenomena become
conscious of themselves. Such, we take it, is the true interpretation
of Aristotle’s famous distinction between an active and a passive Nous.
The one, he tells us, _makes_ whatever the other is _made_. The active
Nous is like light raising colours from possibility to actuality. It is
eternal, but we have no remembrance of its past existence, because the
passive Nous, without which it can think nothing, is perishable.

It will be seen that we do not consider the two kinds of Nous to differ
from each other as a higher and a lower faculty. This, in our opinion,
has been the great mistake of the commentators, of those, at least,
who do not identify the active Nous with God, or with some agency
emanating from God—a hypothesis utterly inconsistent with Aristotle’s
theology. They describe it as a faculty, and as concerned with some
higher kind of knowledge than what lies within the reach of the passive
Nous.[258] But with Aristotle faculty is always a potentiality and a
passive recipient, whereas the creative reason is expressly declared
to be an actuality, which, in this connexion, can mean nothing but an
individual idea. The difficulty is to understand why the objective
forms of things should suddenly be spoken of as existing within the
mind, and denominated by a term carrying with it such subjective
associations as Nous; a difficulty not diminished by the mysterious
comparison with light in its relation to colour, an illustration
which, in this instance, has only made the darkness visible. We
believe that Aristotle was led to express himself as he did by the
following considerations. He began by simply conceiving that, just
as the senses were raised from potency to actuality through contact
with the corresponding qualities in external objects, so also was the
reasoning faculty moulded into particular thoughts through contact with
the particular things embodying them; thus, for instance, it was led
to conceive the general idea of straightness by actual experience of
straight lines. It then, perhaps, occurred to him that one and the same
object could not produce two such profoundly different impressions as
a sensation and a thought; that mind was opposed to external realities
by the attribute of self-consciousness; and that a form inherent in
matter could not directly impress itself on an immaterial substance.
The idea of a creative Nous was, we think, devised in order to escape
from these perplexities. The ideal forms of things are carried into
the mind, together with the sensations, and in passing through the
imagination, become purified from the matter previously associated
with them. Thus they may be conceived as part of the mind—in, though
not yet of it—and as acting on its highest faculty, the passive
Nous. And, by a kind of anticipation, they are called by the name of
what they become completely identified with in cognition. As forms of
things they are eternal; as thoughts they are self-conscious; while,
in both capacities, they are creative, and their creative activity
is an essentially immaterial process. Here we have the old confusion
between form and function; the old inability to reconcile the claims
of the universal and the particular in knowledge and existence. After
all, Aristotle is obliged to extract an actuality from the meeting of
two possibilities, instead of from the meeting of an actuality and a
possibility. Probably the weakness of his own theory did not escape
him, for he never subsequently recurs to it.[259]

Aristotle’s work on reproduction is supposed by many to contain a
reference to his distinction between the two Reasons, but we are
convinced that this is a mistake. What we are told is that at the
very first formation of a new being, the vegetative soul, being an
exclusively corporeal function, is precontained in the elements
furnished by the female; that the sensitive soul is contributed by the
male (being, apparently, engendered in the semen by the vital heat of
the parent organism); and, finally, that the rational soul, although
entirely immaterial, is also carried in with the semen, into which it
has first been introduced from without, but where, or when, or how is
not more particularly specified.[260] But even were the genetic theory
in question perfectly cleared up, it would still throw no light on the
distinction between active and passive reason, as the latter alone
can be understood by the rational soul to which it refers. For we are
expressly informed—what indeed hardly required to be stated—that
the embryonic souls exist not in act but in potency.[261] It seems,
therefore, that Mr. Edwin Wallace is doubly mistaken when he quotes
a sentence from this passage in justification of his statement, that
‘Aristotle would seem almost to identify’ the creative reason ‘with
God as the eternal and omnipresent thinker;’[262] first, because it
does not refer to the creative Nous at all; and, secondly, because,
if it did, the words would not stand the meaning which he puts upon
them.[263]

But if even so little as this remains unproved, what are we to think
of the astounding assertion, that ‘Aristotle’s theory of a creative
reason, fragmentary as that theory is left, is the answer to all
materialistic theories of the universe. To Aristotle, as to a subtle
Scottish preacher,[264] “the real pre-supposition of all knowledge,
or the thought which is the _prius_ of all things, is not the
individual’s consciousness of himself as individual, but a thought or
self-consciousness which is beyond all individual selves, which is the
unity of all individual selves, and their objects, of all thinkers and
all objects of thought.”’[265] How can materialism or anything else
be possibly refuted by a theory which is so obscurely set forth that
no two interpreters are able to agree in their explanation of it? And
even were it stated with perfect clearness and fulness, how can any
hypothesis be refuted by a mere dogmatic declaration of Aristotle? Are
we back in the Middle Ages that his _ipse dixit_ is to decide questions
now raised with far ampler means of discussion than he could possess?
As to Principal Caird’s metaphysics, we have no wish to dispute their
theoretic accuracy, and can only admire the liberality of a Church in
which propositions so utterly destructive of traditional orthodoxy
are allowed to be preached. But one thing we are certain of, and that
is, that whether or not they are consistent with Christian theism,
they are utterly inconsistent with Aristotelian principles. Which is
the ‘thought or self-consciousness’ referred to, a possibility or an
actuality? If the former, it is not a _prius_, nor is it the creative
reason. If the latter, it cannot transcend all or any individual
selves, for, with Aristotle, individuals are the sole reality, and the
supreme being of his system is pre-eminently individual; neither can it
unify them, for, according to Aristotle, two things which are two in
actuality cannot be one in actuality.[266]

We now turn to Sir A. Grant, who, as was mentioned at the beginning
of the last chapter, makes Aristotle a supporter of the late Prof.
Ferrier. We will state the learned Principal’s view in his own words:—

 ‘His utterances on this subject [the existence of an external world]
 are perhaps chiefly to be found in the third book of his treatise
 “On the Soul,” beginning with the fourth chapter. On turning to them
 we see that he never separates existence from knowledge. “A thing in
 actual existence,” he says, “is identical with the knowledge of that
 thing.” Again, “The possible existence of a thing is identical with
 the possibility in us of perceiving or knowing it.” Thus, until a
 thing is perceived or known, it can only be said to have a potential
 or possible existence. And from this a doctrine very similar to that
 of Ferrier might be deduced, that “nothing exists except _plus_
 me,”—that is to say, in relation to some mind perceiving it.‘
 (_Aristotle_, p. 165.)

After much searching, we have not been able to find the originals
of the two passages quoted by Sir A. Grant. We have, however, found
others setting forth the doctrine of Natural Realism with a clearness
which leaves nothing to be desired. Aristotle tells us that former
naturalists were wrong when they said that there could be no black
or white without vision, and no taste without tasting; that is, they
were right about the actuality, and wrong about the possibility; for,
as he explains, our sensations are produced by the action of external
bodies on the appropriate organs, the activity being the same while
the existence is different. A sonorous body produces a sound in our
hearing; the sound perceived and the action of the body are identical,
but not their existence; for, he adds, the hearer need not be always
listening, nor the sonorous body sounding; and so with all the other
senses.[267]

This is not making the _percipi_ of objects their _esse_. Again, in
the eighth chapter he tells us that the soul is ‘in a certain way’
(πῶς) all things, since all things are either sensible or cogitable;
and then he proceeds to explain what is meant by ‘in a certain way.’
Sense and knowledge are distributed over things in such wise that their
possibility is the possibility, and their actuality the actuality, of
the things. They must, then, be either the things themselves or their
forms. ‘_But the things themselves they are surely not_, for the stone
is not in the soul, but its form.’ In the _Metaphysics_, Aristotle
expresses himself to the same effect, but even more explicitly.
Criticising the Protagorean doctrine, he reduces it to an absurdity by
urging that if there were nothing but sensibles, then nothing at all
could exist in the absence of animated beings, for without them there
would be no sensation. He admits that in the case supposed there would
be neither feelings nor felt objects, since these presuppose a sentient
subject; but adds, that for the substances (τὰ ὑποκείμενα) which
produce the feeling not to exist is impossible; ‘for there is something
else besides the feeling which must necessarily exist before it.’[268]
And immediately afterwards he clinches the argument by observing that
if appearances were the only truth, there would be no independent
existences, and everything would be relative, since appearances exist
only in relation to some one to whom they appear. Now we need hardly
say that this universal relativity was precisely what Ferrier contended
for.

Sir A. Grant is on stronger, or rather on more inaccessible ground,
when he uses the distinction between the two reasons as involving a
sort of idealistic theory, because here Aristotle’s meaning is much
less clearly expressed. Yet, if our interpretation be the correct
one, if the creative Nous simply means the forms of things acting
through the imagination on the possibilities of subjective conception,
Aristotle’s view will be exactly the reverse of that contended for by
Sir Alexander; thought, instead of moulding, will itself be moulded
by external reality. In no case have we a right to set an obscure and
disputed passage against Aristotle’s distinct, emphatic, and reiterated
declarations, that sensation and ideation are substantially analogous
processes, taken together with his equally distinct declaration,
that the objects of sensation are independent of our feelings. We
think, indeed, that Sir A. Grant will find, on reconsideration, that
he is proving too much. For, if the things which reason creates were
external to the mind, then Aristotle would go at least as far as
those ‘extreme German idealists’ from whom his expositor is anxious
to separate him. Finally, we would observe that to set up Aristotle’s
distinction between form and matter in opposition to the materialistic
theories of the present day, shows a profound misconception of its
meaning. Form and matter are nowhere distinguished from one another
as subject and object. Form simply means the attributes of a thing,
the entire aggregate of its differential characteristics. But that
this does not of itself amount to conscious reason we are told by
Aristotle himself.[269] On the other hand, the ‘matter’ to which ‘some
philosophers’ attribute ‘an independent existence,’ is not his ‘matter’
at all, but just the sum of things _minus_ consciousness. The Stagirite
did not, it is true, believe in the possibility of such a universe, but
only (as we have shown) because he was not acquainted with the highest
laws of motion. Yet, even taking ‘matter’ in his own technical sense,
Aristotle would have agreed with Prof. Tyndall, that it contained the
promise and the potency of all future life, reason alone excepted. He
tells us very clearly that the sensitive soul is a somatic function,
something which, although not body, belongs to body; and this we
conceive is all that any materialist would now contend for.[270] And
having gone so far, there really was nothing to prevent him from going
a step farther, had he only been acquainted with the dependence of
all intelligence on nervous action. At any rate, the tendency is now
to obliterate the distinction where he drew it, and to substitute for
it another distinction which he neglected. While all functions of
consciousness, from the most elementary sensation to the most complex
reasoning, seem to pass into one another by imperceptible gradations,
consciousness in general is still separated from objective existence
by an impassable chasm; and if there is any hope of reconciling them
it lies in the absolute idealism which he so summarily rejected. What
we have had occasion repeatedly to point out in other departments of
his system, is verified once more in his psychology. The progress of
thought has resulted from a reunion of the principles between which
he drew a rigid demarcation. We have found that perception can only
be understood as a process essentially homogeneous with the highest
thought, and neither more nor less immaterial than it is. On the
objective side, both may be resolved into sensori-motor actions; on
the subjective side, into groups of related feelings. And here, also,
we have to note that when Aristotle anticipates modern thought, it is
through his one great mediating, synthetic conception. He observes
incidentally that our knowledge of size and shape is acquired, not
through the special senses, but by motion—an aperçu much in advance of
Locke.[271]

If there are any who value Aristotle as a champion of spiritualism,
they must take him with his encumbrances. If his philosophy proves
that one part of the soul is immaterial, it proves equally that the
soul, taking it altogether, is perishable. Not only does he reject
Plato’s metempsychosis as inconsistent with physiology, but he
declares that affection, memory, and reasoning are functions not of
the eternal Nous, but of the whole man, and come to an end with his
dissolution. As to the active Nous, he tells us that it cannot think
without the assistance of the passive Nous, which is mortal. And there
are various passages in the ‘Nicomachean Ethics’ showing that he had
faced this negation of a future life, and was perfectly resigned
to its consequences.[272] At one period of his life, probably when
under the immediate influence of Plato, he had indulged in dreams
of immortality; but a profounder acquaintance with natural science
sufficed to dissipate them. Perhaps a lingering veneration for his
teacher made him purposely use ambiguous language in reference to the
eternity of that creative reason which he had so closely associated
with self-consciousness. It may remind us of Spinoza’s celebrated
proposition, _Sentimus experimurque nos aeternos esse_, words
absolutely disconnected with the hope of a continued existence of the
individual after death, but apparently intended to enlist some of the
sentiment associated with that belief on the side of the writer’s own
philosophy.

On the other hand, the spirit of Plato’s religion survived in the
teaching of his disciple under a new form. The idea of an eternal
personality was, as it were, unified and made objective by being
transferred from the human to the divine; and so each philosopher
developes an aspect of religious faith which is wanting in the other,
thereby illustrating the tendencies, to some extent mutually exclusive;
which divide all theology between them. It remains to observe that
if even Aristotle’s theism is inconsistent with the Catholic faith,
much more must his psychology be its direct negation. _The_ Philosophy
of _the_ Philosopher is as fatal to the Church’s doctrine of future
rewards and punishments as it is to her doctrine of divine interference
with the usual order of nature.


VI.

We now pass to the consideration of Aristotle’s most important
achievement—his system of logic. And as, here also, we shall find much
to criticise, it is as well to begin by saying that, in our opinion,
his contributions to the science are the most valuable ever made, and
perhaps have done more to advance it than all other writings on the
same subject put together.

The principal business of reason is, as we have seen, to form abstract
ideas or concepts of things. But before the time of Aristotle it had
already been discovered that concepts, or rather the terms expressing
them, were capable of being united in propositions which might be
either true or false, and whose truth might be a matter either of
certainty or of simple opinion. Now, in modern psychology, down to the
most recent times, it has always been assumed that, just as there is
an intellectual faculty or operation called abstraction corresponding
to the terms of which a proposition is composed, so also there is
a faculty or operation called judgment corresponding to the entire
proposition. Sometimes, again, the third operation, which consists in
linking propositions together to form syllogisms, is assigned to a
distinct faculty called reason; sometimes all three are regarded as
ascending steps in a single fundamental process. Neither Plato nor
Aristotle, however, had thought out the subject so scientifically.
To both the framing, or rather the discovery, of concepts was by far
the most important business of a philosopher, judgment and reasoning
being merely subsidiary to it. Hence, while in one part of their
logic they were realists and conceptualists, in other parts they
were nominalists. Abstract names and the definitions unfolding their
connotation corresponded to actual entities in Nature—the eternal
Ideas of the one and the substantial forms of the other—as well as to
mental representations about whose existence they were agreed, while
ascribing to them a different origin. But they did not in like manner
treat propositions as the expression of natural laws without, or of
judgments within, the mind; while reasoning they regarded much more as
an art of thinking, a method for the discovery of ideas, than as the
Systematisation of a process spontaneously performed by every human
being without knowing it; and, even as such, their tendency is to
connect it with the theory of definition rather than with the theory of
synthetic propositions. Some approach to a realistic view is, indeed,
made by both. The restless and penetrating thought of Plato had,
probably towards the close of his career, led him to enquire into the
mutual relations of those Ideas which he had at first been inclined to
regard as absolutely distinct. He shows us in the _Sophist_ how the
most abstract notions, such as Being, Identity, and so forth, must,
to a certain extent, partake of each other’s nature; and when their
relationship does not lie on the surface, he seeks to establish it by
the interposition of a third idea obviously connected with both. In the
later books of the _Republic_ he also points to a scheme for arranging
his Ideas according to a fixed hierarchy resembling the concatenation
of mathematical proofs, by ascending and descending whose successive
gradations the mind is to become familiarised with absolute truth; and
we shall presently see how Aristotle, following in the same track,
sought for a counterpart to his syllogistic method in the objective
order of things. Nevertheless, with him, as well as with his master,
science was not what it is with us, a study of laws, a perpetually
growing body of truth, but a process of definition and classification,
a systematisation of what had already been perceived and thought.

It was from the initiative of Socrates that logic received this
direction. By insisting on the supreme importance of definition, he
drew away attention from the propositions which add to our knowledge,
and concentrated it on those which only fix with precision the meaning
of words. Yet, in so doing he was influenced quite as much by the
spirit of the older physical philosophy, which he denounced, as by
the necessities of the new humanistic culture, which he helped to
introduce. His definitions were, in truth, the reproduction, on a very
minute scale, of those attempts to formulate the whole universe which
busied the earliest Ionian speculation. Following the natural tendency
of Greek thought, and the powerful attraction of cosmic philosophy,
an effort was speedily made to generalise and connect these partial
definitions until they grew into a system of universal classification.
It was when, under the influence of a new analysis, this system
threatened to fall to pieces, that a rudimentary doctrine of judgment
first made its appearance. The structure of a grammatical sentence was
used to explain how objective ideas could, in a manner, overlap and
adhere to one another. Hence propositions, which, as the expression
of general truths, were destined to become the beginning and end of
thought, remained at first strictly subordinated to the individual
concepts that they linked and reconciled.

With Aristotle propositions assumed a new importance. He looked on them
as mediating, not only between concepts, but also between conception
and reasoning. Still, neither as a psychologist nor as a logician did
he appreciate them at their real value. A very brief consideration is
given to judgment in his work on the soul, and we are left in doubt
whether it is a function of Nous alone or of Nous combined with some
other faculty. Setting aside the treatise on Interpretation, which
is probably spurious, and, at any rate, throws no new light on the
subject, we may gather from his logical writings half a dozen different
suggestions towards a classification of propositions, based partly
on their form and partly on their import. In all we find an evident
tendency to apply, here also, his grand fundamental distinction between
the sphere of uniformity and the sphere of change and opposition.
All propositions are either universal or particular; either positive
or negative; either necessary or actual or contingent; either
reciprocating or not reciprocating; either essential or accidental;
either answering to the first question in the categories, or to one of
the other nine.[273] But nowhere is any attempt made to combine and
systematise these various points of view.

In the theory of reasoning the simple proposition is taken as a
starting-point; but instead of deducing the syllogism from the
synthesis of two premises, Aristotle reaches the premises through the
conclusion. He tells us, indeed, that reasoning is a way of discovering
from what we know, something that we did not know before. With him,
however, it is really a process not of discovery but of proof. He
starts with the conclusion, analyses it into predicate and subject or
major and minor, and then, by a further analysis, introduces a middle
term connecting the two. Thus, we begin with the proposition, ‘Caius
is mortal,’ and prove it by interpolating the notion humanity between
its two extremes. From this point of view the premises are merely a
temporary scaffolding for bringing the major and minor into connexion
with the middle term; and this is also the reason why Aristotle
recognises three syllogistic figures only, instead of the four admitted
by later logicians. For, the middle may either be contained in one
extreme and contain the other, which gives us the first figure; or it
may contain both, which gives the second figure; or be contained in
both, which gives the third; and this is an exhaustive enumeration of
the possible combinations.[274]

We have here, also, the secret of that elaborate machinery devised for
the very unnecessary purpose of converting syllogisms of the second
and third figure into syllogisms of the first, which is one of the
Stagirite’s principal contributions to logic. For it is only in the
first figure that the notion by which the extremes are either united
or held apart is really a middle term, that is to say, really comes
between the others. The distinction between perfect and imperfect
syllogisms also serves to illustrate Aristotle’s systematic division
between the necessary and the contingent. The method of proof by
inclusion corresponds in its unconditioned and independent validity
to the concentric arrangement of the supernal spheres; the second and
third figures, with their conversions and reductions, to the sublunary
sphere in its helpless dependence on the celestial revolutions, and
its transformations of the elements into one another.

The rules which Aristotle gives us for the conversion of propositions
are no doubt highly instructive, and throw great light on their
meaning; but one cannot help observing that such a process as
conversion ought, on his own principles, to have been inadmissible.
With Plato, the copulation of subject and predicate corresponded to an
almost mechanical juxtaposition of two self-existent ideas. It was,
therefore, a matter of indifference in what order they were placed.
Aristotle, on the other hand, after insisting on the restoration of the
concrete object, and reducing general notions to an analysis of its
particular aspects, could not but make the predicate subordinate to,
and dependent on, the subject—a relation which altogether excludes
the logical possibility of making them interchangeable with one
another.[275]

The antithetical structure of the whole system is reproduced even in
the first syllogistic figure, where there is a similar opposition
between the first mood, by which alone universal affirmatives can
be obtained, and the remaining three, whose conclusions are either
negative or particular, or both. And the complicated rules for
testing the validity of those syllogisms in which the premises are
distinguished as necessary, actual, and possible, are still more
obviously based on Aristotle’s false metaphysical distinctions; so
that with the overthrow of those distinctions large portions of the
_Analytics_ lose their entire value for modern students.

On the other hand, a theory of reasoning based on the relations of
concepts, instead of on the relations of judgments, necessarily leaves
out of account the whole doctrine of hypothetical and disjunctive
propositions, together with that of the syllogisms based on them; since
the elements of which they are composed are themselves propositions.
And this inevitable omission is the more remarkable because
alternative and, to a less extent, hypothetical arguments form the
staple of Aristotle’s own dialectic; while categorical reasoning never
occurs in it at all. His constant method is to enumerate all possible
views of a subject, and examine them one after the other, rejecting
those which are untenable, and resting content with the remainder. In
other words, he reaches his positive conclusions through a series of
negative premises representing a process of gradual elimination. The
_First Analytics_ is itself an admirable instance of his favourite
method. Every possible combination of terms is discussed, and the
valid moods are sifted out from a much greater number of illegitimate
syllogisms. The dialectic of Socrates and Plato followed the same
procedure. It was essentially experimental—a method of trial,
elimination, and selection. On going back still further, we find that
when there is any reasoning at all in Homer, it is conducted after the
same fashion. Hector, in his soliloquy before the Scaean Gate, imagines
three alternative courses, together exhausting the possibilities of the
situation. He may either retreat within the walls, or offer terms of
peace to Achilles, or fight. The first two alternatives being rejected,
nothing remains but the third. This is the most elaborate example; but
on many other occasions Homer’s actors are represented as hesitating
between two courses, and finally deciding on one of them.

Disjunction is, in truth, the primordial form of all reasoning, out
of which the other forms are successively evolved; and, as such, it
is common to man with the lower animals. You are taking a walk in
the country with your dog. You come to a stream and jump over it. On
measuring the distance with his eye, the animal is afraid to follow
you. After waiting a little, he first runs up stream in search of a
crossing, and, finding none, returns to look for one in the opposite
direction. Failing there also, he comes back once more, and either
ventures on the leap or makes his way home by some other route. Now,
on considering the matter a little more closely, we shall find that
hypothetical reasoning takes its rise from the examination of each
separate alternative presented by a disjunctive premise. A plurality of
courses being open to us, we consider what will ensue on the acceptance
or rejection of each. The dog in our illustration thinks (after a
canine fashion) that if he jumps he may fall in; if he does not, he
will be left behind. Hector will not take refuge within the walls,
because, if he does, Polydamas will triumph over him; nor will he offer
terms of peace, because, if he does, Achilles will refuse them. Once
more, categorical reasoning is developed out of hypothetical reasoning
by the necessity of deducing consequences from a general rule. Hector
must have argued from the known characters of Polydamas and Achilles,
that in certain circumstances they would act after a certain manner. We
may add, that this progress of conscious reasoning is a reproduction of
the unconscious logic according to which life itself is evolved. All
sorts of combinations are spontaneously produced, which, in consequence
of the struggle for existence, cannot all survive. Those adapted to the
conditions of life are selected, on trial, at the expense of the rest;
and their adaptation or non-adaptation is determined in accordance
with categorical laws. Furthermore, the framing of a disjunctive
proposition necessitates the systematic distribution of possibilities
under mutually exclusive heads, thus involving the logical processes
of definition, division, and classification. Dialectic, as Plato
understood it, consisted almost entirely in the joint performance of
these operations;—a process which Aristotle regards as the immediate
but very imperfect precursor of his own syllogistic method.[276] You
cannot, he says, prove anything by dividing, for instance, all living
things into the two classes, mortal and immortal; unless, indeed, you
assume the very point under discussion—to which class a particular
species belongs. Yet this is how he constantly reasons himself; and
even demonstrative reasoning, as he interprets it, implies the
possession of a ready-made classification. For, according to him, it
consists exclusively of propositions which predicate some essential
attribute of a thing—in other words, some attribute already included
in the definition of the subject; and a continuous series of such
definitions can only be given by a fixed classification of things.


VII.

We have endeavoured to show that Aristotle’s account of the syllogism
is redundant on the one side and defective on the other, both errors
being due to a false analysis of the reasoning process itself, combined
with a false metaphysical philosophy. The same evil influences tell
with much greater effect on his theory of applied reasoning. Here the
fundamental division, corresponding to that between heaven and earth
in the cosmos, is between demonstration and dialectic or experimental
reasoning. The one starts with first principles of unquestionable
validity, the other with principles the validity of which is to be
tested by their consequences. Stated in its most abstract form, the
distinction is sound, and very nearly prefigures the modern division
between deduction and induction, the process by which general laws are
applied, and the process by which they are established. Aristotle,
however, committed two great mistakes; he thought that each method
corresponded to an entirely different order of phenomena: and he
thought that both were concerned for the most part with definitions.
The _Posterior Analytics_, which contains his theory of demonstration,
answers to the astronomical portion of his physics; it is the doctrine
of eternal and necessary truth. And just as his ontology distinguishes
between the Prime Mover himself unmoved and the eternal movement
produced by his influence, so also his logic distinguishes between
infallible first principles and the truths derived from them, the
latter being, in his opinion, of inferior value. Now, according to
Aristotle, these first principles are definitions, and it is to this
fact that their self-evident certainty is due. At the same time they
are not verbal but real definitions—that is to say, the universal
forms of things in themselves as made manifest to the eye of reason,
or rather, stamped upon it like the impression of a signet-ring on
wax. And, by a further refinement, he seems to distinguish between the
concept as a whole and the separate marks which make it up, these last
being the ultimate elements of all existence, and as much beyond its
complex forms as Nous is beyond reasoned truth.

Such a view was essentially unfavourable to the progress of science,
assigning, as it did, a higher dignity to meagre and very questionable
abstractions than to the far-reaching combinations by which alone we
are enabled to unravel the inmost texture of visible phenomena. Instead
of using reason to supplement sense, Aristotle turned it into a more
subtle and universal kind of sense; and if this disastrous assimilation
was to a certain extent imposed upon him by the traditions of Athenian
thought, it harmonised admirably with the descriptive and superficial
character of his own intelligence. Much was also due to the method of
geometry, which in his time had already assumed the form made familiar
to us by Euclid’s _Elements_. The employment of axioms side by side
with definitions, might, indeed, have drawn his attention to the
existence and importance of judgments which, in Kantian terminology,
are not analytic but synthetic—that is, which add to the content of
a notion instead of simply analysing it. But although he mentions
axioms, and states that mathematical theorems are deduced from them,
no suspicion of their essential difference from definitions, or of the
typical significance which they were destined to assume in the theory
of reasoning, seems ever to have crossed his mind; otherwise he could
hardly have failed to ask how we come by our knowledge of them, and to
what they correspond in Nature. On the whole, it seems likely that
he looked on them as an analysis of our ideas, differing only from
definition proper by the generality of its application; for he names
the law of contradiction as the most important of all axioms, and that
from which the others proceed;[277] next to it he places the law of
excluded middle, which is also analytical; and his only other example
is, that if equals be taken from equals the remainders are equal, a
judgment the synthetic character of which is by no means clear, and has
occasionally been disputed.[278]

We cannot, then, agree with those critics who attribute to Aristotle a
recognition of such things as ‘laws of nature,’ in the sense of uniform
co-existences and sequences.[279] Such an idea implies a certain
balance and equality between subject and predicate which he would never
have admitted. It would, in his own language, be making relation,
instead of substance, the leading category. It must be remembered
also that he did not acknowledge the existence of those constant
conjunctions in Nature which we call laws. He did not admit that all
matter was heavy, or that fluidity implied the presence of heat. The
possession of constant properties, or rather of a single constant
property—circular rotation—is reserved for the aether. Nor is this a
common property of different and indefinitely multipliable phenomena;
it characterises a single body, measurable in extent and unique in
kind. Moreover, we have something better than indirect evidence on
this point; we have the plain statement of Aristotle himself, that
all science depends on first principles, about which it is impossible
to be mistaken, precisely because they are universal abstractions
not presented to the mind by any combination,[280]—a view quite
inconsistent with the priority now given to general laws.

Answering to the first principles of demonstration in logic, if not
absolutely identical with them, are what Aristotle calls causes in
the nature of things. We have seen what an important part the middle
term plays in Aristotle’s theory of the syllogism. It is the vital
principle of demonstration, the connecting link by which the two
extreme terms are attached to one another. In the theory of applied
logic, whose object is to bring the order of thought into complete
parallelism with the order of things, the middle term through which
a fact is demonstrated answers to the cause through which it exists.
According to our notions, only two terms, antecedent and consequent,
are involved in the idea of causation; and causation only becomes a
matter for reasoning when we perceive that the sequence is repeated
in a uniform manner. But Aristotle was very far from having reached,
or even suspected, this point of view. A cause is with him not a
determining antecedent, but a secret nexus by which the co-existence
of two phenomena is explained. Instead of preceding it intercedes; and
this is why he finds its subjective counterpart in the middle term of
the syllogism. Some of his own examples will make the matter clearer.
Why is the moon eclipsed? Because the earth intervenes between her
and the sun. Why is the bright side of the moon always turned towards
the sun? Because she shines by his reflected light (here light is the
middle term). Why is that person talking to the rich man? Because he
wants to borrow money of him. Why are those two men friends? Because
they have the same enemy.[281]

Aristotle even goes so far as to eliminate the notion of sequence
from causation altogether. He tells us that the causes of events are
contemporary with the events themselves; those of past events being
past; of present events, present; and of future events, future. ‘This
thing will not be because that other thing has happened, for the middle
term must be homogeneous with the extremes.’[282] It is obvious that
such a limitation abolishes the power of scientific prediction, which,
if not the only test of knowledge, is at any rate its most valuable
verification. The Stagirite has been charged with trusting too much
to deductive reasoning; it now appears that, on the contrary, he had
no conception of its most important function. Here, as everywhere, he
follows not the synthetic method of the mathematician, but the analytic
method of the naturalist. Finally, instead of combining the notions of
cause and kind, he systematically confuses them. It will be remembered
how his excellent division of causes into material, formal, efficient,
and final, was rendered nugatory by the continued influence of Plato’s
ideas. The formal cause always tended to absorb the other three; and
it is by their complete assimilation that he attempts to harmonise the
order of demonstration with the order of existence. For the formal
cause of a phenomenon simply meant those properties which it shared
with others of the same kind, and it was by virtue of those properties
that it became a subject for general reasoning, which was interpreted
as a methodical arrangement of concepts one within another, answering
to the concentric disposition of the cosmic spheres.

Owing to the slight importance which Aristotle attaches to judgments as
compared with concepts, he does not go very deeply into the question,
how do we obtain our premises? He says, in remarkably emphatic
language, that all knowledge is acquired either by demonstration or
by induction; or rather, we may add, in the last resort by the latter
only, since demonstration rests on generals which are discovered
inductively; but his generals mean definitions and abstract predicates
or subjects, rather than synthetic propositions. If, however, his
attention had been called to the distinction, we cannot suppose that
he would, on his own principles, have adopted conclusions essentially
different from those of the modern experiential school. Mr. Wallace
does, indeed, claim him as a supporter of the theory that no inference
can be made from particulars to particulars without the aid of a
general proposition, and as having refuted, by anticipation, Mill’s
assertion to the contrary. We quote the analysis which is supposed to
prove this in Mr. Wallace’s own words:—

 We reason that because the war between Thebes and Phocis was a war
 between neighbours and an evil, therefore the war between Athens and
 Thebes, being also a war between neighbours, will in all probability
 be also an evil. Thus, out of the one parallel case—the war between
 Thebes and Phocis—we form the _general_ proposition, All wars between
 neighbours are evils; to this we add the minor, the war between Athens
 and Thebes is a war between neighbours—and thence arrive at the
 conclusion that the war between Athens and Thebes will be likewise an
 evil.[283]

On the strength of this Mr. Wallace elsewhere observes:—

 His [Aristotle’s] theory of syllogism is simply an explicit statement
 of the fact that all knowledge, all thought, rests on universal truths
 or general propositions—that all knowledge, whether ‘deductive’ or
 ‘inductive,’ is arrived at by the aid, the indispensable aid, of
 general propositions. We in England have been almost charmed into the
 belief that reasoning is perpetually from particular to particular,
 and a ‘village matron’ and her ‘Lucy’ have been used to express the
 truth for us in the concrete form adapted to our weaker comprehension
 (Mill’s _Logic_, bk. ii. ch. 3). We shall next be told, forsooth,
 that oxygen and hydrogen do not enter into the composition of water,
 because our village matron ‘perpetually’ drinks it without ‘passing
 through’ either element, and the analysis of the chemist will be
 proved as great a fiction as the analysis of the logician. Aristotle
 has supplied the links which at once upset all such superficial
 analysis. He has shown that even in analogy or example, which
 _apparently_ proceeds in this way from one particular instance to
 another particular instance, we are only justified in so proceeding in
 so far as we have transformed the particular instance into a general
 proposition.[284]

Now, there is this great difference between Aristotle and Mill, that
the former is only showing how reasoning from examples can be set
forth in syllogistic form, while the latter is investigating the
psychological process which underlies all reasoning, and the real
foundation on which a valid inference rests—questions which had never
presented themselves clearly to the mind of the Greek philosopher at
all. Mill argues, in the first instance, that when any particular
proposition is deduced from a general proposition, it is proved
by the same evidence as that on which the general itself rests,
namely, on other particulars; and, so far, he is in perfect agreement
with Aristotle. He then argues that inferences from particulars to
particulars are perpetually made without passing through a general
proposition: and, to illustrate his meaning, he quotes the example of a
‘village matron and her Lucy,’ to which Mr. Wallace refers with a very
gratuitous sneer.[285]

However, as we have seen, he is not above turning it against Mill. The
drift of his own illustration is not very clear, but we suppose it
implies that the matron unconsciously frames the general proposition:
My remedy is good for all children suffering from the same disease as
Lucy; and with equal unconsciousness reasons down from this to the case
of her neighbour’s child. Now, it is quite unjustifiable to call Mill’s
analysis superficial because it leaves out of account a hypothesis
incompatible with the nominalism which Mill professed. It is still
more unjustifiable to quote against it the authority of a philosopher
who perfectly agreed with those who disbelieve in the possibility
of unconscious knowledge,[286] and contemptuously rejected Plato’s
opinion to the contrary. Nor is this all. The doctrine that reasoning
is from particulars to particulars, even when it passes through
general propositions, may be rigorously deduced from Aristotle’s own
admissions. If nothing exists but particulars, and if knowledge is of
what exists, then all knowledge is of particulars. Therefore, if the
propositions entering into a chain of reasoning are knowledge, they
must deal with particulars exclusively. And, quite apart from the later
developments of Aristotle’s philosophy, we have his express assertion,
that all generals are derived from particulars, which is absolutely
incompatible with the alleged fact, that ‘all knowledge, all thought,
rests on universal truths, on general propositions; that all knowledge,
whether “deductive” or “inductive,” is arrived at by the aid, the
indispensable aid, of general propositions.’ To Aristotle the basis
of knowledge was not ‘truths’ of any kind, but concepts; and in the
last chapter of the _Posterior Analytics_ he has explained how these
concepts are derived from sense-perceptions without the aid of any
‘propositions’ whatever.

We are here confronted with an important and much disputed question,
Was Aristotle an empiricist? We hold most decidedly that he was,
if by empiricist is meant, what alone should be meant—one who
believes that the mind neither anticipates anything in the content,
nor contributes anything to the form of experience; in other words,
who believes knowledge to be the agreement of thought with things
imposed by things on thought. We have already shown, when discussing
Sir A. Grant’s view to the contrary, that Aristotle was in no sense
a transcendental idealist. The other half of our position is proved
by the chapter in the _Posterior Analytics_ already referred to,
the language of which is _primâ facie_ so much in favour of our
view that the burden of proof rests on those who give it another
interpretation. Among these, the latest with whom we are acquainted
is Zeller. The eminent German historian, after asserting in former
editions of his work that Aristotle derived his first principles from
the self-contemplation of the Nous, has now, probably in deference
to the unanswerable arguments of Kampe, abandoned this position. He
still, however, assumes the existence of a rather indefinable _à
priori_ element in the Aristotelian noology, on the strength of the
following considerations:—In the first place, according to Aristotle,
even sense-perception is not a purely passive process, and therefore
intellectual cognition can still less be so (p. 190). But the passages
quoted only amount to this, that the passivity of a thing which is
raised from possibility to actuality differs from the passivity
implied in the destruction of its proper nature; and that the objects
of abstract thought come from within, not from without, in the sense
that they are presented by the imagination to the reason. The pure
empiricist need not deny either position. He would freely admit that to
lose one’s reason through drunkenness or disease is a quite different
sort of operation from being impressed with a new truth; and he would
also admit that we generalise not directly from outward experience, but
from that highly-abridged and representative experience which memory
supplies. Neither process, however, constitutes an anticipation of
outward experience or an addition to it. It is from the materialist,
not from the empiricist, that Aristotle differs. He believes that the
forms under which matter appears are separable from every particular
portion of matter, though not from all matter, in the external world;
and he believes that a complete separation between them is effected
in the single instance of self-conscious reason, which again, in
cognising any particular thing is identified with that thing _minus_
its matter. Zeller’s next argument is that the cognition of ideas by
the Nous is immediate, whereas the process of generalisation from
experience described by Aristotle is extremely indirect. Here Zeller
seems to misunderstand the word ἄμεσος. Aristotle never applies it
to knowledge, but only to the objective relations of ideas with one
another. Two terms constitute an ‘immediate’ premise when they are not
connected by another term, quite irrespective of the steps by which
we come to recognise their conjunction. So with the terms themselves.
They are ‘immediate’ when they cannot be derived from any ulterior
principle; when, in short, they are simple and uncaused. Finally, the
objection that first principles, being the most certain and necessary
of any, cannot be derived from sensible experience, which, dealing only
with material objects, must inherit the uncertainty and contingency
of matter,—is an objection, not to the empiricist interpretation
of Aristotle’s philosophy, but to empiricism itself; and it is not
allowable to explain away the plain words of an ancient writer in
order to reconcile them with assumptions which he nowhere admits.
That universality and necessity involve an _à priori_ cognition or an
intellectual intuition, is a modern theory unsupported by a single
sentence in Aristotle.[287] We quite agree with Zeller when he goes on
to say that in Aristotle’s psychology ‘certain thoughts and notions
arise through the action of the object thought about on the thinking
mind, just as perception arises through the action of the perceived
object on the percipient’ (p. 195); but how this differs from the
purest empiricism is more than we are able to understand.

It is remarkable that Aristotle, after repeatedly speaking of induction
as an ascent from particulars to generals, when he comes to trace the
process by which we arrive at the most general notions of any, does
not admit the possibility of such a movement in one direction only.
The universal and the individual are, according to him, combined in
our most elementary sense-impressions, and the business of scientific
experience is to separate them. Starting from a middle point, we work
up to indivisible predicates on the one hand and down to indivisible
subjects on the other, the final apprehension of both extremes being
the office, not of science, but of Nous. This theory is equally true
and acute. The perception of individual facts is just as difficult and
just as slowly acquired as the conception of ultimate abstractions.
Moreover, the two processes are carried on _pari passu_, each being
only made possible by and through the other. No true notion can be
framed without a firm grasp of the particulars from which it is
abstracted; no individual object can be studied without analysing it
into a group of common predicates, the idiosyncrasy of which—that is,
their special combination—differentiates it from every other object.
What, however, we wish to remark is the illustration incidentally
afforded by this striking aperçu of Aristotle’s analytical method,
which is also the essentially Greek method of thought. We saw that,
for our philosopher, syllogism was not the subsumption of a particular
case under a general law, but the interpolation of a mean between two
extremes; we now see that his induction is not the finding of a law
for the particular phenomenon, but its analysis into two elements—one
universal and the other individual—a solution of the mean into the
extremes. And the distinctive originality of his whole system was to
fix two such extremes for the universe—a self-thinking thought in
absolute self-identity at one end of the scale, and an absolutely
indeterminate matter at the other; by combining which in various
proportions he then re-constructed the whole intermediate phenomenal
reality. In studying each particular class of facts, he follows the
same method. The genus is marked by some characteristic attribute which
one species—the prerogative species, so to speak—exhibits in its
greatest purity, while the others form a graduated scale by variously
combining this attribute with its opposite or privation. Hence his
theory, since revived by Goethe, that the colours are so many
different mixtures of light and darkness.

It has, until lately, been customary to speak as if all that Aristotle
knew about induction was contained in a few scattered passages where
it is mentioned under that name in the _Analytics_. This, no doubt,
is true, if by induction we mean simple generalisation. But if we
understand by it the philosophy of experimental evidence—the analysis
of those means by which, in the absence of direct observation, we
decide between two conflicting hypotheses—then the _Topics_ must be
pronounced as good a discussion on the subject as was compatible with
his general theory of knowledge. For he supposes that there are large
classes of phenomena, including, among other things, the whole range
of human life, which, not being bound by any fixed order, lie outside
the scope of scientific demonstration, although capable of being
determined with various degrees of probability; and here also what
he has in view is not the discovery of laws, but the construction of
definitions. These being a matter of opinion, could always be attacked
as well as maintained. Thus the constant conflict and balancing of
opposite forces, which we have learned to associate with the sublunary
sphere, has its logical representative no less than the kindred ideas
of uncertainty and vicissitude. And, in connexion with this side of
applied logic, Aristotle has also to consider the requirements of
those who took part in the public debates on disputed questions,
then very common among educated Athenians, and frequently turning on
verbal definitions. Hence, while we find many varieties of reasoning
suggested, such as Reasoning by Analogy, Disjunctive Reasoning,
Hypothetical Reasoning (though without a generalised expression for
all its varieties), and, what is most remarkable, three out of Mill’s
four Experimental Methods,[288] we do not find that any interesting
or useful application is made of them. Even considered as a handbook
for debaters, the _Topics_ is not successful. With the practical
incompetence of a mere naturalist, Aristotle has supplied heads for
arguments in such profusion and such utter carelessness of their
relative importance that no memory could sustain the burden, except in
the probably rare instances when a lifetime was devoted to their study.


VIII.

We have now concluded our survey of the first great mental antithesis,
that between reason on the one hand, and sense and opinion on the
other. The next antithesis, that between reason and passion, will
occupy us a much shorter time. With it we pass from theory to practice,
from metaphysics and logic to moral philosophy. But, as we saw in
the preceding chapter, Aristotle is not a practical genius; for him
the supreme interest of life is still the acquisition of knowledge.
Theorising activity corresponds to the celestial world, in which there
can be neither opposition nor excess; while passion corresponds to the
sublunary sphere, where order is only preserved by the balancing of
antithetical forces; and the moderating influence of reason, to the
control exercised by the higher over the lower system.

The passions themselves, and the means by which they can be either
excited or controlled, are described in Aristotle’s _Rhetoric_
with wonderful knowledge of human nature in the abstract, but with
almost no reference to the art for whose purposes the information is
ostensibly systematised; while in the _Ethics_ they are studied, so
to speak, statically, in their condition of permanent equilibration
or disequilibration; the virtues and vices being represented as so
many different aspects of those conditions. It is obvious that such
an extremely artificial parallelism could not be carried out without
a considerable strain and distortion of the facts involved. The only
virtue that can, with truth, be described as a form of moderation is
temperance; and even in temperance this is accidental rather than
essential. Elsewhere Aristotle deduces the extremes from the mean
rather than the mean from the extremes; and sometimes one of the
extremes is invented for the occasion. To fit justice, confessedly
the most important virtue, into such a scheme, was obviously
impracticable without reinterpreting the idea of moderation. Instead of
an equilibrium between opposing impulses in the same person, we have
equality in the treatment of different persons; which again resolves
itself into giving them their own, without any definite determination
of what their own may be.[289] It cannot even be said that Aristotle
represented either the best ethical thought of his own age, or an
indispensable stage in the evolution of all thought. The extreme
insufficiency of his ethical theory is due to the fancied necessity
of squaring it with the requirements of his cosmological system. For
no sooner does he place himself at the popular point of view than he
deduces the particular virtues from regard to the welfare of others,
and treats them all as so many different forms of justice.[290]

Aristotle has sometimes been represented as an advocate of free-will
against necessity. But the question had not really been opened in
his time. He rejected fatalism; but it had not occurred to him that
internal motives might exercise a constraining power over action. Nor
has his freedom anything to do with the self-assertion of mind, its
extrication from the chain of physical antecedents. It is simply the
element of arbitrariness and uncertainty supposed to characterise
the region of change and opposition, as distinguished from the higher
region of undeviating regularity.

It is only in this higher region that perfect virtue can be realised.
The maintenance of a settled balance between rival solicitations, or
between the excess and defect of those impulses which lead us to seek
pleasure and avoid pain, is good indeed, but neither the only nor the
chief good. The law of moderation does not extend to that supremely
happy life which is related to our emotional existence as the aether
to the terrestrial elements, as soul to body, as reason to sense, as
science to opinion. Here it is the steady subordination of means to
ends which imitates the insphering of the heavenly orbs, the hierarchy
of psychic faculties, and the chain of syllogistic arguments. Of
theoretic activity we cannot have too much, and all other activities,
whether public or private, should be regarded as so much machinery
for ensuring its peaceful prosecution. Wisdom and temperance had been
absolutely identified by Socrates; they are as absolutely held apart
by Aristotle. And what we have had occasion to observe in the other
departments of thought is verified here once more. The method of
analysis and opposition, apparently so prudent, proved, in the end,
unfruitful. Notwithstanding his paradoxes, Socrates was substantially
right. The moral regeneration of the world was destined to be brought
about, not by Dorian discipline, but by free Athenian thought, working
on practical conceptions—by the discovery of new moral truth, or
rather by the dialectic development of old truth. And, conversely, the
highest development of theoretic activity was not attained by isolating
it in egoistic self-contemplation from the world of human needs, but
by consecrating it to their service, informing it with their vitality,
and subjecting it, in common with them, to that law of moderation from
which no energy, however godlike, is exempt.

The final antithesis of conscious life is that between the individual
and the state. In this sense, Aristotle’s _Politics_ is the completion
of his _Ethics_. It is only in a well-ordered community that moral
habits can be acquired; and it is only in such a community that the
best or intellectual life can be attained, although, properly speaking,
it is not a social life. Nevertheless, the _Politics_, like every other
portion of Aristotle’s system, reproduces within itself the elements
of an independent whole. To understand its internal organisation, we
must begin by disregarding Aristotle’s abortive classification (chiefly
adapted from Plato) of constitutions into three legitimate—Monarchy,
Aristocracy, and Republic; and three illegitimate—Democracy,
Oligarchy, and Tyranny. Aristotle distinguishes them by saying that
the legitimate forms are governed with a view to the general good; the
illegitimate with a view to the interests of particular classes or
persons. But, in point of fact, as Zeller shows,[291] he cannot keep
up this distinction; and we shall better understand his true idea by
substituting for it another—that between the intellectual and the
material state. The object of the one is to secure the highest culture
for a ruling caste, who are to abstain from industrial occupations,
and to be supported by the labour of a dependent population. Such a
government may be either monarchical or aristocratic; but it must
necessarily be in the hands of a few. The object of the other is to
maintain a stable equilibrium between the opposing interests of rich
and poor—two classes practically distinguished as the few and the
many. This end is best attained where supreme power belongs to the
middle class. The deviations are represented by oligarchy and tyranny
on the one side, and by extreme democracy on the other. Where such
constitutions exist, the best mode of preserving them is to moderate
their characteristic excess by borrowing certain institutions from the
opposite form of government, or by modifying their own institutions in
a conciliatory sense.

In the last chapter we dealt at length with the theories of art, and
especially of tragic poetry, propounded in Aristotle’s _Poetics_.
For the sake of formal completeness, it may be mentioned here that
those theories are adapted to the general scheme of his systematic
philosophy. The plot or plan of a work answers to the formal or
rational element in Nature, and this is why Aristotle so immensely
over-estimates its importance. And, just as in his moral philosophy,
the ethical element, represented by character-drawing, is strictly
subordinated to it. The centre of equilibrium is, however, not supplied
by virtue, but by exact imitation of Nature, so that the characters
must not deviate very far from mediocrity in the direction either of
heroism or of wickedness.


IX.

Notwithstanding the radical error of Aristotle’s philosophy—the false
abstraction and isolation of the intellectual from the material sphere
in Nature and in human life—it may furnish a useful corrective to
the much falser philosophy insinuated, if not inculcated, by some
moralists of our own age and country. Taken altogether, the teaching
of these writers seems to be that the industry which addresses itself
to the satisfaction of our material wants is much more meritorious
than the artistic work which gives us direct aesthetic enjoyment, or
the literary work which stimulates and gratifies our intellectual
cravings; while within the artistic sphere fidelity of portraiture is
preferred to the creation of ideal beauty; and within the intellectual
sphere, mere observation of facts is set above the theorising power
by which facts are unified and explained. Some of the school to whom
we allude are great enemies of materialism; but teaching like theirs
is materialism of the worst description. Consistently carried out,
it would first reduce Europe to the level of China, and then reduce
the whole human race to the level of bees or beavers. They forget that
when we were all comfortably clothed, housed, and fed, our true lives
would have only just begun. The choice would then remain between some
new refinement of animal appetite and the theorising activity which,
according to Aristotle, is the absolute end, every other activity
being only a means for its attainment. There is not, indeed, such a
fundamental distinction as he supposed, for activities of every order
are connected by a continual reciprocity of services; but this only
amounts to saying that the highest knowledge is a means to every other
end no less than an end in itself. Aristotle is also fully justified
in urging the necessity of leisure as a condition of intellectual
progress. We may add that it is a leisure which is amply earned,
for without it industrial production could not be maintained at its
present height. Nor should the same standard of perfection be imposed
on spiritual as on material labour. The latter could not be carried on
at all unless success, and not failure, were the rule. It is otherwise
in the ideal sphere. There the proportions are necessarily reversed.
We must be content if out of a thousand guesses and trials one should
contribute something to the immortal heritage of truth. Yet we may
hope that this will not always be so, that the great discoveries and
creations wrought out through the waste of innumerable lives are not
only the expiation of all error and suffering in the past, but are also
the pledge of a future when such sacrifices shall no longer be required.

The two elements of error and achievement are so intimately blended and
mutually conditioned in the philosophy which we have been reviewing,
that to decide on their respective importance is impossible without
first deciding on a still larger question—the value of systematic
thought as such, and apart from its actual content. For Aristotle
was perhaps the greatest master of systematisation that ever lived.
The framework and language of science are still, to a great extent,
what he made them; and it remains to be seen whether they will ever
be completely remodelled. Yet even this gift has not been an unmixed
benefit, for it was long used in the service of false doctrines, and it
still induces critics to read into the Aristotelian forms truths which
they do not really contain. Let us conclude by observing that of all
the ancients, or even of all thinkers before the eighteenth century,
there is none to whom the methods and results of modern science could
so easily be explained. While finding that they reversed his own most
cherished convictions on every point, he would still be prepared by
his logical studies to appreciate the evidence on which they rest,
and by his ardent love of truth to accept them without reserve. Most
of all would he welcome our astronomy and our biology with wonder and
delight, while viewing the development of modern machinery with much
more qualified admiration, and the progress of democracy perhaps with
suspicious fear. He who thought that the mind and body of an artisan
were alike debased by the exercise of some simple handicraft under
the pure bright sky of Greece, what would he have said to the effect
wrought on human beings by the noisome, grinding, sunless, soulless
drudgery of our factories and mines! How profoundly unfitted would
he have deemed its victims to influence those political issues with
which the interests of science are every day becoming more vitally
connected! Yet slowly, perhaps, and unwillingly, he might be brought
to perceive that our industry has been the indispensable basis of our
knowledge, as supplying both the material means and the moral ends
of its cultivation. He might also learn that there is an even closer
relationship between the two: that while the supporters of privilege
are leagued for the maintenance of superstition, the workers, and those
who advocate their claims to political equality, are leagued for its
restraint and overthrow. And if he still shrank back from the heat and
smoke and turmoil amid which the genius of our age stands, like another
Heracleitus, in feverish excitement, by the steam-furnace whence its
powers of revolutionary transmutation are derived, we too might reapply
the words of the old Ephesian prophet, bidding him enter boldly, for
here also there are gods.

FOOTNOTES:

[222] _Phys._, II., viii., p. 198, b, 24.

[223] The late Father Secchi, for example.

[224] _Phys._, II., iv., p. 196, a, 28; _De Coel._, II., xii.

[225] _Phys._, II., viii., p. 199, b, 14.

[226] _Metaph._, I., iii., _sub in._; _Anal. Post._, II., xi., _sub
in._ Bekker. (cap. x., in the Tauchnitz ed.); _Phys._ II., iii.; _De
Gen. An._, I., i. _sub in._

[227] _Metaph._, VIII., iv., p. 1044, b, 1; _De Gen. An._, I., i., p,
715, a, 6; _ib._ II., i., 732, a, 4; _Phys._, II., vii., p. 198, a, 24
ff.

[228] _Phys._, II., iii., p. 195, a, 32 ff.; _Metaph._, IX., viii., p.
1049, b, 24.

[229] That is, according to the traditional view, which, however, will
have to be considerably modified if we accept the conclusions embodied
in Teichmüller’s _Literarische Fehden_.

[230] _Parmen._, 130, A ff.; _Tim._, 28, A.

[231] As we may infer from a passage in the _Rhetoric_ (II., ii., p.
1379, a, 35), where partisans of the Idea are said to be exasperated by
any slight thrown on their favourite doctrine.

[232] Repeated in the _Metaphysics_, I., ix., p. 993, a, 1.

[233] This may seem inconsistent with our former assertion, that Hegel
holds in German philosophy a place analogous to that held by Aristotle
in Greek philosophy. Such analogies, however, are always more or
less incomplete; and, so far as he attributes a self-moving power to
ideas, Hegel is a Platonist rather than an Aristotelian. Similarly,
as an evolutionist, Mr. Herbert Spencer stands much nearer to early
Greek thought than to Aristotle, whom, in other respects, he so much
resembles.

[234] Zeller, _Ph. d. Gr._, II., b, 297 f.

[235] _Metaph._ IV., iii. and viii.

[236] _Ibid._ VI., ii., p. 1026, b, 21.

[237] _Metaph._, VI., iv., p. 1027, b, 29.

[238] _Ibid._, VI., iv.

[239] _Ibid._, VI., ii., _sub in._; VII., i., _sub in._; _Topic._, I.,
ix.

[240] These are τί, ποιόν, ποσόν, ποῦ, ποτέ, and πῶς. Τί is associated
with πρός in the question πρὸς τί, which has no simple English
equivalent. Apparently it was suggested to Aristotle by ποσόν, how
much? in connexion with which it means, in relation to what standard?
If we were told that a thing was double, we should ask, double what?
Again, the Greeks had a simply compound question, τί παθών, meaning,
what was the matter with him? or, what made him do it? From this
Aristotle extracted πάσχειν, a wider notion than our passion, meaning
whatever is done or happens to anything; which again would suggest
ποιεῖν, what it does. Finally, πῶς, taken alone, is too vague a
question for any answer, but must be taken in its simplest compounds
πῶς διακείμενον and πῶς ἔχον, which give the two rarely-occurring
categories ἔχειν and κεῖσθαι, for which it is on one occasion
substituted (_Soph. El._, xxii., p. 178, b, 39). Διὰ τί does not figure
among the categories, because it is reserved for the special analysis
of οὐσία.

[241] As Grote has shown in his chapter on the Categories.

[242] _Eth. Nic._, I., iv., p. 1096, a, 24, where six are enumerated.

[243] _Metaph._, VII. _passim_.

[244] _Metaph._, VII., vi., p. 1031, b, 18 ff.

[245] Zeller, _Phil. d. Gr._, II., b, 309.

[246] For the general theory of Actuality and Possibility, see
_Metaph._, VIII.

[247] Grant’s _Aristotle_, p. 176.

[248] _Metaph._, XII., viii., p. 1074, a, 36.

[249] Grant’s _Aristotle_, p. 176.

[250] ‘The rational attitude of a thinking mind towards the
supernatural, whether in natural or revealed religion, is that of
scepticism, as distinguished from belief on the one hand and atheism on
the other.’—Mill’s _Essays on Religion_, p. 242.

[251] Grant’s _Aristotle_, p. 177.

[252] τὸ δ’
[252] τὸ δ’ εἶνα οὐκ οὐσία οὐδενί· οὐ γὰρ γένος τὸ ὄν.—_An. Post._,
II., vii., p. 92, b, 13.

[253] _Metaph._, XIII., x.

[254] ‘Non pensar oltre lei [la terra] essere un corpo senza alma e
vita et anche feccia tra le sustanze corporali.’ Giordano Bruno, _Cena
de le Ceneri_, p. 130 (_Opere_, ed. Wagner). ‘Non dovete stimar ... che
il corpo terreno sia vile e più degli altri ignobile.’—_De l’Infinito
Universo e Mondi_, p. 54 (_ib._).

[255] This conjecture of Empedocles deserves more attention than it has
as yet received. It illustrates once more the superior insight of the
early thinkers as compared with Aristotle.

[256] _De Coelo_, II., 1.

[257] Lewes, quoted by Zeller, p. 524.

[258] So Trendelenburg, Brandis, Kampe, and apparently also Zeller.
Grote speaks of it rather vaguely as an intelligence pervading the
celestial sphere. Schwegler vacillates between the theological and the
psychological explanation.

[259] The last chapter of the _Posterior Analytics_ sets forth a much
more developed and definite theory of the process by which general
ideas are formed. We think that it was composed at a considerably later
date than the rest of the work, and probably after the treatise on the
Soul, to which we should almost suspect an allusion in the word πάλαι
(p. 100, a, 14), did philology permit. The reference can hardly be
to the first part of the chapter (as is generally supposed); nor has
the subject under discussion been touched on in any other part of the
_Analytics_.

[260] Grote and Kampe think that Aristotle assigns a portion of aether
as an extended, if not precisely a material, substratum to the rational
soul; but the arguments of Zeller (p. 569) seem decisive against this
view.

[261] _De Gen. An._, II., iii., p. 736, b, 15.

[262] _Outlines of the Philosophy of Aristotle_, p. 45.

[263] The word θεῖον, at any rate, does not mean ‘almost God,’ for
Aristotle applies it to the intelligence of bees, and also to the
heavenly bodies (_De Gen. An._, III., x., p. 761, a, 5; _De Coelo_,
II., xii., p. 292, b, 32).

[264] Principal Caird.

[265] _Outlines_, Preface, p. viii.

[266] _Metaph._, VII., xiii., p. 1039, a, 4.

[267] _De An._, III., ii., p. 426, a, 20; 425, b, 25 ff. What Aristotle
means by saying that the εἶναι of object and sensation is not the same,
appears from a passage in his tract on Memory (p. 450, b, 20), where he
employs the illustration of a portrait and its original, which are the
same, although their εἶναι is different.

[268] _Metaph._, IV., v., _sub fin._

[269] _De An._, III., iv., _sub fin._

[270] _De An._, II., ii., p. 414, a, 20.

[271] _De An._, III., i., p. 425, a, 13.

[272] See Zeller pp. 602-606, where the whole subject is thoroughly
discussed.

[273] _Anal. Pr._, I., i., _sub in._; ii., _sub in._; _Top._, I.,
viii., Bekker (in the Tauchnitz ed., vi.).

[274] _Anal. Pr._, I., xxiii., 41, a, 11 (in the Tauchnitz ed., xxii.,
8).

[275] This point is well brought out in F. A. Lange’s _Logische
Untersuchungen_.

[276] _Anal. Pr._, I., xxxi.; _Anal. Post._, II., v.

[277] _Metaph._, IV., iii., _sub in._

[278] _Anal. Post._, I., x.

[279] ‘Die Wissenschaft soll die Erscheinungen aus ihren Gründen
erklären, welche näher in den allgemeinen Ursachen und Gesetzen zu
suchen sind’ (Zeller, p. 203). ‘Induction is the method of proceeding
from particular instances to general laws’ (Wallace, p. 13). ‘It seems
to have been his [Aristotle’s] idea that after gathering facts up to a
certain point, a flash of intuition would supervene, telling us “This
is a law”’ (Grant, p. 68). _Apropos_ of the discussion whence this
last passage is extracted, we may observe that Sir A. Grant is quite
mistaken in saying that Aristotle ‘omits to provide for verification.’
Aristotle is, on the contrary, most anxious to show that his theories
agree with all the known facts. See in particular his memorable
declaration (_De Gen. An._, III., x., p. 760, b, 27), that facts are
more to be trusted than reasonings.

The emphasis laid by Aristotle on concepts as distinguished from laws
is noticed by J. H. v. Kirchmann, in his German translation of the
_Metaphysics_, p. 13.

[280] _De An._, III., vi., _sub in._, taken together with _Anal.
Post._, I., vi.

[281] _Anal. Post._, I., xxxiv.; II., ii.

[282] _Anal. Post._, II., xii., p. 95, a, 36.

[283] Wallace’s _Outlines_, p. 14.

[284] _Ibid._, Preface, pp. viii.-ix.

[285] As if Mill wrote exclusively for Oxford tutors, and as if other
philosophers had not constantly elucidated their arguments by concrete
examples. One does not see why the village matron should be more
deserving of contempt than Aristotle’s Thebans and Phocians.

[286] That is, knowledge which has never been actualised.

[287] It is a mistake to translate νόησις, as the Germans do, by
Anschauung. The Nous does not intuite ideas, but is converted into and
consists of them.

[288] For Analogy, see _Top._, II., x., _sub in._; Disjunction, II.,
vi., _sub in._; Hypothetical Reasoning, II., x., p. 115, a, 15; Method
of Differences, II., xi., _sub in._; Method of Residues, VI., xi., _sub
in._; Concomitant Variations, II., x., p. 114, b, 37; V., viii., _sub
in._; VI., vii., _sub in._ The Method of Agreement occurs _An. Prior._,
II., xxvii., _sub fin._; and _An. Post._, II., xiii., p. 97, b, 7.

[289] It may possibly be urged that the fifth book of the _Nicomachean
Ethics_ is of doubtful authenticity. Still the dilemma remains that
Aristotle either omitted the most important of all moral questions from
his ethics, or that he treated it in a miserably inadequate manner.

[290] _Eth. Nic._, V., iii.; _Rhet._, I., vi., p. 1362, b, 28; ix., p.
1366, b, 4.

[291] P. 753.


                       END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


                          LONDON: PRINTED BY
                SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                         AND PARLIAMENT STREET




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Other
variations in hyphenation spelling, accents and punctuation remain
unchanged.

Footnotes are placed at the end of each chapter.

Footnote 143: Zeller, 678-8. This appears erroneous.



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