{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_33411/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_33411","id":"gutenberg_33411","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33411","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Ancient","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Philosophy, Ancient"],"text":"Produced by Don Kostuch\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's Notes]\n  This text is derived from a copy in the Ave Maria University\n  library, catalog number \"B 171 .S8\"\n\n\n[End Transcriber's Notes]\n\nA CRITICAL HISTORY OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY\n\nMACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\nLONDON - BOMBAY - CALCUTTA - MADRAS\nMELBOURNE\n\n\nTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY\nNEW YORK - BOSTON - CHICAGO\nDALLAS - SAN FRANCISCO\n\nTHE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd\nTORONTO\n\n\n\nA CRITICAL HISTORY OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY\n\nBY\n\nW. T. STACE\n\nMACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\nST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON\n1920\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT\n\n\nGLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS\nBY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.\n\n\n{v}\n\nPREFACE\n\nThis book contains the substance, and for the most part the words, of\na course of public lectures delivered during the first three months of\n1919. The original division into lectures has been dropped, the matter\nbeing more conveniently redivided into chapters.\n\nThe audience to whom the lectures were delivered was composed of\nmembers of the general public, and not only of students. For the most\npart they possessed no previous knowledge of philosophy. Hence this\nbook, like the original lectures, assumes no previous special\nknowledge, though it assumes, of course, a state of general education\nin the reader. Technical philosophical terms are carefully explained\nwhen first introduced; and a special effort has been made to put\nphilosophical ideas in the clearest way possible. But it must be\nremembered that many of the profoundest as well as the most difficult\nof human conceptions are to be found in Greek philosophy. Such ideas\nare difficult in themselves, however clearly expressed. No amount of\nexplanation can ever render them anything but difficult to the\nunsophisticated mind, and anything in the nature of \"philosophy made\neasy\" is only to be expected from quacks and charlatans.\n\nGreek philosophy is not, even now, antiquated. It is not from the\npoint of view of an antiquary or historian {vi} that its treasures are\nvaluable. We are dealing here with living things, and not with mere\ndead things--not with the dry bones and debris of a bygone age. And I\nhave tried to lecture and write for living people, and not for mere\nfossil-grubbers. If I did not believe that there is to be found here,\nin Greek philosophy, at least a measure of the truth, the truth that\ndoes not grow old, I would not waste five minutes of my life upon it.\n\n\"We do not,\" says a popular modern writer, [Footnote 1] \"bring the\nyoung mind up against the few broad elemental questions that are the\n_questions of metaphysics_ .... We do not make it discuss, correct it,\nelucidate it. That was the way of the Greeks, and we worship that\ndivine people far too much to adopt their way. No, we lecture to our\nyoung people about not philosophy but philosophers, we put them\nthrough book after book, telling how other people have discussed these\nquestions. We avoid the questions of metaphysics, but we deliver\nsemi-digested half views of the discussions of, and answers to these\nquestions made by men of all sorts and qualities, in various remote\nlanguages and under conditions quite different from our own. . . . It\nis as if we began teaching arithmetic by long lectures upon the origin\nof the Roman numerals, and then went on to the lives and motives of\nthe Arab mathematicians in Spain, or started with Roger Bacon in\nchemistry, or Sir Richard Owen in comparative anatomy .... It is time\nthe educational powers began to realise that the questions of\nmetaphysics, the elements of philosophy, are, here and now to be done\nafresh in each mind .... What is wanted is philosophy, and not a\nshallow smattering of the history of philosophy ... {vii} The proper\nway to discuss metaphysics, like the proper way to discuss mathematics\nor chemistry, is to discuss the accumulated and digested product of\nhuman thought in such matters.\"\n\n[Footnote 1: H. G. Wells in \"First and Last Things.\"]\n\nPlausible words these, certain to seem conclusive to the mob,\nnotwithstanding that for one element of truth they contain nine of\nuntruth! The elements of truth are that our educational system\nunwarrantably leaves unused the powerful weapon of oral discussion--so\nforcibly wielded by the Greeks--and develops book knowledge at the\nexpense of original thought. Though even here it must be remembered,\nas regards the Greeks, (1) that if they studied the history of\nphilosophy but little, it was because there was then but little\nhistory of philosophy to study, and (2) that if anyone imagines that\nthe great Greek thinkers did not fully master the thought of their\npredecessors before constructing their own systems, he is grievously\nmistaken, and (3) that in some cases the over-reliance on oral\ndiscussion--the opposite fault to ours--led to intellectual\ndishonesty, quibbling, ostentation, disregard of truth, shallowness,\nand absence of all principle; this was the case with the Sophists.\n\nAs to the comparisons between arithmetic and philosophy, chemistry and\nphilosophy, etc., they rest wholly upon a false parallel, and involve\na total failure to comprehend the nature of philosophic truth, and its\nfundamental difference from arithmetical, chemical, or physical truth.\nIf Eratosthenes thought the circumference of the earth to be so much,\nwhereas it has now been discovered to be so much, then the later\ncorrect view simply cancels and renders nugatory the older view.\n{viii} The one is correct, the other incorrect. We can ignore and\nforget the incorrect view altogether. But the development of\nphilosophy proceeds on quite other principles. Philosophical truth is\nno sum in arithmetic to be totted up so that the answer is thus\nformally and finally correct or incorrect. Rather, the philosophical\ntruth unfolds itself, factor by factor, in time, in the successive\nsystems of philosophy, and it is only in the complete series that the\ncomplete truth is to be found. The system of Aristotle does not simply\ncancel and refute that of Plato. Spinoza does not simply abolish\nDescartes. Aristotle completes Plato, as his necessary complement.\nSpinoza does the same for Descartes. And so it is always. The\ncalculation of Eratosthenes is simply wrong, and so we can afford to\nforget it. But the systems of Plato, Aristotle, Spinoza, Leibniz,\netc., are all alike factors of the truth. They are as true now as they\nwere in their own times, though they are not, and never were, the\nwhole truth. And therefore it is that they are not simply wrong, done\nwith, finished, ended, and that we cannot afford to forget them.\nWhether it is not possible to bring the many lights to a single focus,\nto weld the various factors of the truth into a single organic whole\nor system, which should thus be the total result to date, is another\nquestion. Only one such attempt has ever been made, but no one will\npretend that it is possible to understand it without a thorough\nknowledge of all previous systems, a knowledge, in fact, of the\nseparate factors of the truth before they are thus combined into a\ntotal result. Besides, that attempt, too, is now part of the history\nof philosophy!\n\nHence any philosophical thinking which is not founded {ix} upon a\nthorough study of the systems of the past will necessarily be shallow\nand worthless. And the notions that we can dispense with this study,\nand do everything out of our own heads, that everyone is to be his own\nphilosopher, and is competent to construct his own system in his own\nway--such ideas are utterly empty and hollow. Of these truths, indeed,\nwe see a notable example in what the writer just quoted styles his\n\"metaphysic.\" This so-called metaphysic is wholly based upon the\nassumption that knowledge and its object exist, each on its own\naccount, external to one another, the one here, the other there over\nagainst it, and that knowledge is an \"instrument\" which in this\nexternal manner takes hold of its object and makes it its own. The\nvery moment the word \"instrument\" is used here, all the rest,\nincluding the invalidity of knowledge, follows as a matter of course.\nSuch assumption then--that knowledge is an \"instrument\"--our writer\nmakes, wholly uncritically, and without a shadow of right. He gives no\nsign that it has ever even occurred to him that this is an assumption,\nthat it needs any enquiry, or that it is possible for anyone to think\notherwise. Yet anyone who will take the trouble, not merely\nsuperficially to dip into the history of philosophy, but thoroughly to\nsubmit himself to its discipline, will at least learn that this is an\nassumption, a very doubtful assumption, too, which no one now has the\nright to foist upon the public without discussion as if it were an\naxiomatic truth. He might even learn that it is a false assumption.\nAnd he will note, as an ominous sign, that the subjectivism which\npermeates and directs the whole course of Mr. Wells's thinking is\nidentical in character with that {x} subjectivism which was the\nessential feature of the decay and _downfall_ of the Greek philosophic\nspirit, and was the cause of its final _ruin_ and _dissolution_.\n\nI would counsel the young, therefore, to pay no attention to plausible\nand shallow words such as those quoted, but, before forming their own\nphilosophic opinions, most thoroughly and earnestly to study and\nmaster the history of past philosophies, first the Greek and then the\nmodern. That this cannot be done merely by reading a modern resume of\nthat history, but only by studying the great thinkers in their own\nworks, is true. But philosophical education must begin, and the\nfunction of such books as this, is, not to complete it, but to begin\nit; and to obtain first of all a general view of what must afterwards\nbe studied in detail is no bad way of beginning. Moreover, the study\nof the development and historical connexions of the various\nphilosophies, which is not found in the original writings themselves,\nwill always provide a work for histories of philosophy to do.\n\nTwo omissions in this book require, perhaps, a word of explanation.\n\nFirstly, in dealing with Plato's politics I have relied on the\n\"Republic,\" and said nothing of the \"Laws.\" This would not be\npermissible in a history of political theories, nor even in a history\nof philosophy which laid any special emphasis on politics. But, from\nmy point of view, politics lie on the extreme outer margin of\nphilosophy, so that a more slender treatment of the subject is\npermissible. Moreover, the \"Republic,\" whether written early or late,\nexpresses, in my opinion, the views of Plato, and not those of\nSocrates, and it still remains the outstanding, typical, and\ncharacteristic {xi} expression of the Platonic political ideal,\nhowever much that ideal had afterwards to be modified by practical\nconsiderations.\n\nSecondly, I have not even mentioned the view, now held by some, that\nthe theory of Ideas is really the work of Socrates, and not of Plato,\nand that Plato's own philosophy consisted in some sort of esoteric\nnumber-theory, combined with theistic and other doctrines. I can only\nsay that this theory, as expounded for example by Professor Burnet,\ndoes not commend itself to me, that, in fact, I do not believe it, but\nthat, it being impossible to discuss it adequately in a book of this\nkind, I have thought that, rather than discuss it inadequately, it\nwere better to leave it alone altogether. Moreover, it stands on a\ntotally different footing from, say, Professor Burnet's interpretation\nof Parmenides, which I have discussed. That concerned the\ninterpretation of the true meaning of a philosophy. This merely\nconcerns the question who was the author of a philosophy. That was a\nquestion of principle, this merely of personalities. That was of\nimportance to the philosopher, this merely to the historian and\nantiquary. It is like the Bacon-Shakespeare question, which no lover\nof drama, as such, need concern himself with at all. No doubt the\nPlato-Socrates question is of interest to antiquarians, but after all,\nfundamentally, it does not matter who is to have the credit of the\ntheory of Ideas, the only essential thing for us being to understand\nthat theory, and rightly to apprehend its value as a factor of the\ntruth. This book is primarily concerned with philosophical ideas,\ntheir truth, meaning, and significance, and not with the rights and\nwrongs of antiquarian disputes. It does indeed purport to {xii} be a\n_history_, as well as a discussion of philosophic conceptions. But\nthis only means that it takes up philosophical ideas in their\nhistorical sequence and connexions, and it does this only because the\nconceptions of evolution in philosophy, of the onward march of thought\nto a determined goal; of its gradual and steady rise to the supreme\nheights of idealism, its subsequent decline, and ultimate collapse,\nare not only profoundly impressive as historical phenomena, but are of\nvital importance to a true conception of philosophy itself. Were it\nnot for this, Mr. Wells would, I think, be right, and I for one should\nabandon treatment in historical order altogether. Lastly, I may remark\nthat the description of this book as a _critical_ history means that it\nis, or attempts to be critical, not of dates, texts, readings, and the\nlike, but of philosophical conceptions.\n\nI owe a debt of thanks to Mr. F. L. Woodward, M.A., late principal of\nMahinda College, Galle, Ceylon, for assisting me in the compilation of\nthe index of names, and in sundry other matters.\n\nW.T.S.\n\n_January_, 1920.\n\n\n{xiii}\n\nCONTENTS\n\nCHAPTER                                                  PAGE\n\nI.    THE IDEA OF PHILOSOPHY IN GENERAL. THE\n      ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY           1\n\nII.   THE IONICS. THALES. ANAXIMANDER.\n      ANAXIMENES. OTHER IONIC THINKERS                    20\n\nIII.  THE PYTHAGOREANS                                    31\n\nIV.   THE ELEATICS. XENOPHANES. PARMENIDES.\n      ZENO. CRITICAL REMARKS ON ELEATICISM                40\n\nV.    HERACLEITUS                                         72\n\nVI.   EMPEDOCLES                                          81\n\nVII.  THE ATOMISTS                                        86\n\nVIII. ANAXAGORAS                                          94\n\nIX.   THE SOPHISTS                                       106\n\nX.    SOCRATES                                           127\n\nXI.   THE SEMI-SOCRATICS. THE CYNICS. THE\n      CYRENAICS. THE MEGARICS                            155\n\nXII.  PLATO                                              164\n\n      (i.) Life and writings                             165\n\n      (ii.) The theory of knowledge                      177\n\n      (iii.) Dialectic, or the theory of Ideas           183\n\n      (iv.) Physics, or the theory of existence          207\n\n            (a) The doctrine of the world                207\n\n            (b) The doctrine of the human soul           211\n\n{xiv}\n\n      (v.) Ethics                                        217\n\n           (a) Of the individual                         217\n\n           (b) The State                                 225\n\n      (vi.) Views upon art                               229\n\n      (vii.) Critical estimate of Plato's philosophy     234\n\nXIII. ARISTOTLE:\n\n      (i.) Life, Writings, and general character of\n           his work                                      249\n\n      (ii.) Logic                                        260\n\n      (iii.) Metaphysics                                 261\n\n      (iv.) Physics, or the philosophy of nature         288\n\n      (v.) Ethics:\n\n           (a) The individual                            314\n\n           (b) The State                                 320\n\n      (vi.) Aesthetics, or the theory of art             325\n\n      (vii.) Critical estimate of\n             Aristotle's philosophy                      331\n\nXIV.   THE GENERAL CHARACTER OF POST-ARISTOTELIAN\n       PHILOSOPHY                                        339\n\nXV.    THE STOICS. LOGIC. PHYSICS. ETHICS                344\n\nXVI.   THE EPICUREANS. PHYSICS. ETHICS                   354\n\nXVII.  THE SCEPTICS. PYRRHO. THE NEW ACADEMY.\n       LATER SCEPTICISM                                  361\n\nXVIII. TRANSITION TO NEO-PLATONISM                       368\n\nXIX.   THE NEO-PLATONISTS                                372\n\n       INDEX OF SUBJECTS                                 378\n\n       INDEX OF NAMES                                    382\n\n\n{1}\nA CRITICAL HISTORY OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nTHE IDEA OF PHILOSOPHY IN GENERAL.\n\nTHE ORIGINS AND DEVELOPMENT OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY\n\n\nIt is natural that, at the commencement of any study, one should be\nexpected to say what the subject-matter of that study is. Botany is\nthe knowledge of plants, astronomy of the heavenly bodies, geology of\nthe rocks of the earth's crust. What, then, is the special sphere of\nphilosophy? What is philosophy about? Now it is not as easy to give a\nconcise definition of philosophy, as it is of the other sciences. In\nthe first place, the content of philosophy has differed considerably\nin different periods of history. In general the tendency has been to\nnarrow down the scope of the subject as knowledge advanced, to exclude\nfrom philosophy what was formerly included in it. Thus in the time of\nPlato, physics and astronomy were included as parts of philosophy,\nwhereas now they constitute separate sciences. This, however, is not\nan insurmountable difficulty. What chiefly militates against the\neffort to frame a definition is that the precise content of philosophy\nis differently viewed by different schools of thought. Thus a\ndefinition of {2} philosophy which a follower of Herbert Spencer might\nframe would be unacceptable to an Hegelian, and the Hegelian\ndefinition would be rejected by the Spencerian. If we were to include\nin our definition some such phrase as \"the knowledge of the Absolute,\"\nwhile this might suit some philosophers, others would deny that there\nis any Absolute at all. Another school would say that there may be an\nAbsolute, but that it is unknowable, so that philosophy cannot be the\nknowledge of it. Yet another school would tell us that, whether there\nis or is not an Absolute, whether it is or is not knowable, the\nknowledge of it is in any case useless, and ought not to be sought.\nHence no definition of philosophy can be appreciated without some\nknowledge of the special tenets of the various schools. In a word, the\nproper place to give a definition is not at the beginning of the study\nof philosophy, but at the end of it. Then, with all views before us,\nwe might be able to decide the question.\n\nI shall make no attempt, therefore, to place before you a precise\ndefinition. But perhaps the same purpose will be served, if I pick out\nsome of the leading traits of philosophy, which serve to distinguish\nit from other branches of knowledge, and illustrate them by\nenumerating--but without any attempt at completeness--some of the\nchief problems which philosophers have usually attempted to solve. And\nfirstly, philosophy is distinguished from other branches of knowledge\nby the fact that, whereas these each take some particular portion of\nthe universe for their study, philosophy does not specialize in this\nway, but deals with the universe as a whole. The universe is one, and\nideal knowledge of it would be one; but the principles of\nspecialization and division of {3} labour apply here as elsewhere, and\nso astronomy takes for its subject that portion of the universe which\nwe call the heavenly bodies, botany specializes in plant life,\npsychology in the facts of the mind, and so on. But philosophy does\nnot deal with this or that particular sphere of being, but with being\nas such. It seeks to see the universe as a single co-ordinated system\nof things. It might be described as the science of things in general.\nThe world in its most universal aspects is its subject. All sciences\ntend to generalize, to reduce multitudes of particular facts to single\ngeneral laws. Philosophy carries this process to its highest limit. It\ngeneralizes to the utmost. It seeks to view the entire universe in the\nlight of the fewest possible general principles, in the light, if\npossible, of a single ultimate principle.\n\nIt is a consequence of this that the special sciences take their\nsubject matter, and much of their contents, for granted, whereas\nphilosophy seeks to trace everything back to its ultimate grounds. It\nmay be thought that this description of the sciences is incorrect. Is\nnot the essential maxim of modern science to assume nothing, to take\nnothing for granted, to assert nothing without demonstration, to prove\nall? This is no doubt true within certain limits, but beyond those\nlimits it does not hold good. All the sciences take quite for granted\ncertain principles and facts which are, for them, ultimate. To\ninvestigate these is the portion of the philosopher, and philosophy\nthus takes up the thread of knowledge where the sciences drop it. It\nbegins where they end. It investigates what they take as a matter of\ncourse.\n\nLet us consider some examples of this. The science of geometry deals\nwith the laws of space. But it takes {4} space just as it finds it in\ncommon experience. It takes space for granted. No geometrician asks\nwhat space is. This, then, will be a problem for philosophy. Moreover,\ngeometry is founded upon certain fundamental propositions which, it\nasserts, being self-evident, require no investigation. These are\ncalled \"axioms.\" That two straight lines cannot enclose a space, and\nthat equals being added to equals the results are equal, are common\nexamples. Into the ground of these axioms the geometrician does not\nenquire. That is the business of philosophy. Not that philosophers\naffect to doubt the truth of these axioms. But surely it is a very\nstrange thing, and a fact quite worthy of study, that there are some\nstatements of which we feel that we must give the most laborious\nproofs, and others in the case of which we feel no such necessity. How\nis it that some propositions can be self-evident and others must be\nproved? What is the ground of this distinction? And when one comes to\nthink of it, it is a very extraordinary property of mind that it\nshould be able to make the most universal and unconditional statements\nabout things, without a jot of evidence or proof. When we say that two\nstraight lines cannot enclose a space, we do not mean merely that this\nhas been found true in regard to all the particular pairs of straight\nlines with which we have tried the experiment. We mean that it never\ncan be and never has been otherwise. We mean that a million million\nyears ago two straight lines did not enclose a space, and that it will\nbe the same a million million years hence, and that it is just as true\non those stars, if there are any, which are invisible even to the\ngreatest telescopes. But we have no experience of what will {5} happen\na million million years hence, or of what can take place among those\nremote stars. And yet we assert, with absolute confidence, that our\naxiom is and must be equally true everywhere and at all times.\nMoreover, we do not found this on probabilities gathered from\nexperience. Nobody would make experiments or use telescopes to prove\nsuch axioms. How is it that they are thus self-evident, that the mind\ncan make these definite and far-reaching assertions without any\nevidence at all? Geometricians do not consider these questions. They\ntake the facts for granted. To solve these problems is for philosophy.\n\n\nAgain, the physical sciences take the existence of matter for granted.\nBut philosophy asks what matter is. At first sight it might appear\nthat this question is one for the physicist and not the philosopher.\nFor the problem of \"the constitution of matter\" is a well-known\nphysical problem. But a little consideration will show that this is\nquite a different question from the one the philosopher propounds. For\neven if it be shown that all matter is ether, or electricity, or\nvortex-atoms, or other such, this does not help us in our special\nproblem. For these theories, even if proved, only teach us that the\ndifferent kinds of matter are forms of some one physical existence.\nBut what we want to know is what physical existence itself is. To\nprove that one kind of matter is really another kind of matter does\nnot tell us what is the essential nature of matter. That, therefore,\nis a problem, not of science, but of philosophy.\n\nIn the same way, all the sciences take the existence of the universe\nfor granted. But philosophy seeks to know why it is that there is a\nuniverse at all. Is it {6} true, for example, that there is some\nsingle ultimate reality which produces all things? And if so, what\nsort of a reality is it? Is it matter, or mind, or something different\nfrom both? Is it good or evil? And if it is good, how is it that there\nis evil in the world?\n\nMoreover every science, except the purely mathematical sciences,\nassumes the truth of the law of causation. Every student of logic\nknows that this is the ultimate canon of the sciences, the foundation\nof them all. If we did not believe in the truth of the law of\ncausation, namely, that everything which has a beginning has a cause,\nand that in the same circumstances the same things invariably happen,\nall the sciences would at once crumble to dust. In every scientific\ninvestigation, this truth is assumed. If we ask the zoologist how he\nknows that all camels are herbivorous, he will no doubt point in the\nfirst instance to experience. The habits of many thousands of camels\nhave been observed. But this only proves that those particular camels\nare herbivorous. How about the millions that have never been observed\nat all? He can only appeal to the law of causation. The camel's\nstructure is such that it cannot digest meat. It is a case of cause\nand effect. How do we know that water always freezes at 0 deg. centigrade\n(neglecting questions of pressure, etc.)? How do we know that this is\ntrue at those regions of the earth where no one has ever been to see?\nOnly because we believe that in the same circumstances the same thing\nalways happens, that like causes always produce like effects. But how\ndo we know the truth of this law of causation itself? Science does not\nconsider the question. It traces its assertions back to this law, but\ngoes no {7} further. Its fundamental canon it takes for granted. The\ngrounds of causation, why it is true, and how we know it is true, are,\ntherefore, philosophical questions.\n\nOne may be tempted to enquire whether many of these questions,\nespecially those connected with the ultimate reality, do not transcend\nhuman faculties altogether, and whether we had not better confine our\nenquiries to matters that are not \"too high for us.\" One may question\nwhether it is possible for finite minds to comprehend the infinite.\nNow it is very right that such questions should be asked, and it is\nessential that a correct answer should be found. But, for the present,\nthere is nothing to say about the matter, except that these questions\nthemselves constitute one of the most important problems of\nphilosophy, though it is one which, as a matter of fact, has scarcely\nbeen considered in full until modern times. The Greeks did not raise\nthe question. [Footnote 2] And as this is itself one of the problems\nof philosophy, it will be well to start with an open mind. The\nquestion cannot be decided offhand, but must be thoroughly\ninvestigated. That the finite mind of man cannot understand the\ninfinite is one of those popular dogmatic assertions, which are\nbruited about from mouth to mouth, as if they were self-evident, and\nso come to tyrannize over men's minds. But for the most part those who\nmake this statement have never thoroughly sifted the grounds of it,\nbut simply take it as something universally admitted, and trouble no\nfurther about it. But at the very least we should first know exactly\nwhat {8} we mean by such terms as \"mind,\" \"finite,\" and \"infinite.\"\nAnd we shall not find that our difficulties end even there.\n\n[Footnote 2: The reasoning of the Sceptics and others no doubt\ninvolved this question. But they did not consider it in its peculiar\nmodern form.]\n\n\nPhilosophy, then, deals with the universe as a whole; and it seeks to\ntake nothing for granted. A third characteristic may be noted as\nespecially important, though here no doubt we are trenching upon\nmatters upon which there is no such universal agreement. Philosophy is\nessentially an attempt to rise from sensuous to pure, that is,\nnon-senuous, thought. This requires some explanation.\n\nWe are conscious, so to speak, of two different worlds, the external\nphysical world and the internal mental world. If we look outwards we\nare aware of the former, if we turn our gaze inwards upon our own\nminds we become aware of the latter. It may appear incorrect to say\nthat the external world is purely physical, for it includes other\nminds. I am aware of your mind, and this is, to me, part of the world\nwhich is external to me. But I am not now speaking of what we know by\ninference, but only of what we directly perceive. I cannot directly\nperceive your mind, but only your physical body. In the last resort it\nwill be found that I am aware of the existence of your mind only by\ninference from perceived physical facts, such as the movements of your\nbody and the sounds that issue from your lips. The only mind which I\ncan immediately perceive is my own. There is then a physical world\nexternal to us, and an internal mental world.\n\nWhich of these will naturally be regarded as the most real? Men will\nregard as the most real that which is the most familiar, that which\nthey came first into {9} contact with, and have most experience of.\nAnd this is unquestionably the external material world. When a child\nis born, it turns its eyes to the light, which is an external physical\nthing. Gradually it gets to know different objects in the room. It\ncomes to know its mother, but its mother is, in the first instance, a\nphysical object, a body. It is only long afterwards that its mother\nbecomes for the child a mind or a soul. In general, all our earliest\nexperiences are of the material world. We come to know of the mental\nworld only by introspection, and the habit of introspection comes in\nyouth or manhood only, and to many people it hardly comes at all. In\nall those early impressionable years, therefore, when our most durable\nideas of the universe are formed, we are concerned almost exclusively\nwith the material world. The mental world with which we are much less\nfamiliar consequently tends to appear to all of us something\ncomparatively unreal, a world of shadows. The bent of our minds\nbecomes materialistic.\n\nWhat I have said of the individual is equally true of the race.\nPrimitive man does not brood over the facts of his own mind. Necessity\ncompels him to devote most of his life to the acquisition of food, and\nto warding off the dangers which continually threaten him from other\nphysical objects. And even among ourselves, the majority of men have\nto spend most of their time upon considering various aspects of things\nexternal to them. By the individual training of each man, and by long\nhereditary habit, then, it comes about that men tend to regard the\nphysical world as more real than the mental.\n\n{10}\n\nAbundant evidences of this are to be found in the structure of human\nlanguage. We seek to explain what is strange by means of what is\nwell-known. We try to express the unfamiliar in terms of the familiar.\nWe shall find that language always seeks to express the mental by the\nanalogy of the physical. We speak of a man as a \"clear\" thinker.\n\"Clear\" is an attribute of physical objects. Water is clear if it has\nno extraneous matter in it. We say that a man's ideas are \"luminous,\"\nthus taking a metaphor from physical light. We talk of having an idea\n\"at the back of the mind.\" \"At the back of\"? Has the mind got a front\nand a back? We are thinking of it as if it were a physical thing in\nspace. We speak of mental habits of \"attention.\" \"Attention\" means\nstretching or turning the mind in a special direction. We \"reflect.\"\n\"Reflection\" means bending our thoughts back upon themselves. But,\nliterally speaking, only physical objects can be stretched, turned,\nand bent. Whenever we wish to express something mental we do it by a\nphysical analogy. We talk of it in terms of physical things. This\nshows how deep-rooted our materialism is. If the mental world were\nmore familiar and real to us than the material, language would have\nbeen constructed on the opposite principle. The earliest words of\nlanguage would have expressed mental facts, and we should afterwards\nhave tried to express physical things by means of mental analogies.\n\nIn the East one commonly hears Oriental idealism contrasted with\nWestern materialism. Such phrases may possess a certain relative\ntruth. But if they mean that there is in the East, or anywhere else in\nthe world, {11} a race of men who are naturally idealists, they are\nnonsense. Materialism is ingrained in all men. We, Easterns or\nWesterns, are born materialists. Hence when we try to think of objects\nwhich are commonly regarded as non-material, such as God or the soul,\nit requires continual effort, a tremendous struggle, to avoid\npicturing them as material things. It goes utterly against the grain.\nPerhaps hundreds of thousands of years of hereditary materialism are\nagainst us. The popular idea of ghosts will illustrate this. Those who\nbelieve in ghosts, I suppose, regard them as some sort of disembodied\nsouls. The pictures of ghosts in magazines show them as if composed of\nmatter, but matter of some _thin_ kind, such as vapour. Certain Indian\nsystems of thought, which are by way of regarding themselves as\nidealistic, nevertheless teach that thought or mind is an extremely\nsubtle kind of matter, far subtler than any ever dealt with by the\nphysicist and chemist. This is very interesting, because it shows that\nthe authors of such ideas feel vaguely that it is wrong to think of\nthought as if it were matter, but being unable to think of it in any\nother way, owing to man's ingrained materialism, they seek to palliate\ntheir sin by making it thin matter. Of course this is just as absurd\nas the excuse made by the mother of an illegitimate child, that it was\na very small one. This thin matter is just as material as lead or\nbrass. And such systems are purely materialistic. But they illustrate\nthe extraordinary difficulty that the ordinary mind experiences in\nattempting to rise from sensuous to non-sensuous thinking. They\nillustrate the ingrained materialism of man.\n\nThis natural human materialism is also the cause {12} of mysticism and\nsymbolism. A symbolic thought necessarily contains two terms, the\nsymbol and the reality which it symbolizes. The symbol is always a\nsensuous or material object, or the mental image of such an object,\nand the reality is always something non-sensuous. Because the human\nmind finds it such an incredible struggle to think non-sensuously, it\nseeks to help itself by symbols. It takes a material thing and makes\nit stand for the non-material thing which it is too weak to grasp.\nThus we talk of God as the \"light of lights.\" No doubt this is a very\nnatural expression of the religious consciousness, and it has its\nmeaning. But it is not the naked truth. Light is a physical existence,\nand God is no more light than he is heat or electricity. People talk\nof symbolism as if it were a very high and exalted thing. They say,\n\"What a wonderful piece of symbolism!\" But, in truth symbolism is the\nmark of an infirm mind. It is the measure of our weakness and not of\nour strength. Its root is in materialism, and it is produced and\npropagated by those who are unable to rise above a materialistic\nlevel.\n\nNow philosophy is essentially the attempt to get beyond this sort of\nsymbolic and mystical thinking, to get at the naked truth, to grasp\nwhat lies behind the symbol as it is in itself. These inferior modes\nof thought are a help to those who are themselves below their level,\nbut are a hindrance to those who seek to reach the highest level of\ntruth.\n\nIt is often said that philosophy is a very difficult and abstruse\nsubject. Its difficulty lies almost wholly in the struggle to think\nnon-sensuously. Whenever we {13} come to anything in philosophy that\nseems beyond us, we shall generally find that the root of the trouble\nis that we are trying to think non-sensuous objects in a sensuous way,\nthat is, we are trying to form mental pictures and images of them, for\nall mental pictures are composed of sensuous materials, and hence no\nsuch picture is adequate for a pure thought. It is impossible to\nexaggerate this difficulty. Even the greatest philosophers have\nsuccumbed to it. We shall constantly have to point out that when a\ngreat thinker, such as Parmenides or Plato, fails, and begins to\nflounder in difficulties, the reason usually is that, though for a\ntime he has attained to pure thought, he has sunk back exhausted into\nsensuous thinking, and has attempted to form mental pictures of what\nis beyond the power of any such picture to represent, and so has\nfallen into contradictions. We must keep this constantly in mind in\nthe study of philosophy.\n\nIn modern times philosophy is variously divided, as into metaphysics,\nwhich is the theory of reality, ethics, the theory of the good, and\naesthetics, the theory of the beautiful. Modern divisions do not,\nhowever, altogether fit in with Greek philosophy, and it is better to\nlet the natural divisions develop themselves as we go on, than to\nattempt to force our material into these moulds.\n\nIf, now, we look round the world and ask; in what countries and what\nages the kind of thought we have described has attained a high degree\nof development, we shall find such a development only in ancient\nGreece and in modern Europe. There were great civilizations in Egypt,\nChina, Assyria, and so on. They produced art and religion, but no\nphilosophy to speak of. Even {14} ancient Rome added nothing to the\nworld's philosophical knowledge. Its so-called philosophers, Marcus\nAurelius, Seneca, Epictetus, Lucretius, produced no essentially new\nprinciple. They were merely disciples of Greek Schools, whose writings\nmay be full of interest and of noble feeling, but whose essential\nthoughts contained nothing not already developed by the Greeks.\n\nThe case of India is more doubtful. Opinions may differ as to whether\nIndia ever had any philosophy. The Upanishads contain\nreligio-philosophical thinking of a kind. And later we have the six\nso-called schools of philosophy. The reasons why this Indian thought\nis not usually included in histories of philosophy are as follows.\nFirstly, philosophy in India has never separated itself from religious\nand practical needs. The ideal of knowledge for its own sake is rarely\nto be found. Knowledge is desired merely as a means towards salvation.\nPhilosophy and science, said Aristotle, have their roots in\nwonder,--the desire to know and understand for the sole sake of\nknowing and understanding. But the roots of Indian thought lie in the\nanxiety of the individual to escape from the ills and calamities of\nexistence. This is not the scientific, but the practical spirit. It\ngives birth to religions, but not to philosophies. Of course it is a\nmistake to imagine that philosophy and religion are totally separate\nand have no community. They are in fact fundamentally akin. But they\nare also distinct. Perhaps the truest view is that they are identical\nin substance, but different in form. The substance of both is the\nabsolute reality and the relation of all things, including men, to\nthat reality. But whereas philosophy presents this subject-matter\nscientifically, in {15} the form of pure thought, religion gives it in\nthe form of sensuous pictures, myths, images, and symbols.\n\nAnd this gives us the second reason why Indian thought is more\nproperly classed as religious than philosophical. It seldom or never\nrises from sensuous to pure thought. It is poetical rather than\nscientific. It is content with symbols and metaphors in place of\nrational explanations, and all this is a mark of the religious, rather\nthan the philosophical, presentation of the truth. For example, the\nmain thought of the Upanishads is that the entire universe is derived\nfrom a single, changeless, eternal, infinite, being, called Brahman or\nParamatman. When we come to the crucial question how the universe\narises out of this being, we find such passages as this:--\"As the\ncolours in the flame or the red-hot iron proceed therefrom a\nthousand-fold, so do all beings proceed from the Unchangeable, and\nreturn again to it.\" Or again, \"As the web issues from the spider, as\nlittle sparks proceed from fire, so from the one soul proceed all\nliving animals, all worlds, all the gods and all beings.\" There are\nthousands of such passages in the Upanishads. But obviously these\nneither explain nor attempt to explain anything. They are nothing but\nhollow metaphors. They are poetic rather than scientific. They may\nsatisfy the imagination and the religious feelings, but not the\nrational understanding. Or when again Krishna, in the Bhagavat-Gita,\ndescribes himself as the moon among the lunar mansions, the sun among\nthe stars, Meru among the high-peaked mountains, it is clear that we\nare merely piling sensuous image upon sensuous image without any\nfurther understanding of what the nature of the absolute being in its\nown self is. {16} The moon, the sun, Meru, are physical sense-objects.\nAnd this is totally sensuous thinking, whereas the aim of philosophy\nis to rise to pure thought. In such passages we are still on the level\nof symbolism, and philosophy only begins when symbolism has been\nsurpassed. No doubt it is possible to take the line that man's thought\nis not capable of grasping the infinite as it is in itself, and can\nonly fall back upon symbols. But that is another question, and at any\nrate, whether it is or is not possible to rise from sensuous to pure\nthought, philosophy is essentially the attempt to do so.\n\nLastly, Indian thought is usually excluded from the history of\nphilosophy because, whatever its character, it lies outside the main\nstream of human development. It has been cut off by geographical and\nother barriers. Consequently, whatever its value in itself, it has\nexerted little influence upon philosophy in general.\n\nThe claim is sometimes put forward by Orientals themselves that Greek\nphilosophy came from India, and if this were true, it would greatly\naffect the statement made in the last paragraph. But it is not true.\nIt used to be believed that Greek philosophy came from \"the East,\" but\nthis meant Egypt. And even this theory is now abandoned. Greek\nculture, especially mathematics and astronomy, owed much to Egypt. But\nGreece did not owe its philosophy to that source. The view that it did\nwas propagated by Alexandrian priests and others, whose sole motive\nwas, that to represent the triumphs of Greek philosophy as borrowed\nfrom Egypt, flattered their national vanity. It was a great thing,\nwherever they found anything good, to say, \"this must have come from\nus.\" A precisely similar motive lies behind the {17} Oriental claim\nthat Greek philosophy came from India. There is not a scrap of\nevidence for it, and it rests entirely upon the supposed resemblance\nbetween the two. But this resemblance is in fact mythical. The whole\ncharacter of Greek philosophy is European and unoriental to the\nback-bone. The doctrine of re-incarnation is usually appealed to. This\ncharacteristically Indian doctrine was held by the Pythagoreans, from\nwhom it passed to Empedocles and Plato. The Pythagoreans got it from\nthe Orphic sect, to whom quite possibly it came indirectly from India,\nalthough even this is by no means certain, and is in fact highly\ndoubtful. But even if this be true, it proves nothing. Re-incarnation\nis of little importance in Greek philosophy. Even in Plato, who makes\nmuch of it, it is quite unessential to the fundamental ideas of his\nphilosophy, and is only artificially connected with them. And the\ninfluence of this doctrine upon Plato's philosophy was thoroughly bad.\nIt was largely responsible for leading him into the main error of his\nphilosophy, which it required an Aristotle to correct. All this will\nbe evident when we come to consider the systems of Plato and\nAristotle.\n\nThe origin of Greek philosophy is not to be found in India, or Egypt,\nor in any country outside Greece. The Greeks themselves were solely\nresponsible for it. It is not as if history traces back their thought\nonly to a point at which it was already highly developed, and cannot\nexplain its beginnings. We know its history from the time, so to\nspeak, when it was in the cradle. In the next two chapters we shall\nsee that the first Greek attempts at philosophising were so much the\nbeginnings of a beginner, were so very crude and unformed, that it is\n{18} mere perversity to suppose that they could not make these simple\nefforts for themselves. From those crude beginnings we can trace the\nwhole development in detail up to its culmination in Aristotle, and\nbeyond. So there is no need to assume foreign influence at any point.\n\nGreek philosophy begins in the sixth century before Christ. It begins\nwhen men for the first time attempted to give a scientific reply to\nthe question, \"what is the explanation of the world?\" Before this era\nwe have, of course, the mythologies, cosmogonies, and theologies of\nthe poets. But they contain no attempt at a naturalistic explanation\nof things. They belong to the spheres of poetry and religion, not to\nphilosophy.\n\nIt must not be supposed, when we speak of the philosophy of Greece,\nthat we refer only to the mainland of what is now called Greece. Very\nearly in history, Greeks of the mainland migrated to the islands of\nthe Aegean, to Sicily, to the South of Italy, to the coast of Asia\nMinor, and elsewhere, and founded flourishing colonies. The Greece of\nphilosophy includes all these places. It is to be thought of rather\nracially than territorially. It is the philosophy of the men of Greek\nrace, wherever they happened to be situated. And in fact the first\nperiod of Greek philosophy deals exclusively with the thoughts of\nthese colonial Greeks. It was not till just before the time of\nSocrates that philosophy was transplanted to the mainland.\n\nGreek philosophy falls naturally into three periods. The first may be\nroughly described as pre-Socratic philosophy, though it does not\ninclude the Sophists who were both the contemporaries and the\npredecessors of Socrates. This period is the rise of Greek philosophy.\n{19} Secondly, the period from the Sophists to Aristotle, which\nincludes Socrates and Plato, is the maturity of Greek philosophy, the\nactual zenith and culmination of which is undoubtedly the system of\nAristotle. Lastly, the period of post-Aristotelian philosophy\nconstitutes the decline and fall of the national thought. These are\nnot merely arbitrary divisions. Each period has its own special\ncharacters, which will be described in the sequel.\n\nA few words must be said of the sources of our knowledge of\npre-Socratic philosophy. If we want to know what Plato and Aristotle\nthought about any matter, we have only to consult their works. But the\nworks of the earlier philosophers have not come down to us, except in\nfragments, and several of them never committed their opinions to\nwriting. Our knowledge of their doctrines is the result of the\nlaborious sifting by scholars of such materials as are available.\nLuckily the material has been plentiful. It may be divided into three\nclasses. First come the fragments of the original writings of the\nphilosophers themselves. These are in many cases long and important,\nin other cases scanty. Secondly, there are the references in Plato and\nAristotle. Of these by far the most important are to be found in the\nfirst book of Aristotle's \"Metaphysics,\" which is a history of\nphilosophy up to his own time, and is the first attempt on record to\nwrite a history of philosophy. Thirdly, there is an enormous mass of\nreferences, some valuable, some worthless, contained in the works of\nlater, but still ancient, writers.\n\n{20}\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE IONICS.\n\n\n\nThe earliest Greek philosophers belong to what in after times came to\nbe called the Ionic school. The name was derived from the fact that\nthe three chief representatives of this school, Thales, Anaximander,\nand Anaximenes, were all men of Ionia, that is to say, the coast of\nAsia Minor.\n\n\n\nThales\n\nAs the founder of the earliest school in history, Thales of Miletus is\ngenerally accounted the founder and father of all philosophy. He was\nborn about 624 B.C. and died about 550 B.C. These dates are\napproximate, and it should be understood that the same thing is true\nof nearly all the dates of the early philosophers. Different scholars\nvary, sometimes as much as ten years, in the dates they give. We shall\nnot enter into these questions at all, because they are of no\nimportance. And throughout these lectures it should be understood that\nthe dates given are approximate.\n\nThales, at any rate, was a contemporary of Solon and Croesus. He was\nfamous in antiquity for his mathematical and astronomical learning,\nand also for his practical sagacity and wisdom. He is included in {21}\nall the accounts of the Seven Sages. The story of the Seven Sages is\nunhistorical, but the fact that the lists of their names differ\nconsiderably as given by different writers, whereas the name of Thales\nappears in all, shows with what veneration he was anciently regarded.\nAn eclipse of the sun occurred in 585 B.C., and Thales is alleged to\nhave predicted it, which was a feat for the astronomy of those times.\nAnd he must have been a great engineer, for he caused a diversion of\nthe river Halys, when Croesus and his army were unable to cross it.\nNothing else is known of his life, though there were many apocryphal\nstories.\n\nNo writings by Thales were extant even in the time of Aristotle, and\nit is believed that he wrote nothing. His philosophy, if we can call\nit by that name, consisted, so far as we know, of two propositions.\nFirstly, that the principle of all things is water, that all comes\nfrom water, and to water all returns. And secondly, that the earth is\na flat disc which floats upon water. The first, which is the chief\nproposition, means that water is the one primal kind of existence and\nthat everything else in the universe is merely a modification of\nwater. Two questions will naturally occur to us. Why did Thales choose\nwater as the first principle? And by what process does water, in his\nopinion, come to be changed into other things; how was the universe\nformed out of water? We cannot answer either of these questions with\ncertainty. Aristotle says that Thales \"probably derived his opinion\nfrom observing that the nutriment of all things is moist, and that\neven actual heat is generated therefrom, and that animal life is\nsustained by water, ... and from the fact that the seeds of all things\npossess {22} a moist nature, and that water is a first principle of\nall things that are humid.\" This is very likely the true explanation.\nBut it will be noted that even Aristotle uses the word \"probably,\" and\nso gives his statement merely as a conjecture. How, in the opinion of\nThales, the universe arose out of water, is even more uncertain. Most\nlikely he never asked himself the question, and gave no explanation.\nAt any rate nothing is known on the point.\n\nThis being the sum and substance of the teaching of Thales, we may\nnaturally ask why, on account of such a crude and undeveloped idea, he\nshould be given the title of the father of philosophy. Why should\nphilosophy be said to begin here in particular? Now, the significance\nof Thales is not that his water-philosophy has any value in itself,\nbut that this was the first recorded attempt to explain the universe\non naturalistic and scientific principles, without the aid of myths\nand anthropomorphic gods. Moreover, Thales propounded the problem, and\ndetermined the direction and character, of all pre-Socratic\nphilosophy. The fundamental thought of that period was, that under the\nmultiplicity of the world there must be a single ultimate principle.\nThe problem of all philosophers from Thales to Anaxagoras was, what is\nthe nature of that first principle from which all things have issued?\nTheir systems are all attempts to answer this question, and may be\nclassified according to their different replies. Thus Thales asserted\nthat the ultimate reality is water, Anaximander indefinite matter,\nAnaximenes air, the Pythagoreans number, the Eleatics Being,\nHeracleitus fire, Empedocles the four elements, Democritus atoms, and\nso on. The first period is thus {23} essentially cosmological in\ncharacter, and it was Thales who determined the character. His\nimportance is that he was the first to propound the question, not that\nhe gave any rational reply to it.\n\nWe saw in the first chapter, that man is naturally a materialist, and\nthat philosophy is the movement from sensuous to non-sensuous thought.\nAs we should expect, then, philosophy begins in materialism. The first\nanswer to the question, what the ultimate reality is, places the\nnature of that reality in a sensuous object, water. The other members\nof the Ionic school, Anaximander, and Anaximenes, are also\nmaterialists. And from their time onwards we can trace the gradual\nrise of thought, with occasional breaks and relapses, from this\nsensualism of the Ionics, through the semi-sensuous idealism of the\nEleatics, to the highest point of pure non-sensuous thought, the\nidealism of Plato and Aristotle. It is important to keep in mind,\nthen, that the history of philosophy is not a mere chaotic hotch-potch\nof opinions and theories, succeeding each other without connection or\norder. It is a logical and historical evolution, each step in which is\ndetermined by the last, and advances beyond the last towards a\ndefinite goal. The goal, of course, is visible to us, but was not\nvisible to the early thinkers themselves.\n\nSince man begins by looking outwards upon the external world and not\ninwards upon his own self, this fact too determines the character of\nthe first period of Greek philosophy. It concerns itself solely with\nnature, with the external world, and only with man as a part of\nnature. It demands an explanation of nature. And this is the same as\nsaying that it is cosmological. The {24} problems of man, of life, of\nhuman destiny, of ethics, are treated by it scantily, or not at all.\nIt is not till the time of the Sophists that the Greek spirit turns\ninwards upon itself and begins to consider these problems, and with\nthe emergence of that point of view we have passed from the first to\nthe second period of Greek philosophy.\n\nBecause the Ionic philosophers were all materialists they are also\nsometimes called Hylicists, from the Greek _hule_ which means matter.\n\n\n\nAnaximander\n\nThe next philosopher of the Ionic school is Anaximander. He was an\nexceedingly original and audacious thinker. He was probably born about\n611 B.C. and died about 547. He was an inhabitant of Miletus, and is\nsaid to have been a disciple of Thales. It will be seen, thus, that he\nwas a younger contemporary of Thales. He was born at the time that\nThales was flourishing, and was about a generation younger. He was the\nfirst Greek to write a philosophic treatise, which however has been\nunfortunately lost. He was eminent for his astronomical and\ngeographical knowledge, and in this connection was the first to\nconstruct a map. Details of his life are not known.\n\nNow Thales had made the ultimate principle of the universe, water.\nAnaximander agrees with Thales that the ultimate principle of things\nis material, but he does not name it water, does not in fact believe\nthat it is any particular kind of matter. It is rather a formless,\nindefinite, and absolutely featureless matter in general. {25} Matter,\nas we know it, is always some particular kind of matter. It must be\niron, brass, water, air, or other such. The difference between the\ndifferent kinds of matter is qualitative, that is to say, we know that\nair is air because it has the qualities of air and differs from iron\nbecause iron has the qualities of iron, and so on. The primeval matter\nof Anaximander is just matter not yet sundered into the different\nkinds of matter. It is therefore formless and characterless. And as it\nis thus indeterminate in quality, so it is illimitable in quantity.\nAnaximander believed that this matter stretches out to infinity\nthrough space. The reason he gave for this opinion was, that if there\nwere a limited amount of matter it would long ago have been used up in\nthe creation and destruction of the \"innumerable worlds.\" Hence he\ncalled it \"the boundless.\" In regard to these \"innumerable worlds,\"\nthe traditional opinion about Anaximander was that he believed these\nworlds to succeed each other in time, and that first a world was\ncreated, developed, and was destroyed, then another world arose, was\ndeveloped and destroyed, and that this periodic revolution of worlds\nwent on for ever. Professor Burnet, however, is of opinion that the\n\"innumerable worlds\" of Anaximander were not necessarily successive but\nrather simultaneously existing worlds. According to this view there\nmay be any number of worlds existing at the same time. But, even so,\nit is still true that these worlds were not everlasting, but began,\ndeveloped and decayed, giving place in due time to other worlds.\n\nHow, now, have these various worlds been formed out of the formless,\nindefinite, indeterminate matter of {26} Anaximander? On this question\nAnaximander is vague and has nothing very definite to put forward.\nIndeterminate matter by a vaguely conceived process separates itself\ninto \"the hot\" and \"the cold.\" The cold is moist or damp. This cold\nand moist matter becomes the earth, in the centre of the universe. The\nhot matter collects into a sphere of fire surrounding the earth. The\nearth in the centre was originally fluid. The heat of the surrounding\nsphere caused the waters of the earth progressively to evaporate\ngiving rise to the envelope of air which surrounds the earth. For the\nearly Greeks regarded the air and vapour as the same thing. As this\nair or vapour expanded under the action of heat it burst the outside\nhot sphere of fire into a series of enormous \"wheel-shaped husks,\"\nresembling cart wheels, which encircle the earth. You may naturally\nask how it is that if these are composed of fire we do not see them\ncontinually glowing. Anaximander's answer was that these wheel-shaped\nhusks are encrusted with thick, opaque vapour, which conceals the\ninner fire from our view. But there are apertures, or pipe-like holes\nin the vapour-crust, and through these the fire gleams, causing the\nappearance of the sun, stars, and moon. You will note that the moon\nwas, on this theory, considered to be fiery, and not, as we now know\nit to be, a cold surface reflecting the sun's light. There were three\nof these \"cart wheels\"; the first was that of the sun, furthest away\nfrom the earth, nearer to us was that of the moon, and closest of all\nwas that of the fixed stars. The \"wheel-shaped husks\" containing the\nheavenly bodies are revolved round the earth by means of currents of\nair. The earth in the centre was believed by {27} Anaximander to be\nnot spherical but cylindrical. Men live on the top end of this pillar\nor cylinder.\n\nAnaximander also developed a striking theory about the origin and\nevolution of living beings. In the beginning the earth was fluid and\nin the gradual drying up by evaporation of this fluid, living beings\nwere produced from the heat and moisture. In the first instance these\nbeings were of a low order. They gradually evolved into successively\nhigher and higher organisms by means of adaptation to their\nenvironment. Man was in the first instance a fish living in the water.\nThe gradual drying up left parts of the earth high and dry, and marine\nanimals migrated to the land, and their fins by adaptation became\nmembers fitted for movement on land. The resemblance of this primitive\ntheory to modern theories of evolution is remarkable. It is easy to\nexaggerate its importance, but it is at any rate clear that\nAnaximander had, by a happy guess, hit upon the central idea of\nadaptation of species to their environment.\n\nThe teaching of Anaximander exhibits a marked advance beyond the\nposition of Thales. Thales had taught that the first principle of\nthings is water. The formless matter of Anaximander is,\nphilosophically, an advance on this, showing the operation of thought\nand abstraction. Secondly, Anaximander had definitely attempted to\napply this idea, and to derive from it the existent world. Thales had\nleft the question how the primal water developed into a world,\nentirely unanswered.\n\n\n\nAnaximenes\n\nLike the two previous thinkers Anaximenes was an inhabitant of\nMiletus. He was born about 588 B.C. and {28} died about 524. He wrote\na treatise of which a small fragment still remains. He agreed with\nThales and Anaximander that the first principle of the universe is\nmaterial. With Thales too, he looked upon it as a particular kind of\nmatter, not indeterminate matter as taught by Anaximander. Thales had\ndeclared it to be water. Anaximenes named air as first principle. This\nair, like the matter of Anaximander, stretches illimitably through\nspace. Air is constantly in motion and has the power of motion\ninherent in it and this motion brought about the development of the\nuniverse from air. As operating process of this development Anaximenes\nnamed the two opposite processes of (1) Rarefaction, (2) Condensation.\nRarefaction is the same thing as heat or growing hot, and condensation\nis identified with growing cold. The air by rarefaction becomes fire,\nand fire borne aloft upon the air becomes the stars. By the opposite\nprocess of condensation, air first becomes clouds and, by further\ndegrees of condensation, becomes successively water, earth, and rocks.\nThe world resolves again in the course of time into the primal air.\nAnaximenes, like Anaximander, held the theory of \"innumerable worlds,\"\nand these worlds are, according to the traditional view, successive.\nBut here again Professor Burnet considers that the innumerable worlds\nmay have been co-existent as well as successive. Anaximenes considered\nthe earth to be a flat disc floating upon air.\n\nThe origin of the air theory of Anaximenes seems to have been\nsuggested to him by the fact that air in the form of breath is the\nprinciple of life.\n\nThe teaching of Anaximenes seems at first sight to be {29} a falling\noff from the position of Anaximander, because he goes back to the\nposition of Thales in favour of a determinate matter as first\nprinciple. But in one respect at least there is here an advance upon\nAnaximander. The latter had been vague as to how formless matter\ndifferentiates itself into the world of objects. Anaximenes names the\ndefinite processes of rarefaction and condensation. If you believe, as\nthese early physicists did, that every different kind of matter is\nultimately one kind of matter, the problem of the differentiation of\nthe qualities of the existent elements arises. For example, if this\npaper is really composed of air, how do we account for its colour, its\nhardness, texture, etc. Either these qualities must be originally in\nthe primal air, or not. If the qualities existed in it then it was not\nreally one homogeneous matter like air, but must have been simply a\nmixture of different kinds of matter. If not, how do these properties\narise? How can this air which has not in it the qualities of things we\nsee, develop them? The simplest way of getting out of the difficulty\nis to found quality upon quantity, and to explain the former by the\namount or quantity, more or less, of matter existent in the same\nvolume. This is precisely what is meant by rarefaction and\ncondensation. Condensation would result in compressing more matter\ninto the same volume. Rarefaction would give rise to the opposite\nprocess. Great compression of air, a great amount of it in a small\nspace, might account for the qualities, say, of earth and stones, for\nexample, their heaviness, hardness, colour, etc.\n\nHence Anaximenes was to some extent a more logical and definite\nthinker than Anaximander, but cannot {30} compare with him in audacity\nand originality of thought.\n\n\n\nOther Ionic Thinkers\n\nWe have now considered the three chief thinkers of the Ionic School.\nOthers there were, but they added nothing new to the teaching of these\nthree. They followed either Thales or Anaximenes in stating the first\nprinciple of the world either as water or as air. Hippo, for example,\nfollowed Thales, and for him the world is composed of water, Idaeus\nagreed with Anaximenes that it is derived from air. Diogenes of\nApollonia is chiefly remarkable for the fact that he lived at a very\nmuch later date. He was a contemporary of Anaxagoras, and opposed to\nthe more developed teachings of that philosopher the crude materialism\nof the Ionic School. Air was by him considered to be the ground of all\nthings.\n\n{31}\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE PYTHAGOREANS\n\nNot much is known of the life of Pythagoras. Three so-called\nbiographies have come down to us from antiquity, but they were written\nhundreds of years after the event, and are filled with a tissue of\nextravagant fancies, and with stories of miracles and wonders worked\nby Pythagoras. All sorts of fantastic legends seem to have gathered\nvery early around his life, obscuring from us the actual historical\ndetails. A few definite facts, however, are known. He was born\nsomewhere between 580 and 570 B.C. at Samos, and about middle age he\nmigrated to Crotona in South Italy. According to legend, before he\narrived in South Italy he had travelled extensively in Egypt and other\ncountries of the East. There is, however, no historical evidence of\nthis. There is nothing in itself improbable in the belief that\nPythagoras made these travels, but it cannot be accepted as proved for\nlack of evidence. The legend is really founded simply upon the\noriental flavour of his doctrines. In middle age he arrived in South\nItaly and settled at Crotona. There he founded the Pythagorean Society\nand lived for many years at the head of it. His later life, the date\nand manner of his death, are not certainly known.\n\nNow it is important to note that the Pythagorean {32} Society was not\nprimarily a school of philosophy at all. It was really a religious and\nmoral Order, a Society of religious reformers. The Pythagoreans were\nclosely associated with the Orphic Sect, and took from it the belief\nin the transmigration of souls, including transmigration of human\nsouls into animals. They also taught the doctrine of the \"wheel of\nthings,\" and the necessity of obtaining \"release\" from it, by which\none could escape from the weary round of reincarnate lives. Thus they\nshared with the Orphic religious Sect the principle of reincarnation.\nThe Orphic Sect believed that \"release\" from the wheel of life was to\nbe obtained by religious ceremonial and ritual. The Pythagoreans had a\nsimilar ritual, but they added to this the belief that intellectual\npursuits, the cultivation of science and philosophy, and, in general,\nthe intellectual contemplation of the ultimate things of the universe\nwould be of great help towards the \"release\" of the soul. From this\narose the tendency to develop science and philosophy. Gradually their\nphilosophy attained a semi-independence from their religious rites\nwhich justifies us in regarding it definitely as philosophy.\n\nThe Pythagorean ethical views were rigorous and ascetic in character.\nThey insisted upon the utmost purity of life in the members of the\nOrder. Abstinence from flesh was insisted upon, although this was\napparently a late development. We know that Pythagoras himself was not\na total abstainer from flesh. They forbade the eating of beans. They\nwore a garb peculiar to themselves. The body, they taught, is the\nprison or tomb of the soul. They thought that one must not attempt to\nobtain \"release\" by suicide, because \"man is the {33} property of\nGod,\" the chattel of God. They were not politicians in the modern\nsense, but their procedure in practice amounted to the greatest\npossible interference in politics. It appears that the Pythagoreans\nattempted to impose their ordinances upon the ordinary citizens of\nCrotona. They aimed at the supersession of the State by their own\nOrder and they did actually capture the government of Crotona for a\nshort period. This led to attacks on the Order, and the persecution of\nits members. When the plain citizen of Crotona was told not to eat\nbeans, and that under no circumstances could he eat his own dog, this\nwas too much. A general persecution occurred. The meeting place of the\nPythagoreans was burnt to the ground, the Society was scattered, and\nits members killed or driven away. This occurred between the years 440\nand 430 B.C. Some years later the Society revived and continued its\nactivities, but we do not hear much of it after the fourth century\nB.C.\n\nIt was largely a mystical society. The Pythagoreans developed their\nown ritual, ceremonial and mysteries. This love of mystery, and their\ngeneral character as miracle-mongers, largely account for the legends\nwhich grew up around the life of Pythagoras himself. Their scientific\nactivities were also considerable. They enforced moral self-control.\nThey cultivated the arts and crafts, gymnastics, music, medicine, and\nmathematics. The development of mathematics in early Greece was\nlargely the work of the Pythagoreans. Pythagoras is said to have\ndiscovered the 47th Proposition of Euclid, and to have sacrificed an\nox in honour thereof. And there is good reason to believe that\npractically the whole of the substance of the First Book of Euclid is\nthe work of Pythagoras.\n\n{34}\n\nTurning now to their philosophical teaching, the first thing that we\nhave to understand is that we cannot speak of the philosophy of\nPythagoras, but only of the philosophy of the Pythagoreans. For it is\nnot known what share Pythagoras had in this philosophy or what share\nwas contributed by his successors. Now we recognize objects in the\nuniverse by means of their qualities. But the majority of these\nqualities are not universal in their scope; some things possess some\nqualities; others possess others. A leaf, for example, is green, but\nnot all things are green. Some things have no colour at all. The same\nis true of tastes and smells. Some things are sweet; some bitter. But\nthere is one quality in things which is absolutely universal in its\nscope, which applies to everything in the universe--corporeal or\nincorporeal. All things are _numerable_, and can be counted. Moreover,\nit is impossible to conceive a universe in which number is not to be\nfound. You could easily imagine a universe in which there is no\ncolour, or no sweet taste, or a universe in which nothing possesses\nweight. But you cannot imagine a universe in which there is no number.\nThis is an inconceivable thought. Upon these grounds we should be\njustified in concluding that number is an extremely important aspect\nof things, and forms a fundamental pad of the framework of the world.\nAnd it is upon this aspect of things that the Pythagoreans laid\nemphasis.\n\nThey drew attention to proportion, order, and harmony as the dominant\nnotes of the universe. Now when we examine the ideas of proportion,\norder, and harmony, we shall see that they are closely connected with\nnumber. Proportion, for example, must necessarily {35} be expressible\nby the relation of one number to another. Similarly order is\nmeasurable by numbers. When we say that the ranks of a regiment\nexhibit order, we mean that they are arranged in such a way that the\nsoldiers stand at certain regular distances from each other, and these\ndistances are measurable by numbers of feet or inches. Lastly,\nconsider the idea of harmony. If, in modern times, we were to say that\nthe universe is a harmonious whole, we should understand that we are\nmerely using a metaphor from music. But the Pythagoreans lived in an\nage when men were not practised in thought, and they confused cosmical\nharmony with musical harmony. They thought that the two things were\nthe same. Now musical harmony is founded upon numbers, and the\nPythagoreans were the first to discover this. The difference of notes\nis due to the different numbers of vibrations of the sounding\ninstrument. The musical intervals are likewise based upon numerical\nproportions. So that since, for the Pythagoreans, the universe is a\nmusical harmony, it follows that the essential character of the\nuniverse is number. The study of mathematics confirmed the\nPythagoreans in this idea. Arithmetic is the science of numbers, and\nall other mathematical sciences are ultimately reducible to numbers.\nFor instance, in geometry, angles are measured by the number of\ndegrees.\n\nNow, as already pointed out, considering all these facts, we might\nwell be justified in concluding that number is a very important aspect\nof the universe, and is fundamental in it. But the Pythagoreans went\nmuch further than this. They drew what seems to us the extraordinary\nconclusion that the world is _made of_ {36} numbers. At this point,\nthen, we reach the heart of the Pythagorean philosophy. Just as Thales\nhad said that the ultimate reality, the first principle of which\nthings are composed, is water, so now the Pythagoreans teach that the\nfirst principle of things is number. Number is the world-ground, the\nstuff out of which the universe is made.\n\nIn the detailed application of this principle to the world of things\nwe have a conglomeration of extraordinary fancies and extravagances.\nIn the first place, all numbers arise out of the unit. This is the\nprime number, every other number being simply so many units. The unit\nthen is the first in the order of things in the universe. Again,\nnumbers are divided into odd and even. The universe, said the\nPythagoreans, is composed of pairs of opposites and contradictories,\nand the fundamental character of these opposites is that they are\ncomposed of the odd and even. The odd and even, moreover, they\nidentified with the limited and the unlimited respectively. How this\nidentification was made seems somewhat doubtful. But it is clearly\nconnected with the theory of bipartition. An even number can be\ndivided by two and therefore it does not set a limit to bipartition.\nHence it is unlimited. An odd number cannot be divided by two, and\ntherefore it sets a limit to bipartition. The limited and the\nunlimited become therefore the ultimate principles of the universe.\nThe Limit is identified with the unit, and this again with the central\nfire of the universe. The Limit is first formed and proceeds to draw\nmore and more of the unlimited towards itself, and to limit it.\nBecoming limited, it becomes a definite \"something,\" a thing. So the\nformation of the {37} world of things proceeds. The Pythagoreans drew\nup a list of ten opposites of which the universe is composed. They are\n(1) Limited and unlimited, (2) odd and even, (3) one and many, (4)\nright and left, (5) masculine and feminine, (6) rest and motion, (7)\nstraight and crooked, (8) light and darkness, (9) good and evil, (10)\nsquare and oblong.\n\nWith the further development of the number-theory Pythagoreanism\nbecomes entirely arbitrary and without principle. We hear, for\nexample, that 1 is the point, 2 is the line, 3 is the plane, 4 is the\nsolid, 5 physical qualities, 6 animation, 7 intelligence, health,\nlove, wisdom. There is no principle in all this. Identification of the\ndifferent numbers with different things can only be left to the whim\nand fancy of the individual. The Pythagoreans disagreed among\nthemselves as to what number is to be assigned to what thing. For\nexample, justice, they said, is that which returns equal for equal. If\nI do a man an injury, justice ordains that injury should be done to\nme, thus giving equal for equal. Justice must, therefore, be a number\nwhich returns equal for equal. Now the only numbers which do this are\nsquare numbers. Four equals two into two, and so returns equal for\nequal. Four, then, must be justice. But nine is equally the square of\nthree. Hence other Pythagoreans identified justice with nine.\n\nAccording to Philolaus, one of the most prominent Pythagoreans, the\nquality of matter depends upon the number of sides of its smallest\nparticles. Of the five regular solids, three were known to the\nPythagoreans. That matter whose smallest particles are regular\ntetrahedra, said Philolaus, is fire. Similarly earth is composed {38}\nof cubes, and the universe is identified with the dodecahedron. This\nidea was developed further by Plato in the \"Timaeus,\" where we find\nall the five regular solids brought into the theory.\n\nThe central fire, already mentioned as identified with the unit, is a\ncharacteristic doctrine of the Pythagoreans. Up to this time it had\nbeen believed that the earth is the centre of the universe, and that\neverything revolves round it. But with the Pythagoreans the earth\nrevolves round the central fire. One feels inclined at once to\nidentify this with the sun. But this is not correct. The sun, like the\nearth, revolves round the central fire. We do not see the central fire\nbecause that side of the earth on which we live is perpetually turned\naway from it. This involves the theory that the earth revolves round\nthe central fire in the same period that it takes to rotate upon its\naxis. The Pythagoreans were the first to see that the earth is itself\none of the planets, and to shake themselves free from the geocentric\nhypothesis. Round the central fire, sometimes mystically called \"the\nHearth of the Universe,\" revolve ten bodies. First is the\n\"counter-earth,\" a non-existent body invented by the Pythagoreans,\nnext comes the earth, then the sun, the moon, the five planets, and\nlastly the heaven of the fixed stars. This curious system might have\nborne fruit in astronomy. That it did not do so was largely due to the\ninfluence of Aristotle, who discountenanced the theory, and insisted\nthat the earth is the centre of the universe. But in the end the\nPythagorean view won the day. We know that Copernicus derived the\nsuggestion of his heliocentric hypothesis from the Pythagoreans.\n\n{39}\n\nThe Pythagoreans also taught \"The Great Year,\" probably a period of\n10,000 years, in which the world comes into being and passes away,\ngoing in each such period through the same evolution down to the\nsmallest details.\n\nThere is little to be said by way of criticism of the Pythagorean\nsystem. It is entirely crude philosophy. The application of the number\ntheory issues in a barren and futile arithmetical mysticism. Hegel's\nwords in this connection are instructive:--\n\n\"We may certainly,\" he says, \"feel ourselves prompted to associate the\nmost general characteristics of thought with the first numbers: saying\none is the simple and immediate, two is difference and mediation, and\nthree the unity of both these. Such associations however are purely\nexternal; there is nothing in the mere numbers to make them express\nthese definite thoughts. With every step in this method, the more\narbitrary grows the association of definite numbers with definite\nthoughts ... To attach, as do some secret societies of modern times,\nimportance to all sorts of numbers and figures is, to some extent an\ninnocent amusement, but it is also a sign of deficiency of\nintellectual resource. These numbers, it is said, conceal a profound\nmeaning, and suggest a deal to think about. But the point in\nphilosophy is not what you may think but what you do think; and the\ngenuine air of thought is to be sought in thought itself and not in\narbitrarily selected symbols.\" [Footnote 3]\n\n[Footnote 3: Hegel's _Smaller Logic_, translated by Wallace, second\nedition, page 198.]\n\n\n\n{40}\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE ELEATICS\n\nThe Eleatics are so called because the seat of their school was at\nElea, a town in South Italy, and Parmenides and Zeno, the two chief\nrepresentatives of the school, were both citizens of Elea. So far we\nhave been dealing with crude systems of thought in which only the\ngerms of philosophic thinking can be dimly discerned. Now, however,\nwith the Eleatics we step out definitely for the first time upon the\nplatform of philosophy. Eleaticism is the first true philosophy. In it\nthere emerges the first factor of the truth, however poor, meagre, and\ninadequate. For philosophy is not, as many persons suppose, simply a\ncollection of freak speculations, which we may study in historical\norder, but at the end of which, God alone knows which we ought to\nbelieve. On the contrary, the history of philosophy presents a\ndefinite line of evolution. The truth unfolds itself gradually in\ntime.\n\n\n\nXenophanes\n\nThe reputed founder of the Eleatic School was Xenophanes. It is,\nhowever, doubtful whether Xenophanes ever went to Elea. Moreover, he\nbelongs more properly {41} to the history of religion than to the\nhistory of philosophy. The real creator of the Eleatic School was\nParmenides. But Parmenides seized upon certain germs of thought latent\nin Xenophanes and transmuted them into philosophic principles. We\nhave, therefore, in the first instance, to say something of\nXenophanes. He was born about the year 576 B.C., at Colophon in Ionia.\nHis long life was spent in wandering up and down the cities of Hellas,\nas a poet and minstrel, singing songs at banquets and festivals.\nWhether, as sometimes stated; he finally settled at Elea is a matter\nof doubt, but we know definitely that at the advanced age of\nninety-two he was still wandering about Greece. His philosophy, such\nas it is, is expressed in poems. He did not, however, write\nphilosophical poems, but rather elegies and satires upon various\nsubjects, only incidentally expressing his religious views therein.\nFragments of these poems have come down to us.\n\nXenophanes is the originator of the quarrel between philosophy and\nreligion. He attacked the popular religious notions of the Greeks with\na view to founding a purer and nobler conception of Deity. Popular\nGreek religion consisted of a belief in a number of gods who were\nconceived very much as in the form of human beings. Xenophanes attacks\nthis conception of God as possessing human form. It is absurd, he\nsays, to suppose that the gods wander about from place to place, as\nrepresented in the Greek legends. It is absurd to suppose that the\ngods had a beginning. It is disgraceful to impute to them stories of\nfraud, adultery, theft and deceit. And Xenophanes inveighs against\nHomer and Hesiod for disseminating these degrading conceptions {42} of\nthe Deity. He argues, too, against the polytheistic notion of a\nplurality of gods. That which is divine can only be one. There can\nonly be one best. Therefore, God is to be conceived as one. And this\nGod is comparable to mortals neither in bodily form nor understanding.\nHe is \"all eye, all ear, all thought.\" It is he \"who, without trouble,\nby his thought governs all things.\" But it would be a mistake to\nsuppose that Xenophanes thought of this God as a being external to the\nworld, governing it from the outside, as a general governs his\nsoldiers. On the contrary, Xenophanes identified God with the world.\nThe world is God, a sentient being, though without organs of sense.\nLooking out into the wide heavens, he said, \"The One is God.\"\n[Footnote 4] The thought of Xenophanes is therefore more properly\ndescribed as pantheism than as monotheism. God is unchangeable,\nimmutable, undivided, unmoved, passionless, undisturbed. Xenophanes\nappears, thus, rather as a religious reformer than as a philosopher.\nNevertheless, inasmuch as he was the first to enunciate the\nproposition \"All is one,\" he takes his place in philosophy. It was\nupon this thought that Parmenides built the foundations of the Eleatic\nphilosophy.\n\n[Footnote 4: Aristotle, _Metaphysics_, Book I. chapter v.]\n\nCertain other opinions of Xenophanes have been preserved. He observed\nfossils, and found shells inland, and the forms of fish and sea-weed\nembedded in the rocks in the quarries of Syracuse and elsewhere. From\nthese he concluded that the earth had risen out of the sea and would\nagain partially sink into it. Then the human race would be destroyed.\nBut the earth would again rise from the sea and the human race would\nagain [43] be renewed. He believed that the sun and stars were burning\nmasses of vapour. The sun, he thought, does not revolve round the\nearth. It goes on in a straight line, and disappears in the remote\ndistance in the evening. It is not the same sun which rises the next\nmorning. Every day a new sun is formed out of the vapours of the sea.\nThis idea is connected with his general attitude towards the popular\nreligion. His motive was to show that the sun and stars are not divine\nbeings, but like other beings, ephemeral. Xenophanes also ridiculed\nthe Pythagoreans, especially their doctrine of re-incarnation.\n\n\n\nParmenides\n\nParmenides was born about 514 B.C. at Elea. Not much is known of his\nlife. He was in his early youth a Pythagorean, but recanted that\nphilosophy and formulated a philosophy of his own. He was greatly\nrevered in antiquity both for the depth of his intellect, and the\nsublimity and nobility of his character. Plato refers to him always\nwith reverence. His philosophy is comprised in a philosophic didactic\npoem which is divided into two parts. The first part expounds his own\nphilosophy and is called \"the way of truth.\" The second part describes\nthe false opinions current in his day and is called \"the way of\nopinion.\"\n\nThe reflection of Parmenides takes its rise from observation of the\ntransitoriness and changeableness of things. The world, as we know it,\nis a world of change and mutation. All things arise and pass away.\nNothing is permanent, nothing stands. One moment it is, another moment\nit is not. It is as true to say of {44} anything, that it is not, as\nthat it is. The truth of things cannot lie here, for no knowledge of\nthat which is constantly changing is possible. Hence the thought of\nParmenides becomes the effort to find the eternal amid the shifting,\nthe abiding and everlasting amid the change and mutation of things.\nAnd there arises in this way the antithesis between Being and\nnot-being. The absolutely real is Being. Not-being is the unreal.\nNot-being is not at all. And this not-being he identifies with\nbecoming, with the world of shifting and changing things, the world\nwhich is known to us by the senses. The world of sense is unreal,\nillusory, a mere appearance. It is not-being. Only Being truly is. As\nThales designated water the one reality, as the Pythagoreans named\nnumber, so now for Parmenides the sole reality, the first principle of\nthings, is Being, wholly unmixed with not-being, wholly excludent of\nall becoming. The character of Being he describes, for the most part,\nin a series of negatives. There is in it no change, it is absolutely\nunbecome and imperishable. It has neither beginning nor end, neither\narising nor passing away. If Being began, it must have arisen either\nfrom Being or from not-being. But for Being to arise out of Being,\nthat is not a beginning, and for Being to arise out of not-being is\nimpossible, since there is then no reason why it should arise later\nrather than sooner. Being cannot come out of not-being, nor something\nout of nothing. _Ex nihilo nihil fit_. This is the fundamental thought\nof Parmenides. Moreover, we cannot say of Being that it was, that it\nis, that it will be. There is for it no past, no present, and no\nfuture. It is rather eternally and timelessly present. It is undivided\nand indivisible. For anything to be divided {45} it must be divided by\nsomething other than itself. But there is nothing other than Being;\nthere is no not-being. Therefore there is nothing by which Being can\nbe divided. Hence it is indivisible. It is unmoved and undisturbed,\nfor motion and disturbance are forms of becoming, and all becoming is\nexcluded from Being. It is absolutely self-identical. It does not\narise from anything other than itself. It does not pass into anything\nother than itself. It has its whole being in itself. It does not\ndepend upon anything else for its being and reality. It does not pass\nover into otherness; it remains, steadfast, and abiding in itself. Of\npositive character Being has nothing. Its sole character is simply its\nbeing. It cannot be said that it is this or that; it cannot be said\nthat it has this or that quality, that it is here or there, then or\nnow. It simply _is_. Its only quality is, so to speak, \"isness.\"\n\nBut in Parmenides there emerges for the first time a distinction of\nfundamental importance in philosophy, the distinction between Sense\nand Reason. The world of falsity and appearance, of becoming, of\nnot-being, this is, says Parmenides, the world which is presented to\nus by the senses. True and veritable Being is known to us only by\nreason, by thought. The senses therefore, are, for Parmenides, the\nsources of all illusion and error. Truth lies only in reason. This is\nexceedingly important, because this, _that truth lies in reason and not\nin the world of sense_, is the fundamental position of idealism.\n\nThe doctrine of Being, just described, occupies the first part of the\npoem of Parmenides. The second part is the way of false opinion. But\nwhether Parmenides is here simply giving an account of the false\nphilosophies {46} of his day, (and in doing this there does not seem\nmuch point,) or whether he was, with total inconsistency, attempting,\nin a cosmological theory of his own, to explain the origin of that\nworld of appearance and illusion, whose very being he has, in the\nfirst part of the poem, denied--this does not seem to be clear. The\ntheory here propounded, at any rate, is that the sense-world is\ncomposed of the two opposites, the hot and the cold, or light and\ndarkness. The more hot there is, the more life, the more reality; the\nmore cold, the more unreality and death.\n\nWhat position, now, are we to assign to Parmenides in philosophy? How\nare we to characterize his system? Such writers as Hegel, Erdmann, and\nSchwegler, have always interpreted his philosophy in an idealistic\nsense. Professor Burnet, however, takes the opposite view. To quote\nhis own words: \"Parmenides is not, as some have said, the father of\nidealism. On the contrary, all materialism depends upon his view.\"\n[Footnote 5] Now if we cannot say whether Parmenides was a materialist\nor an idealist, we cannot be said to understand much about his\nphilosophy. The question is therefore of cardinal importance. Let us\nsee, in the first place, upon what grounds the materialistic\ninterpretation of Parmenides is based. It is based upon a fact which I\nhave so far not mentioned, leaving it for explanation at this moment.\nParmenides said that Being, which is for him the ultimate reality,\noccupies space, is finite, and is spherical or globe-shaped. Now that\nwhich occupies space, and has shape, is matter. The ultimate reality\nof things, therefore, is conceived by Parmenides as material, and\nthis, of course, is the {47} cardinal thesis of materialism. This\ninterpretation of Parmenides is further emphasized in the disagreement\nbetween himself and Melissus, as to whether Being is finite or\ninfinite. Melissus was a younger adherent of the Eleatic School, whose\nchief interest lies in his views on this question. His philosophical\nposition in general is the same as that of Parmenides. But on this\npoint they differed. Parmenides asserted that Being is globe-shaped,\nand therefore finite. Now it was an essential part of the doctrine of\nParmenides that empty space is non-existent. Empty space is an\nexistent non-existence. This is self-contradictory, and for\nParmenides, therefore, empty space is simply not-being. There are, for\nexample, no interstices, or empty spaces between the particles of\nmatter. Being is \"the full,\" that is, full space with no mixture of\nempty space in it. Now Melissus agreed with Parmenides that there is\nno such thing as empty space; and he pointed out, that if Being is\nglobe-shaped, it must be bounded on the outside by empty space. And as\nthis is impossible, it cannot be true that Being is globe-shaped, or\nfinite, but must, on the contrary, extend illimitably through space.\nThis makes it quite clear that Parmenides, Melissus, and the Eleatics\ngenerally, did regard Being as, in some sense, material.\n\n[Footnote 5: _Early Greek Philosophy_, chap. iv. Sec. 89.]\n\nNow, however, let us turn to the other side of the picture. What\nground is there for regarding Parmenides as an idealist? In the first\nplace, we may say that his ultimate principle, Being, whatever he may\nhave thought of it, is not in fact material, but is essentially an\nabstract thought, a concept. Being is not here, it is not there. It is\nnot in any place or time. It is not to be found by the senses. It is\nto be found only in reason. {48} We form the idea of Being by the\nprocess of abstraction. For example, we see this desk. Our entire\nknowledge of the desk consists in our knowledge of its qualities. It\nis square, brown, hard, odourless, etc. Now suppose we successively\nstrip off these qualities in thought--its colour, its size, its shape.\nWe shall ultimately be left with nothing at all except its mere being.\nWe can no longer say of it that it is hard, square, etc. We can only\nsay \"it is.\" As Parmenides said, Being is not divisible, movable; it\nis not here nor there, then nor now. It simply \"is.\" This is the\nEleatic notion of Being, and it is a pure concept. It may be compared\nto such an idea as \"whiteness.\" We cannot see \"whiteness.\" We see\nwhite things, but not \"whiteness\" itself. What, then, is \"whiteness\"?\nIt is a concept, that is to say, not a particular thing, but a general\nidea, which we form by abstraction, by considering the quality which\nall white things have in common, and neglecting the qualities in which\nthey differ. Just so, if we consider the common character of all\nobjects in the universe, and neglect their differences, we shall find\nthat what they all have in common is simply \"being.\" Being then is a\ngeneral idea, or concept. It is a thought, and not a thing.\nParmenides, therefore, actually placed the absolute reality of things\nin an idea, in a thought, though he may have conceived it in a\nmaterial and sensuous way. Now the cardinal thesis of idealism is\nprecisely this, that the absolute reality, of which the world is a\nmanifestation, consists in thought, in concepts. Parmenides, on this\nview, was an idealist.\n\nMoreover, Parmenides has clearly made the distinction between sense\nand reason. True Being is not known to {49} the senses, but only to\nreason, and this distinction is an essential feature of all idealism.\nMaterialism is precisely the view that reality is to be found in the\nworld of sense. But the proposition of Parmenides is the exact\nopposite of this, namely, that reality is to be found only in reason.\nAgain, there begins to appear for the first time in Parmenides the\ndistinction between reality and appearance. Parmenides, of course,\nwould not have used these terms, which have been adopted in modern\ntimes. But the thought which they express is unmistakably there. This\noutward world, the world of sense, he proclaims to be illusion and\nappearance. Reality is something which lies behind, and is invisible\nto the senses. Now the very essence of materialism is that this\nmaterial world, this world of sense, is the real world. Idealism is\nthe doctrine that the sense-world is an appearance. How then can\nParmenides be called a materialist?\n\nHow are we to reconcile these two conflicting views of Parmenides? I\nthink the truth is that these two contradictories lie side by side in\nParmenides unreconciled, and still mutually contradicting each other.\nParmenides himself did not see the contradiction. If we emphasize the\none side, then Parmenides was a materialist. If we emphasize the other\nside, then he is to be interpreted as an idealist. In point of fact,\nin the history of Greek philosophy, both these sides of Parmenides\nwere successively emphasized. He became the father both of materialism\nand of idealism. His immediate successors, Empedocles and Democritus,\nseized upon the materialistic aspect of his thought, and developed it.\nThe essential thought of Parmenides was that Being cannot arise from\nnot-being, and that Being neither {50} arises nor passes away. If we\napply this idea to matter we get what in modern times is called the\ndoctrine of the \"indestructibility of matter.\" Matter has no beginning\nand no end. The apparent arising and passing away of things is simply\nthe aggregation and separation of particles of matter which, in\nthemselves, are indestructible. This is precisely the position of\nDemocritus. And his doctrine, therefore, is a materialistic rendering\nof the main thought of Parmenides that Being cannot arise from\nnot-being or pass into not-being.\n\nIt was not till the time of Plato that the idealistic aspect of the\nParmenidean doctrine was developed. It was the genius of Plato which\nseized upon the germs of idealism in Parmenides and developed them.\nPlato was deeply influenced by Parmenides. His main doctrine was that\nthe reality of the world is to be found in thought, in concepts, in\nwhat is called \"the Idea.\" And he identified the Idea with the Being\nof Parmenides.\n\nBut still, it may be asked, which is the true view of Parmenides?\nWhich is the historical Parmenides? Was not Plato in interpreting him\nidealistically reading his own thought into Parmenides? Are not we, if\nwe interpret him as an idealist, reading into him later ideas? In one\nsense this is perfectly true. It is clear from what Parmenides himself\nsaid that he regarded the ultimate reality of things as material. It\nwould be a complete mistake to attribute to him a fully developed and\nconsistent system of idealism. If you had told Parmenides that he was\nan idealist, he would not have understood you. The distinction between\nmaterialism and idealism was not then developed. If you had told him,\nmoreover, that Being is a concept, he would not have understood {51}\nyou, because the theory of concepts was not developed until the time\nof Socrates and Plato. Now it is the function of historical criticism\nto insist upon this, to see that later thought is not attributed to\nParmenides. But if this is the function of historical scholarship, it\nis equally the function of philosophic insight to seize upon the germs\nof a higher thought amid the confused thinking of Parmenides, to see\nwhat he was groping for, to see clearly what he saw only vaguely and\ndimly, to make explicit what in him was merely implicit, to exhibit\nthe true inwardness of his teaching, to separate what is valuable and\nessential in it from what is worthless and accidental. And I say that\nin this sense the true and essential meaning of Parmenides is his\nidealism. I said in the first chapter that philosophy is the movement\nfrom sensuous to non-sensuous thought. I said that it is only with the\nutmost difficulty that this movement occurs. And I said that even the\ngreatest philosophers have sometimes failed herein. In Parmenides we\nhave the first example of this. He began by propounding the truth that\nBeing is the essential reality, and Being, as we saw, is a concept.\nBut Parmenides was a pioneer. He trod upon unbroken ground. He had not\nbehind him, as we have, a long line of idealistic thinkers to guide\nhim. So he could not maintain this first non-sensuous thought. He\ncould not resist the temptation to frame for himself a mental image, a\npicture, of Being. Now all mental images and pictures are framed out\nof materials supplied to us by the senses. Hence it comes about that\nParmenides pictured Being as a globe-shaped something occupying space.\nBut this is not the truth of Parmenides. This is simply his failure to\nrealise {52} and understand his own principle, and to think his own\nthought. It is true that his immediate successors, Empedocles and\nDemocritus, seized upon this, and built their philosophies upon it.\nBut in doing so they were building upon the darkness of Parmenides,\nupon his dimness of vision, upon his inability to grapple with his own\nidea. It was Plato who built upon the light of Parmenides.\n\n\n\nZeno\n\nThe third and last important thinker of the Eleatic School is Zeno\nwho, like Parmenides, was a man of Elea. His birth is placed about 489\nB.C. He composed a prose treatise in which he developed his\nphilosophy. Zeno's contribution to Eleaticism is, in a sense, entirely\nnegative. He did not add anything positive to the teachings of\nParmenides. He supports Parmenides in the doctrine of Being. But it is\nnot the conclusions of Zeno that are novel, it is rather the reasons\nwhich he gave for them. In attempting to support the Parmenidean\ndoctrine from a new point of view he developed certain ideas about the\nultimate character of space and time which have since been of the\nutmost importance in philosophy. Parmenides had taught that the world\nof sense is illusory and false. The essentials of that world are two--\nmultiplicity and change. True Being is absolutely one; there is in it\nno plurality or multiplicity. Being, moreover, is absolutely static\nand unchangeable. There is in it no motion. Multiplicity and motion\nare the two characteristics of the false world of sense. Against\nmultiplicity and motion, therefore, Zeno directed his {53} arguments,\nand attempted indirectly to support the conclusions of Parmenides by\nshowing that multiplicity and motion are impossible. He attempted to\nforce multiplicity and motion to refute themselves by showing that, if\nwe assume them as real, contradictory propositions follow from that\nassumption. Two propositions which contradict each other cannot both\nbe true. Therefore the assumptions from which both follow, namely,\nmultiplicity and motion, cannot be real things.\n\n\n\n_Zeno's arguments against multiplicity_.\n\n(1) If the many is, it must be both infinitely small and infinitely\nlarge. The many must be infinitely small. For it is composed of units.\nThis is what we mean by saying that it is many. It is many parts or\nunits. These units must be indivisible. For if they are further\ndivisible, then they are not units. Since they are indivisible they\ncan have no magnitude, for that which has magnitude is divisible. The\nmany, therefore, is composed of units which have no magnitude. But if\nnone of the parts of the many have magnitude, the many as a whole has\nnone. Therefore, the many is infinitely small. But the many must also\nbe infinitely large. For the many has magnitude, and as such, is\ndivisible into parts. These parts still have magnitude, and are\ntherefore further divisible. However far we proceed with the division\nthe parts still have magnitude and are still divisible. Hence the many\nis divisible _ad infinitum_. It must therefore be composed of an\ninfinite number of parts, each having magnitude. But the smallest\nmagnitude, multiplied by infinity, becomes an infinite magnitude.\nTherefore the many is infinitely large. (2) The {54} many must be, in\nnumber, both limited and unlimited. It must be limited because it is\njust as many as it is, no more, no less. It is, therefore, a definite\nnumber. But a definite number is a finite or limited number. But the\nmany must be also unlimited in number. For it is infinitely divisible,\nor composed of an infinite number of parts.\n\n\n\n_Zeno's arguments against motion_.\n\n(1) In order to travel a distance, a body must first travel half the\ndistance. There remains half left for it still to travel. It must then\ntravel half the remaining distance. There is still a remainder. This\nprogress proceeds infinitely, but there is always a remainder\nuntravelled. Therefore, it is impossible for a body to travel from one\npoint to another. It can never arrive. (2) Achilles and the tortoise\nrun a race. If the tortoise is given a start, Achilles can never catch\nit up. For, in the first place, he must run to the point from which\nthe tortoise started. When he gets there, the tortoise will have gone\nto a point further on. Achilles must then run to that point, and finds\nthen that the tortoise has reached a third point. This will go on for\never, the distance between them continually diminishing, but never\nbeing wholly wiped out. Achilles will never catch up the tortoise. (3)\nThis is the story of the flying arrow. An object cannot be in two\nplaces at the same time. Therefore, at any particular moment in its\nflight the arrow is in one place and not in two. But to be in one\nplace is to be at rest. Therefore in each and every moment of its\nflight it is at rest. It is thus at rest throughout. Motion is\nimpossible.\n\n{55}\n\nThis type of argument is, in modern times, called \"antinomy.\" An\nantinomy is a proof that, since two contradictory propositions equally\nfollow from a given assumption, that assumption must be false. Zeno is\nalso called by Aristotle the inventor of dialectic. Dialectic\noriginally meant simply discussion, but it has come to be a technical\nterm in philosophy, and is used for that type of reasoning which seeks\nto develop the truth by making the false refute and contradict itself.\nThe conception of dialectic is especially important in Zeno, Plato,\nKant, and Hegel.\n\nAll the arguments which Zeno uses against multiplicity and motion are\nin reality merely variations of one argument. That argument is as\nfollows. It applies equally to space, to time, or to anything which\ncan be quantitatively measured. For simplicity we will consider it\nonly in its spatial significance. Any quantity of space, say the space\nenclosed within a circle, must either be composed of ultimate\nindivisible units, or it must be divisible _ad infinitum_. If it is\ncomposed of indivisible units, these must have magnitude, and we are\nfaced with the contradiction of a magnitude which cannot be divided.\nIf it is divisible _ad infinitum_, we are faced with the contradiction\nof supposing that an infinite number of parts can be added up and make\na finite sum-total. It is thus a great mistake to suppose that Zeno's\nstories of Achilles and the tortoise, and of the flying arrow, are\nmerely childish puzzles. On the contrary, Zeno was the first, by means\nof these stories, to bring to light the essential contradictions which\nlie in our ideas of space and time, and thus to set an important\nproblem for all subsequent philosophy.\n\n{56}\n\nAll Zeno's arguments are based upon the one argument described above,\nwhich may be called the antinomy of infinite divisibility. For\nexample, the story of the flying arrow. At any moment of its flight,\nsays Zeno, it must be in one place, because it cannot be in two places\nat the same moment. This depends upon the view of time as being\ninfinitely divisible. It is only in an infinitesimal moment, an\nabsolute moment having no duration, that the arrow is at rest. This,\nhowever, is not the only antinomy which we find in our conceptions of\nspace and time. Every mathematician is acquainted with the\ncontradictions immanent in our ideas of infinity. For example, the\nfamiliar proposition that parallel straight lines meet at infinity, is\na contradiction. Again, a decreasing geometrical progression can be\nadded up to infinity, the infinite number of its terms adding up in\nthe sum-total to a finite number. The idea of infinite space itself is\na contradiction. You can say of it exactly what Zeno said of the many.\nThere must be in existence as much space as there is, no more. But\nthis means that there must be a definite and limited amount of space.\nTherefore space is finite. On the other hand, it is impossible to\nconceive a limit to space. Beyond the limit there must be more space.\nTherefore space is infinite. Zeno himself gave expression to this\nantinomy in the form of an argument which I have not so far mentioned.\nHe said that everything which exists is in space. Space itself exists,\ntherefore space must be in space. That space must be in another space\nand so _ad infinitum_. This of course is merely a quaint way of saying\nthat to conceive a limit to space is impossible.\n\nBut to return to the antinomy of infinite divisibility, {57} on which\nmost of Zeno's arguments rest, you will perhaps expect me to say\nsomething of the different solutions which have been offered. In the\nfirst place, we must not forget Zeno's own solution. He did not\npropound this contradiction for its own sake, but to support the\nthesis of Parmenides. His solution is that as multiplicity and motion\ncontain these contradictions, therefore multiplicity and motion cannot\nbe real. Therefore, there is, as Parmenides said, only one Being, with\nno multiplicity in it, and excludent of all motion and becoming. The\nsolution given by Kant in modern times is essentially similar.\nAccording to Kant, these contradictions are immanent in our\nconceptions of space and time, and since time and space involve these\ncontradictions it follows that they are not real beings, but\nappearances, mere phenomena. Space and time do not belong to things as\nthey are in themselves, but rather to our way of looking at things.\nThey are forms of our perception. It is our minds which impose space\nand time upon objects, and not objects which impose space and time\nupon our minds. Further, Kant drew from these contradictions the\nconclusion that to comprehend the infinite is beyond the capacity of\nhuman reason. He attempted to show that, wherever we try to think the\ninfinite, whether the infinitely large or the infinitely small, we\nfall into irreconcilable contradictions. Therefore, he concluded that\nhuman faculties are incapable of apprehending infinity. As might be\nexpected, many thinkers have attempted to solve the problem by denying\none or other side of the contradiction, by saying that one or other\nside does not follow from the premises, that one is true and the other\nfalse. David Hume, for example, {58} denied the infinite divisibility\nof space and time, and declared that they are composed of indivisible\nunits having magnitude. But the difficulty that it is impossible to\nconceive of units having magnitude which are yet indivisible is not\nsatisfactorily explained by Hume. And in general, it seems that any\nsolution which is to be satisfactory must somehow make room for both\nsides of the contradiction. It will not do to deny one side or the\nother, to say that one is false and the other true. A true solution is\nonly possible by rising above the level of the two antagonistic\nprinciples and taking them both up to the level of a higher\nconception, in which both opposites are reconciled.\n\nThis was the procedure followed by Hegel in his solution of the\nproblem. Unfortunately his solution cannot be fully understood without\nsome knowledge of his general philosophical principles, on which it\nwholly depends. I will, however, try to make it as plain as possible.\nIn the first place, Hegel did not go out of his way to solve these\nantinomies. They appear as mere incidents in the development of his\nthought. He did not regard them as isolated cases of contradiction\nwhich occur in thought, as exceptions to a general rule, which\ntherefore need special explanation. On the contrary, he regarded them,\nnot as exceptions to, but as examples of, the essential character of\nreason. All thought, all reason, for Hegel, contains immanent\ncontradictions which it first posits and then reconciles in a higher\nunity, and this particular contradiction of infinite divisibility is\nreconciled in the higher notion of quantity. The notion of quantity\ncontains two factors, namely the one and the many. Quantity means\nprecisely a many in {59} one, or a one in many. If, for example, we\nconsider a quantity of anything, say a heap of wheat, this is, in the\nfirst place, one; it is one whole. Secondly, it is many; for it is\ncomposed of many parts. As one it is continuous; as many it is\ndiscrete. Now the true notion of quantity is not one, apart from many,\nnor many apart from one. It is the synthesis of both. It is a many\n_in_ one. The antinomy we are considering arises from considering one\nside of the truth in a false abstraction from the other. To conceive\nunity as not being in itself multiplicity, or multiplicity as not\nbeing unity, is a false abstraction. The thought of the one involves\nthe thought of the many, and the thought of the many involves the\nthought of the one. You cannot have a many without a one, any more\nthan you can have one end of a stick without the other. Now, if we\nconsider anything which is quantitatively measured, such as a straight\nline, we may consider it, in the first place, as one. In that case it\nis a continuous indivisible unit. Next we may regard it as many, in\nwhich case it falls into parts. Now each of these parts may again be\nregarded as one, and as such is an indivisible unit; and again each\npart may be regarded as many, in which case it falls into further\nparts; and this alternating process may go on for ever. This is the\nview of the matter which gives rise to the contradictions we have been\nconsidering. But it is a false view. It involves the false abstraction\nof first regarding the many as something that has reality apart from\nthe one, and then regarding the one as something that has reality\napart from the many. If you persist in saying that the line is simply\none and not many, then there arises the theory of indivisible units.\nIf you {60} persist in saying it is simply many and not one, then it\nis divisible _ad infinitum_. But the truth is that it is neither simply\nmany nor simply one; it is a many in one, that is, it is a _quantity_.\nBoth sides of the contradiction are, therefore, in one sense true, for\neach is a factor of the truth. But both sides are also false, if and\nin so far as, each sets itself up as the whole truth.\n\n\n\nCritical Remarks on Eleaticism.\n\nThe consideration of the meaning of Zeno's doctrine will give us an\ninsight into the essentials of the position of the Eleatics. Zeno said\nthat motion and multiplicity are not real. Now what does this mean?\nDid Zeno mean to say that when he walked about the streets of Elea, it\nwas not true that he walked about? Did he mean that it was not a fact\nthat he moved from place to place? When I move my arms, did he mean\nthat I am not moving my arms, but that they really remain at rest all\nthe time? If so, we might justly conclude that this philosophy is a\nmere craze of speculation run mad, or else a joke. But this is not\nwhat is meant. The Eleatic position is that though the world of sense,\nof which multiplicity and motion are essential features, may exist,\nyet that outward world is not the true Being. They do not deny that\nthe world exists. They do not deny that motion exists or that\nmultiplicity exists. These things no sane man can deny. The existence\nof motion and multiplicity is, as Hegel says, as sensuously certain as\nthe existence of elephants. Zeno, then, does not deny the existence of\nthe world. What he denies is the truth of existence. What he means is:\ncertainly there is motion and multiplicity; certainly the world is\nhere, is present to our senses, but it is not the true world. It is\n{61} not reality. It is mere appearance, illusion, an outward show and\nsham, a hollow mask which hides the real being of things. You may ask\nwhat is meant by this distinction between appearance and reality. Is\nnot even an appearance real? It appears. It exists. Even a delusion\nexists, and is therefore a real thing. So is not the distinction\nbetween appearance and reality itself meaningless? Now all this is\nperfectly true, but it does not comprehend quite what is meant by the\ndistinction. What is meant is that the objects around us have\nexistence, but not self-existence, not self-substantiality. That is to\nsay, their being is not in themselves, their existence is not grounded\nin themselves but is grounded in another, and flows from that other.\nThey exist, but they are not independent existences. They are rather\nbeings whose being flows into them from another, which itself is\nself-existent and self-substantial. They are, therefore, mere\nappearances of that other, which is the reality. Of course the\nEleatics did not speak of appearance and reality in these terms. But\nthis is what they were groping for, and dimly saw.\n\nIf we now look back upon the road on which we have travelled from the\nbeginning of Greek philosophy, we shall be able to characterize the\ndirection in which we have been moving. The earliest Greek\nphilosophers, the Ionics, propounded the question, \"what is the\nultimate principle of things?\" and answered it by declaring that the\nfirst principle of things is matter. The second Greek School, the\nPythagoreans, answered the same question by declaring numbers to be\nthe first principle. The third school, the Eleatics, answered the\nquestion by asserting that the first principle of things is Being.\n{62} Now the universe, as we know it, is both quantitative and\nqualitative. Quantity and quality are characteristics of every\nsense-object. These are not, indeed, the only characteristics of the\nworld, but they are the only characteristics which have so far come to\nlight. Now the position of the Ionics was that the ultimate reality is\nboth quantitative and qualitative, that is to say, it is matter, for\nmatter is just what has both quantity and quality. The Pythagoreans\nabstracted from the quality of things. They stripped off the\nqualitative aspect from things, and were accordingly left with only\nquantity as ultimate reality. Quantity is the same as number. Hence\nthe Pythagorean position that the world is made of numbers. The\nEleatic philosophy, proceeding one step further in the same direction,\nabstracted from quantity as well as quality. Whereas the Pythagoreans\nhad denied the qualitative aspect of things, leaving themselves only\nwith the quantitative, the Eleatics denied both quantity and quality,\nfor in denying multiplicity they denied quantity. Therefore they are\nleft with the total abstraction of mere Being which has in it neither\ndividedness (quantity), nor positive character (quality). The rise\nfrom the Ionic to the Eleatic philosophy is therefore essentially a\nrise from sensuous to pure thinking. The Eleatic Being is a pure\nabstract thought. The position of the Pythagoreans on the other hand\nis that of semi-sensuous thought. They form the stepping-stone from\nthe Ionics to the Eleatics.\n\nNow let us consider what of worth there is in this Eleatic principle,\nand what its defects are. In the first place, it is necessary for us\nto understand that the Eleatic philosophy is the first monism. A\nmonistic philosophy {63} is a philosophy which attempts to explain the\nentire universe from one single principle. The opposite of monism is\ntherefore pluralism, which is that kind of philosophy which seeks to\nexplain the universe from many ultimate and equally underived\nprinciples. But more particularly and more frequently we speak of the\nopposite of monism as being dualism, that is to say, the position that\nthere are two ultimate principles of explanation. If, for example, we\nsay that all the good in the universe arises from one source which is\ngood, and that all the evil arises from another source which is evil,\nand that these sources of good and evil cannot be subordinated one to\nthe other, and that one does not arise out of the other, but both are\nco-ordinate and equally primeval and independent, that position would\nbe a dualism. All philosophy, which is worthy of the name, seeks, in\nsome sense, a monistic explanation of the universe, and when we find\nthat a system of philosophy breaks down and fails, then we may nearly\nalways be sure its defect will reveal itself as an unreconciled\ndualism. Such a philosophy will begin with a monistic principle, and\nwill attempt to derive or deduce the entire universe from it, but\nsomewhere or other it comes across something in the world which it\ncannot bring under that principle. Then it is left with two equally\nultimate existences, neither of which can be derived from the other.\nThus it breaks out into dualism.\n\nNow the search for a monistic explanation of things is a universal\ntendency of human thought. Wherever we look in the world of thought,\nwe find that this monistic tendency appears. I have already said that\nit appears throughout the history of philosophy. It reveals itself,\n{64} too, very clearly in the history of religion. Religion begins in\npolytheism, the belief in many gods. From that it passes on to\nmonotheism, the belief in one God, who is the sole author and creator\nof the universe. In Hindu thought we find the same thing. Hindu\nthought is based upon the principle that \"All is one.\" Everything in\nthe world is derived from one ultimate being, Brahman. But not only is\nthis monistic tendency traceable in religion and philosophy; it is\nalso traceable in science. The progress of scientific explanation is\nessentially a progress towards monism. In the first place, the\nexplanation of isolated facts consists always in assigning causes for\nthem. Suppose there is a strange noise in your room at night. You say\nit is explained when you find that it is due to the falling of a book\nor the scuttling of a rat across the floor. The noise is thus\nexplained by assigning a cause for it. But this simply means that you\nhave robbed it of its isolated and exceptional position, and reduced\nit to the position of an example of a general law. When the water\nfreezes in your jug, you say that the cause of this is the cold. It is\nan example of the law that whenever the cold reaches a certain degree,\nthen, other things being equal, water solidifies. But to assign causes\nin this way is not really to explain anything. It does not give any\nreason for an event happening. You cannot see any reason why water\nshould solidify in the cold. It merely tells us that the event is not\nexceptional, but is an example of what always happens. It reduces the\nisolated event to a case of a general law, which \"explains,\" not\nmerely this one event, but possibly millions of events. It is not\nmerely that cold solidifies the water in your jug. {65} It equally\nsolidifies the water in everybody's jug. The same law \"explains\" all\nthese, and likewise \"explains\" icebergs and the polar caps on the\nearth and the planet Mars. In fact scientific explanation means the\nreduction of millions of facts to one principle. But science does not\nstop here. It seeks further to explain the laws themselves, and its\nmethod is to reduce the many laws to one higher and more general law.\nA familiar example of this is the explanation of Kepler's laws of the\nplanetary motions. Kepler laid down three such laws. The first was\nthat planets move in elliptical orbits with the sun in one focus. The\nsecond was that planets describe equal areas in equal times. The third\nwas a rather more complicated law. Kepler knew these laws from\nobservation, but he could not explain them. They were explained by\nNewton's discovery of the law of gravitation. Newton proved that\nKepler's three laws could be mathematically deduced from the law of\ngravitation. In that way Kepler's laws were explained, and not only\nKepler's laws, but many other astronomical laws and facts. Thus the\nexplanation of the many isolated facts consists in their reduction to\nthe one law, and the explanation of the many laws consists in their\nreduction to the one more general law. As knowledge advances, the\nphenomena of the universe come to be explained by fewer and fewer, and\nwider and wider, general principles. Obviously the ultimate goal would\nbe the explanation of all things by one principle. I do not mean to\nsay that scientific men have this end consciously in view. But the\npoint is that the monistic tendency is there. What is meant by the\nexplanation is the reduction of all things to one principle.\n\n{66}\n\nIn philosophy, in religion, and in science, then, we find this\nmonistic tendency of thought. But it might be asked how we know that\nthis universal tendency is right? How do we know that it is not merely\na universal error? Is there no logical or philosophical basis for the\nbelief that the ultimate explanation of things must be one? Now this\nis a subject which takes us far afield from Greek philosophy. The\nphilosophical basis of monism was never thought out till the time of\nSpinoza. So we cannot go into it at length here. But, quite shortly,\nthe question is--Is there any reason for believing that the ultimate\nexplanation of things must be one? Now if we are to explain the\nuniverse, two conditions must be fulfilled. In the first place, the\nultimate reality by which we attempt to explain everything must\nexplain all the other things in the world. It must be possible to\ndeduce the whole world from it. Secondly, the first principle must\nexplain itself. It cannot be a principle which itself still requires\nexplanation by something else. If it is itself not self-explanatory,\nbut is an ultimate mystery, then even if we succeed in deducing the\nuniverse from it, nothing is thereby explained. This, for example, is\nprecisely the defect of materialism. Even if we suppose it proved that\nall things, including mind, arise from matter, yet the objection\nremains that this explains nothing at all, for matter is not a\nself-explanatory existence. It is an unintelligible mystery. And to\nreduce the universe to an ultimate mystery is not to explain it.\nAgain; some people think that the world is to be explained by what\nthey call a \"first cause.\" But why should any cause be the first? Why\nshould we stop anywhere in the chain of causes? Every cause is {67}\nnecessarily the effect of a prior cause. The child, who is told that\nGod made the world, and who inquires who, in that case, made God, is\nasking a highly sensible question. Or suppose, in tracing back the\nchain of causes, we come upon one which we have reason to say is\nreally the first, is anything explained thereby? Still we are left\nwith an ultimate mystery. Whatever the principle of explanation is, it\ncannot be a principle of this kind. It must be a principle which\nexplains itself, and does not lead to something further, such as\nanother cause. In other words, it must be a principle which has its\nwhole being in itself, which does not for its completeness refer us to\nanything beyond itself. It must be something fully comprehended in\nitself, without reference to anything outside it. That is to say, it\nmust be what we call self-determined or absolute. Now any absolute\nprinciple must necessarily be one. Suppose that it were two. Suppose\nyou attempt to explain the world by two principles, X and Y, each of\nwhich is ultimate, neither being derived from the other. Then what\nrelation does X bear to Y? We cannot fully comprehend X without\nknowing its relation to Y. Part of the character and being of X is\nconstituted by its relation to Y. Part of X's character has to be\nexplained by Y. But that is not to be self-explained. It is to be\nexplained by something not itself. Therefore, the ultimate explanation\nof things must be one.\n\nThe Eleatics, then, were perfectly correct in saying that all is one,\nand that the ultimate principle of the universe, Being, is one. But if\nwe examine the way in which they carried out their monism, we shall\nsee that it broke down in a hopeless dualism. How did they {68}\nexplain the existence of the world? They propounded the principle of\nBeing, as the ultimate reality. How then did they derive the actual\nworld from that principle? The answer is that they neither derived it\nnor made any attempt to derive it. Instead of deducing the world from\ntheir first principle, they simply denied the reality of the world\naltogether. They attempted to solve the problem by denying the\nexistence of the problem. The world, they said, is simply not-being.\nIt is an illusion. Now certainly it is a great thing to know which is\nthe true world, and which the false, but after all this is not an\nexplanation. To call the world an illusion is not to explain it. If\nthe world is reality, then the problem of philosophy is, how does that\nreality arise? If the world is illusion, then the problem is, how does\nthat illusion arise? Call it illusion, if you like. But this is not\nexplaining it. It is simply calling it names. This is the defect, too,\nof Indian philosophy in which the world is said to be Maya--delusion.\nHence in the Eleatic philosophy there are two worlds brought face to\nface, lying side by side of each other, unreconciled--the world of\nBeing, which is the true world, and the world of facts, which is\nillusion. Although the Eleatics deny the sense-world, and call it\nillusion, yet of this illusion they cannot rid themselves. In some\nsense or other, this world is here, is present. It comes back upon our\nsenses, and demands explanation. Call it illusion, but it still stands\nbeside the true world, and demands that it be deduced from that. So\nthat the Eleatics have two principles, the false world and the true\nworld, simply lying side by side, without any connecting link between\nthem, without anything to {69} show how the one arises from the other.\nIt is an utterly irreconcilable dualism.\n\nIt is easy to see why the Eleatic philosophy broke down in this\ndualism. It is due to the barrenness of their first principle itself.\nBeing, they say, has in it no becoming. All principle of motion is\nexpressly excluded from it. Likewise they deny to it any multiplicity.\nIt is simply one, without any many in it. If you expressly exclude\nmultiplicity and becoming from your first principle, then you can\nnever get multiplicity and becoming out of it. You cannot get out of\nit anything that is not in it. If you say absolutely there is no\nmultiplicity in the Absolute, then it is impossible to explain how\nmultiplicity comes into this world. It is exactly the same in regard\nto the question of quality. Pure Being is without quality. It is mere\n\"isness.\" It is an utterly featureless, characterless Being, perfectly\nempty and abstract. How then can the quality of things issue from it?\nHow can all the riches and variety of the world come out of this\nemptiness? The Eleatics are like jugglers who try to make you believe\nthat they get rabbits, guinea-pigs, pieces of string, paper, and\nribbon, out of an entirely empty top-hat. One can see how utterly\nbarren and empty this principle is, if one translates it into\nfigurative language, that is to say, into the language of religion.\nThe Eleatic principle would correspond to a religion in which we said\nthat \"God is,\" but beyond the fact that He \"is,\" He has absolutely no\ncharacter. But surely this is a wholly barren and meagre conception of\nthe Deity. In the Christian religion we are accustomed to hear such\nexpressions as, not only that \"God is,\" but that \"God is Love,\" \"God\nis Power,\" {70} \"God is Goodness,\" \"God is Wisdom.\" Now objection may\ncertainly be taken to these predicates and epithets on the ground that\nthey are merely figurative and anthropomorphic. In fact, they exhibit\nthe tendency to think non-sensuous objects sensuously. These\npredicates are merely picked up from the finite world and applied\nhaphazard to God, for whom they are entirely inadequate. But at least\nthese expressions teach us, that out of mere emptiness nothing can\ncome; that the world cannot arise out of something which is lower and\npoorer than itself. Here in the world we find in a certain measure,\nlove, wisdom, excellence, power. These things cannot spring from a\nsource which is so poor that it contains nothing but \"isness.\" The\nless can arise out of the greater, but not the greater out of the\nless. We may contrast Eleaticism not only with Christianity, but even\nwith popular modern agnosticism. According to this, the Absolute is\nunknowable. But what the agnostic means is that human reason is\ninadequate to grasp the greatness of the ultimate being. But the\nEleatic principle is, not that in saying \"God is Love, Power, Wisdom,\"\nwe are saying too little about God, and that our ideas are inadequate\nto express the fullness of His being, but on the contrary, that they\nexpress too high an idea for God, of whom nothing can be said except\n\"He is,\" because there is absolutely nothing more to say. This\nconception of God is the conception of an absolutely empty being.\n\nMonism, I said, is a necessary idea in philosophy. The Absolute must\nbe one. But an utterly abstract monism is impossible. If the Absolute\nis simply one, wholly excludent of all process and multiplicity, out\nof such an abstraction the process and multiplicity of the {71} world\ncannot issue. The Absolute is not simply one, or simply many. It must\nbe a many in one, as correctly set forth in the Christian doctrine of\nthe Trinity. Religion moves from an abstract polytheism (God is many)\nto an abstract monotheism (God is one; Judaism, Hinduism and Islam).\nBut it does not stop there. It rightly passes on to a concrete\nmonotheism (God is many in one; Christianity). There are two popular\nmisconceptions regarding the doctrine of the Trinity. The first\nmistake is that of popular rationalism, the second is that of popular\ntheology. Popular rationalism asserts that the doctrine of the Trinity\nis contrary to reason. Popular theology asserts that it is a mystery\nwhich transcends reason. But the truth is that it neither contradicts\nnor transcends reason. On the contrary, it is in itself the highest\nmanifestation of reason. What is really a mystery, what really\ncontradicts reason, is to suppose that God, the Absolute, is simply\none without any multiplicity. This contradiction results in the fatal\ndualism which broke out in Eleaticism, and has broken out in every\nother system of thought, such as that of the Hindus or that of\nSpinoza, which begins with the conception of the Absolute as a pure\none, totally exclusive of the many.\n\n{72}\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nHERACLEITUS\n\nHeracleitus was born about 535 B.C., and is believed to have lived to\nthe age of sixty. This places his death at 475 B.C. He was thus\nsubsequent to Xenophanes, contemporary with Parmenides, and older than\nZeno. In historical order of time, therefore, he runs parallel to the\nEleatics. Heracleitus was a man of Ephesus in Asia Minor. He was an\naristocrat, descendant of a noble Ephesian family, and occupied in\nEphesus the nominal position of basileus, or King. This, however,\nmerely meant that he was the Chief Priest of the local branch of the\nEleusinian mysteries, and this position he resigned in favour of his\nbrother. He appears to have been a man of a somewhat aloof, solitary,\nand scornful nature. He looked down, not only upon the common herd,\nbut even upon the great men of his own race. He mentions Xenophanes\nand Pythagoras in terms of obloquy. Homer, he thinks, should be taken\nout and whipped. Hesiod he considers to be the teacher of the common\nherd, one with them, \"a man,\" he says, \"who does not even know day and\nnight.\" Upon the common herd of mortals he looks down with infinite\nscorn. Some of his sayings remind us not a little of Schopenhauer in\ntheir pungency and sharpness. \"Asses prefer straw to {73} gold.\" \"Dogs\nbark at everyone they do not know.\" Many of his sayings, however, are\nmemorable and trenchant epitomes of practical wisdom. \"Man's character\nis his fate.\" \"Physicians who cut, burn, stab and rack the sick,\ndemand a fee for doing it, which they do not deserve to get.\" From his\naloof and aristocratic standpoint he launched forth denunciations\nagainst the democracy of Ephesus.\n\nHeracleitus embodied his philosophical thoughts in a prose treatise,\nwhich was well-known at the time of Socrates, but of which only\nfragments have come down to us. His style soon became proverbial for\nits difficulty and obscurity, and he gained the nickname of\nHeracleitus the \"Dark,\" or the \"Obscure.\" Socrates said of his work\nthat what he understood of it was excellent, what not, he believed was\nequally so, but that the book required a tough swimmer. He has even\nbeen accused of intentional obscurity. But there does not seem to be\nany foundation for this charge. The fact is that if he takes no great\ntrouble to explain his thoughts, neither does he take any trouble to\nconceal them. He does not write for fools. His attitude appears to be\nthat if his readers understand him, well; if not, so much the worse\nfor his readers. He wastes no time in elaborating and explaining his\nthought, but embodies it in short, terse, pithy, and pregnant sayings.\n\n\nHis philosophical principle is the direct antithesis of Eleaticism.\nThe Eleatics had taught that only Being is, and Becoming is not at\nall. All change, all Becoming is mere illusion. For Heracleitus, on\nthe contrary, only Becoming is, and Being, permanence, identity, these\nare nothing but illusion. All things sublunary are {74} perpetually\nchanging, passing over into new forms and new shapes. Nothing stands,\nnothing holds fast, nothing remains what it is. \"Into the same river,\"\nhe says, \"we go down, and we do not go down; for into the same river\nno man can enter twice; ever it flows in and flows out.\" Not only does\nhe deny all absolute permanence, but even a relative permanence of\nthings is declared to be illusory. We all know that everything has its\nterm, that all things arise and pass away, from the insects who live\nan hour to the \"eternal\" hills. Yet we commonly attribute to these\nthings at least a relative permanence, a shorter or longer continuance\nin the same state. But even this Heracleitus will not allow. Nothing\nis ever the same, nothing remains identical from one consecutive\nmoment to another. The appearance of relative permanence is an\nillusion, like that which makes us think that a wave passing over the\nsurface of the water remains all the time the same identical wave.\nHere, as we know, the water of which the wave is composed changes from\nmoment to moment, only the form remaining the same. Precisely so, for\nHeracleitus, the permanent appearance of things results from the\ninflow and outflow in them of equivalent quantities of substance. \"All\nis flux.\" It is not, for example, the same sun which sets to-day and\nrises to-morrow. It is a new sun. For the fire of the sun burns itself\nout and is replenished from the vapours of the sea.\n\nNot only do things change from moment to moment. Even in one and the\nsame moment they are and are not the same. It is not merely that a\nthing first is, and then a moment afterwards, is not. It both is and\nis not at the same time. The at-onceness of \"is\" and \"is not\" {75} is\nthe meaning of Becoming. We shall understand this better if we\ncontrast it with the Eleatic principle. The Eleatics described all\nthings under two concepts, Being and not-being. Being has, for them,\nall truth, all reality. Not-being is wholly false and illusory. For\nHeracleitus both Being and not-being are equally real. The one is as\ntrue as the other. Both are true, for both are identical. Becoming is\nthe identity of Being and not-being. For Becoming has only two forms,\nnamely, the arising of things and their passing away, their beginning\nand their end, their origination and their decease. Perhaps you may\nthink that this is not correct, that there are other forms of change\nbesides origination and decease. A man is born. That is his\norigination. He dies. That is his decease. Between his birth and his\ndeath there are intermediate changes. He grows larger, grows older,\ngrows wiser or more foolish, his hair turns grey. So also the leaf of\na tree does not merely come into being and pass out of being. It\nchanges in shape, form, colour. From light green it becomes dark\ngreen, and from dark green, yellow. But there is after all nothing in\nall this except origination and decease, not of the thing itself, but\nof its qualities. The change from green to yellow is the decease of\ngreen colour, the origination of yellow colour. Origination is the\npassage of not-being into Being. Decease is the passage of Being into\nnot-being. Becoming, then, has in it only the two factors of Being and\nnot-being, and it means the passing of one into the other. But this\npassage does not mean, for Heracleitus, that at one moment there is\nBeing, and at the next moment not-being. It means that Being and\nnot-being are in everything at one and the same time. Being is {76}\nnot-being. Being has not-being in it. Take as an example the problem\nof life and death. Ordinarily we think that death is due to external\ncauses, such as accident or disease. We consider that while life\nlasts, it is what it is, and remains what it is, namely life, unmixed\nwith death, and that it goes on being life until something comes from\noutside, as it were, in the shape of external causes, and puts an end\nto it. You may have read Metchnikoff's book \"The Nature of Man.\" In\nthe course of that book he develops this idea. Death, he says, is\nalways due to external causes. Therefore, if we could remove the\ncauses, we could conquer death. The causes of death are mostly disease\nand accident, for even old age is disease. There is no reason why\nscience should not advance so far as to eliminate disease and accident\nfrom life. In that case life might be made immortal, or at any rate,\nindefinitely prolonged. Now this is founded upon a confusion of ideas.\nNo doubt death is always due to external causes. Every event in the\nworld is determined, and wholly determined, by causes. The law of\ncausation admits of no exception whatever. Therefore it is perfectly\ntrue that in every case of death causes precede it. But, as I\nexplained in the last chapter, [Footnote 6] to give the cause is not\nto give any reason for an event. Causation is never a principle of\nexplanation of anything. It tells us that the phenomenon A is\ninvariably and unconditionally followed by the phenomenon B, and we\ncall A the cause of B. But this only means that whenever B happens, it\nhappens in a certain regular order and succession of events. But it\ndoes not tell us why B happens at all. The reason of a thing is to be\n{77} distinguished from its cause. The reason why a man dies is not to\nbe found in the causes which bring about his death. The reason rather\nis that life has the germ of death already in it, that life is already\ndeath potentially, that Being has not-being in it. The causation of\ndeath is merely the mechanism, by the instrumentality of which,\nthrough one set of causes or another, the inevitable end is brought\nabout.\n\n[Footnote 6: Page 64.]\n\nNot only is Being, for Heracleitus, identical with not-being, but\neverything in the universe has in it its own opposite. Every existent\nthing is a \"harmony of opposite tensions.\" A harmony contains\nnecessarily two opposite principles which, in spite of their\nopposition, reveal an underlying unity. That it is by virtue of this\nprinciple that everything in the universe exists, is the teaching of\nHeracleitus. All things contain their own opposites within them. In\nthe struggle and antagonism between hostile principles consists their\nlife, their being, their very existence. At the heart of things is\nconflict. If there were no conflict in a thing, it would cease to\nexist. This idea is expressed by Heracleitus in a variety of ways.\n\"Strife,\" he says, \"is the father of all things.\" \"The one, sundering\nfrom itself, coalesces with itself, like the harmony of the bow and\nthe lyre.\" \"God is day and night, summer and winter, war and peace,\nsatiety and hunger.\" \"Join together whole and unwhole, congruous and\nincongruous, accordant and discordant, then comes from one all and\nfrom all one.\" In this sense, too, he censures Homer for having prayed\nthat strife might cease from among gods and men. If such a prayer were\ngranted, the universe itself would pass away.\n\n{78}\n\nSide by side with this metaphysic, Heracleitus lays down a theory of\nphysics. All things are composed of fire. \"This world,\" he says,\n\"neither one of the gods nor of the human race has made; but it is, it\nwas, and ever shall be, an eternally living fire.\" All comes from\nfire, and to fire all returns. \"All things are exchanged for fire and\nfire for all, as wares for gold and gold for wares.\" Thus there is\nonly one ultimate kind of matter, fire, and all other forms of matter\nare merely modifications and variations of fire. It is clear for what\nreason Heracleitus enunciated this principle. It is an exact physical\nparallel to the metaphysical principle of Becoming. Fire is the most\nmutable of the elements. It does not remain the same from one moment\nto another. It is continually taking up matter in the form of fuel,\nand giving off equivalent matter in the form of smoke and vapour. The\nprimal fire, according to Heracleitus, transmutes itself into air, air\ninto water, and water into earth. This he calls \"the downward path.\"\nTo it corresponds \"the upward path,\" the transmutation of earth into\nwater, water to air, and air to fire. All transformation takes place\nin this regular order, and therefore, says Heracleitus, \"the upward\nand the downward path are one.\"\n\nFire is further specially identified with life and reason. It is the\nrational element in things. The more fire there is, the more life, the\nmore movement. The more dark and heavy materials there are, the more\ndeath, cold, and not-being. The soul, accordingly, is fire, and like\nall other fires it continually burns itself out and needs\nreplenishment. This it obtains, through the senses and the breath,\nfrom the common life and reason of the {79} world, that is, from the\nsurrounding and all-pervading fire. In this we live and move and have\nour being. No man has a separate soul of his own. It is merely part of\nthe one universal soul-fire. Hence if communication with this is cut\noff, man becomes irrational and finally dies. Sleep is the half-way\nhouse to death. In sleep the passages of the senses are stopped up,\nand the outer fire reaches us only through breath. Hence in sleep we\nbecome irrational and senseless, turning aside from the common life of\nthe world, each to a private world of his own. Heracleitus taught also\nthe doctrine of periodic world-cycles. The world forms itself out of\nfire, and by conflagration passes back to the primitive fire.\n\nIn his religious opinions Heracleitus was sceptical. But he does not,\nlike Xenophanes, direct his attacks against the central ideas of\nreligion, and the doctrine of the gods. He attacks mostly the outward\nobservances and forms in which the religious spirit manifests itself.\nHe inveighs against the worship of images, and urges the uselessness\nof blood sacrifice.\n\nWith the Eleatics he distinguishes between sense and reason, and\nplaces truth in rational cognition. The illusion of permanence he\nascribes to the senses. It is by reason that we rise to the knowledge\nof the law of Becoming. In the comprehension of this law lies the duty\nof man, and the only road to happiness. Understanding this, man\nbecomes resigned and contented. He sees that evil is the necessary\ncounterpart of good, and pain the necessary counterpart of pleasure,\nand that both together are necessary to form the harmony of the world.\nGood and evil are principles on the struggle {80} between which the\nvery existence of things depends. Evil, too, is necessary, has its\nplace in the world. To see this is to put oneself above pitiful and\nfutile struggles against the supreme law of the universe.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nEMPEDOCLES\n\nEmpedocles was a man of Agrigentum in Sicily. The dates of his birth\nand death are placed about 495 and 435 B.C. respectively. Like\nPythagoras, he possessed a powerful and magnetic personality. Hence\nall kinds of legends quickly grew up and wove themselves round his\nlife and death. He was credited with the performance of miracles, and\nromantic stories were circulated about his death. A man of much\npersuasive eloquence he raised himself to the leadership of the\nAgrigentine democracy, until he was driven out into exile.\n\nThe philosophy of Empedocles is eclectic in character. Greek\nphilosophy had now developed a variety of conflicting principles, and\nthe task of Empedocles is to reconcile these, and to weld them\ntogether in a new system, containing however no new thought of its\nown. In speaking of Parmenides, I pointed out that his teaching may be\ninterpreted either in an idealistic or a materialistic sense, and that\nthese two aspects of thought lie side by side in Parmenides, and that\nit is possible to emphasize either the one or the other. Empedocles\nseizes upon the materialistic side. The essential thought of\nParmenides was that Being cannot pass into not-being, nor not-being\ninto Being. Whatever is, remains for ever what it is. {82} If we take\nthat in a purely material context, what it means is that matter has\nneither beginning nor end, is uncreated and indestructible. And this\nis the first basic principle of Empedocles. On the other hand,\nHeracleitus had shown that becoming and change cannot be denied. This\nis the second basic principle of Empedocles. That there is no absolute\nbecoming, no creation, and utter destruction of things, and yet that\nthings do somehow arise and pass away, this must be explained, these\ncontradictory ideas must be reconciled. Now if we assert that matter\nis uncreated and indestructible, and yet that things arise and pass\naway, there is only one way of explaining this. We must suppose that\nobjects, as wholes begin and cease to be, but that the material\nparticles of which they are composed are uncreated and indestructible.\nThis thought now forms the first principle of Empedocles, and of his\nsuccessors, Anaxagoras, and the Atomists.\n\nNow the Ionic philosophers had taught that all things are composed of\nsome one ultimate matter. Thales believed it to be water, Anaximenes\nair. This necessarily involved that the ultimate kind of matter must\nbe capable of transformation into other kinds of matter. If it is\nwater, then water must be capable of turning into brass, wood, iron,\nair, or whatever other kind of matter exists. And the same thing\napplies to the air of Anaximenes. Parmenides, however, had taught that\nwhatever is, remains always the same, no change or transformation\nbeing possible. Empedocles here too follows Parmenides, and interprets\nhis doctrine in his own way. One kind of matter, he thinks, can never\nchange into another kind of matter; fire never becomes {83} water, nor\ndoes earth ever become air. This leads Empedocles at once to a\ndoctrine of elements. The word \"elements,\" indeed, is of later\ninvention, and Empedocles speaks of the elements as \"the roots of\nall.\" There are four elements, earth, air, fire, and water. Empedocles\nwas therefore the originator of the familiar classification of the\nfour elements. All other kinds of matter are to be explained as\nmixtures, in various proportions, of these four. Thus all origination\nand decease, as well as the differential qualities of certain kinds of\nmatter, are now explained by the mixing and unmixing of the four\nelements. All becoming is simply composition and decomposition.\n\nBut the coming together and separation of the elements involves the\nmovement of particles, and to explain this there must exist some\nmoving force. The Ionic philosophers had assumed that matter has the\npower or force required for movement immanent in itself. The air of\nAnaximenes, of its own inherent power, transforms itself into other\nkinds of matter. This doctrine Empedocles rejects. Matter is for him\nabsolutely dead and lifeless, without any principle of motion in\nitself. There is, therefore, only one remaining possibility. Forces\nacting upon matter from the outside must be assumed. And as the two\nessential processes of the world, mixing and unmixing, are opposite in\ncharacter, so there must be two opposite forces. These he calls by the\nnames Love and Hate, or Harmony and Discord. Though these terms may\nhave an idealistic sound, Empedocles conceives them as entirely\nphysical and material forces. But he identifies the attractions and\nrepulsions of human beings, which we call love and hate, with the\nuniversally operating forces of the material world. Human love and\n{84} hate are but the manifestations in us of the mechanical forces of\nattraction and repulsion at work in the world at large.\n\nEmpedocles taught the doctrine of periodic world-cycles. The\nworld-process is, therefore, properly speaking, circular, and has\nneither beginning nor end. But in describing this process one must\nbegin somewhere. We will begin, then, with the sphairos (sphere). In\nthe primeval sphere the four elements are completely mixed, and\ninterpenetrate each other completely. Water is not separated off from\nair, nor air from earth. All are chaotically mixed together. In any\nportion of the sphere there must be an equal quantity of earth, air,\nfire and water. The elements are thus in union, and the sole force\noperative within the sphere is Love or Harmony. Hence the sphere is\ncalled a \"blessed god.\" Hate, however, exists all round the outside of\nthe sphere. Hate gradually penetrates from the circumference towards\nthe centre and introduces the process of separation and disunion of\nthe elements. This process continues till, like coming together with\nlike, the elements are wholly separated. All the water is together;\nall the fire is together, and so on. When this process of\ndisintegration is complete, Hate is supreme and Love is entirely\ndriven out. But Love again begins to penetrate matter, to cause union\nand mixture of the elements, and finally brings the world back to the\nstate of the original sphere. Then the same process begins again. At\nwhat position in this circular movement is our present world to be\nplaced? The answer is that it is neither in the complete union of the\nsphere, nor is it completely disintegrated. It is half-way between the\nsphere and the stage of total {85} disintegration. It is proceeding\nfrom the former towards the later, and Hate is gradually gaining the\nupper hand. In the formation of the present world from the sphere the\nfirst element to be separated off was air, next fire, then the earth.\nWater is squeezed out of the earth by the rapidity of its rotation.\nThe sky is composed of two halves. One is of fire, and this is the\nday. The other is dark matter with masses of fire scattered about in\nit, and this is the night.\n\nEmpedocles believed in the transmigration of souls. He also put\nforward a theory of sense-perception, the essential of which is that\nlike perceives like. The fire in us perceives external fire, and so\nwith the other elements. Sight is caused by effluences of the fire and\nwater of the eyes meeting similar effluences from external objects.\n\n{86}\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE ATOMISTS\n\nThe founder of the Atomist philosophy was Leucippus. Practically\nnothing is known of his life. The date of his birth, the date of his\ndeath, and his place of residence, are alike unknown, but it is\nbelieved that he was a contemporary of Empedocles and Anaxagoras.\nDemocritus was a citizen of Abdera in Thrace. He was a man of the\nwidest learning, as learning was understood in his day. A passion for\nknowledge and the possession of adequate means for the purpose,\ndetermined him to undertake extensive travels in order to acquire the\nwisdom and knowledge of other nations. He travelled largely in Egypt,\nalso probably in Babylonia. The date of his death is unknown, but he\ncertainly lived to a great age, estimated at from ninety to one\nhundred years. Exactly what were the respective contributions of\nLeucippus and Democritus to the Atomist philosophy, is also a matter\nof doubt. But it is believed that all the essentials of this\nphilosophy were the work of Leucippus, and that Democritus applied and\nextended them, worked out details, and made the theory famous.\n\nNow we saw that the philosophy of Empedocles was based upon an attempt\nto reconcile the doctrine of Parmenides with the doctrine of\nHeracleitus. The {87} fundamental thought of Empedocles was that there\nis no absolute becoming in the strict sense, no passage of Being into\nnot-being or not-being into Being. Yet the objects of the senses do,\nin some way, arise and pass away, and the only method by which this is\ncapable of explanation is to suppose that objects, as whole objects,\ncome to be and cease to be, but that the material particles of which\nthey are composed are eternally existent. But the detailed development\nwhich Empedocles gave to this principle was by no means satisfactory.\nIn the first place, if we hold that all objects are composed of parts,\nand that all becoming is due to the mixing and unmixing of\npre-existent matter, we must have a theory of particles. And we do\nhear vaguely of physical particles in the doctrine of Empedocles, but\nno definition is given of their nature, and no clear conception is\nformed of their character. Secondly, the moving forces of Empedocles,\nLove and Hate, are fanciful and mythological. Lastly, though there are\nin Empedocles traces of the doctrine that the qualities of things\ndepend on the position and arrangement of their particles, this idea\nis not consistently developed. For Empedocles there are only four\nultimate kinds of matter, qualitatively distinguished. The\ndifferential qualities of all other kinds of matter must, therefore,\nbe due to the mixing of these four elements. Thus the qualities of the\nfour elements are ultimate and underived, but all other qualities must\nbe founded upon the position and arrangement of particles of the four\nelements. This is the beginning of the mechanical explanation of\nquality. But to develop this theory fully and consistently, it should\nbe shown, not merely that some qualities are ultimate and some {88}\nderived from position and arrangement of particles, but that all\nquality whatever is founded upon position and arrangement. All\nbecoming is explained by Empedocles as the result of motion of\nmaterial particles. To bring this mechanical philosophy to its logical\nconclusion, all qualitativeness of things must be explained in the\nsame way. Hence it was impossible that the philosophy of mechanism and\nmaterialism should stand still in the position in which Empedocles\nleft it. It had to advance to the position of Atomism. The Atomists,\ntherefore, maintain the essential position of Empedocles, after\neliminating the inconsistencies which we have just noted. The\nphilosophy of Empedocles is therefore to be considered as merely\ntransitional in character.\n\nFirst, the Atomists developed the theory of particles. According to\nLeucippus and Democritus, if matter were divided far enough, we should\nultimately come to indivisible units. These indivisible units are\ncalled atoms, and atoms are therefore the ultimate constituents of\nmatter. They are infinite in number, and are too small to be\nperceptible to the senses. Empedocles had assumed four different kinds\nof matter. But, for the Atomists, there is only one kind. All the\natoms are composed of exactly the same kind of matter. With certain\nexceptions, which I will mention in a moment, they possess no quality.\nThey are entirely non-qualitative, the only differences between them\nbeing differences of quantity. They differ in size, some being larger,\nsome smaller. And they likewise differ in shape. Since the ultimate\nparticles of things thus possess no quality, all the actual qualities\nof objects must be due to the {89} arrangement and position of the\natoms. This is the logical development of the tentative mechanism of\nEmpedocles.\n\nI said that the atoms possess no qualities. They must, however, be\nadmitted to possess the quality of solidity, or impenetrability, since\nthey are defined as being indivisible. Moreover it is a question\nwhether the atoms of Democritus and Leucippus were thought to possess\nweight, or whether the weight of objects is to be explained, like\nother qualities, by the position and movement of the atoms. There is\nno doubt that the Epicureans of a later date considered the atoms to\nhave weight. The Epicureans took over the atomism of Democritus and\nLeucippus, with few modifications, and made it the basis of their own\nteaching. They ascribed weight to the atoms, and the only question is\nwhether this was a modification introduced by them, or whether it was\npart of the original doctrine of Democritus and Leucippus.\n\nThe atoms are bounded, and separated off from each other. Therefore,\nthey must be separated by something, and this something can only be\nempty space. Moreover, since all becoming and all qualitativeness of\nthings are to be explained by the mixing and unmixing of atoms, and\nsince this involves movement of the atoms, for this reason also empty\nspace must be assumed to exist, for nothing can move unless it has\nempty space to move in. Hence there are two ultimate realities, atoms\nand empty space. These correspond respectively to the Being and\nnot-being of the Eleatics. But whereas the latter denied any reality\nto not-being, the Atomists affirm that not-being, that is, empty\nspace, is just as real as being. Not-being also exists. \"Being,\" said\n{90} Democritus, \"is by nothing more real than nothing.\" The atoms\nbeing non-qualitative, they differ in no respect from empty space,\nexcept that they are \"full.\" Hence atoms and the void are also called\nthe _plenum_ and the _vacuum_.\n\nHow, now, is the movement of the atoms brought about? Since all\nbecoming is due to the separation and aggregation of atoms, a moving\nforce is required. What is this moving force? This depends upon the\nquestion whether atoms have weight. If we assume that they have\nweight, then the origin of the world, and the motion of atoms, becomes\nclear. In the system of the Epicureans the original movement of the\natoms is due to their weight, which causes them to fall perpetually\ndownwards through infinite space. Of course the Atomists had no true\nideas of gravitation, nor did they understand that there is no\nabsolute up and down. The large atoms are heavier than the smaller.\nThe matter of which they are composed is always the same. Therefore,\nvolume for volume, they weigh the same. Their weight is thus\nproportional to their size, and if one atom is twice as large as\nanother, it will also be twice as heavy. Here the Atomists made\nanother mistake, in supposing that heavier things fall in a vacuum\nmore quickly than light things. They fall, as a matter of fact, with\nthe same speed. But according to the Atomists, the heavier atoms,\nfalling faster, strike against the lighter, and push them to one side\nand upwards. Through this general concussion of atoms a vortex is\nformed, in which like atoms come together with like. From the\naggregation of atoms worlds are created. As space is infinite and the\natoms go on falling eternally, there must have been innumerable worlds\nof which our world is only one. {91} When the aggregated atoms fall\napart again, this particular world will cease to exist. But all this\ndepends upon the theory that the atoms have weight. According to\nProfessor Burnet, however, the weight of atoms is a later addition of\nthe Epicureans. If that is so, it is very difficult to say how the\nearly Atomists, Leucippus and Democritus, explained the original\nmotion. What was their moving force, if it was not weight? If the\natoms have no weight, their original movement cannot have been a fall.\n\"It is safest to say,\" says Professor Burnet, \"that it is simply a\nconfused motion this way and that.\" [Footnote 7] Probably this is a\nvery _safe_ thing to say, because it means nothing in particular. Motion\nitself cannot be confused. It is only our ideas of motion which can be\nconfused. If this theory is correct, then, we can only say that the\nAtomists had no definite solution of the problem of the origin of\nmotion and the character of the moving force. They apparently saw no\nnecessity for explanation, which seems unlikely in view of the fact\nthat Empedocles had already seen the necessity of solving the problem,\nand given a definite, if unsatisfactory, solution, in his theory of\nLove and Hate. This remark would apply to Democritus, if not to\nLeucippus.\n\n[Footnote 7: _Early Greek Philosophy_, chap. ix. Sec. 179.]\n\nThe Atomists also spoke of all movement being under the force of\n\"necessity.\" Anaxagoras was at this time teaching that all motion of\nthings is produced by a world-intelligence, or reason. Democritus\nexpressly opposes to this the doctrine of necessity. There is no\nreason or intelligence in the world. On the contrary, all phenomena\nand all becoming are completely determined by blind mechanical causes.\nIn this connection there arises {92} among the Atomists a polemic\nagainst the popular gods and the popular religion. Belief in gods\nDemocritus explains as being due to fear of great terrestrial and\nastronomical phenomena, such as volcanoes, earthquakes, comets, and\nmeteors. But somewhat inconsistently with this, Democritus believed\nthat the air is inhabited by beings resembling men, but larger and of\nlonger life, and explained belief in the gods as being due to\nprojection from these of images of themselves composed of atoms which\nimpinge upon human senses, and produce the ideas of gods.\n\nDifferent kinds of matter must be explained, in any atomic theory, by\nthe shape, size, and position of the atoms of which they are composed.\nThus the Atomists taught that fire is composed of smooth round atoms.\nThe soul is also composed of smooth round atoms, and is an\nexceptionally pure and refined fire. At death the soul atoms are\nscattered, and hence there is, of course, no question of a future\nlife. Democritus also put forward a theory of perception, according to\nwhich objects project into space images of themselves composed of\natoms. These images strike against the senses. Like atoms are\nperceived by like. Thought is true when the soul is equable in\ntemperature. The sensible qualities of things, such as smell, taste,\ncolour, do not exist in the things themselves, but merely express the\nmanner in which they affect our senses, and are therefore relative to\nus. A number of the ethical maxims of Democritus have come down to us.\nBut they are not based in any way upon the Atomic theory, and cannot\nbe deduced from it. Hence they have no scientific foundation but are\nmerely detached sayings, epitomizing the experience {93} and worldly\nwisdom of Democritus. That one should enjoy oneself as much and vex\noneself as little as possible seems to have been his principal idea.\nThis, however, is not to be interpreted in any low, degraded, or\nsensual way. On the contrary, Democritus says that the happiness of\nman does not depend on material possessions, but upon the state of the\nsoul. He praises equanimity and cheerfulness, and these are best\nattained, he thinks, by moderation and simplicity.\n\n\n\n{94}\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nANAXAGORAS\n\nAnaxagoras was born at Clazomenae in Asia Minor about 500 B.C. He was\na man of noble family, and possessed considerable property. He\nneglected his property in the search for knowledge and in the pursuit\nof science and philosophy. Leaving his home at Clazomenae, he settled\ndown in Athens. We have not heard so far anything of Athens in the\nhistory of Greek Philosophy. It was Anaxagoras who transplanted\nphilosophy to Athens, which from his time forward became the chief\ncentre of Greek thought. At Athens, Anaxagoras came into contact with\nall the famous men of the time. He was an intimate friend of Pericles,\nthe statesman, and of Euripides, the poet. But his friendship with\nPericles cost him dear. There was a strong political faction opposed\nto Pericles. So far as we know Anaxagoras never meddled in politics,\nbut he was a friend of the statesman Pericles, and that was quite\nenough. The enemies of Pericles determined to teach Anaxagoras a\nlesson, and a charge of atheism and blasphemy was accordingly brought\nagainst him. The particulars of the charge were that Anaxagoras said\nthat the sun was a red-hot stone, and that the moon was made of earth.\nThis was quite true, as that is exactly what Anaxagoras did say of the\nsun and the moon. But the Greeks {95} regarded the heavenly bodies as\ngods; even Plato and Aristotle thought that the stars were divine\nbeings. To call the sun a red-hot stone, and to say that the moon was\nmade of earth, was therefore blasphemy according to Greek ideas.\nAnaxagoras was charged, tried, and condemned. The details of the\ntrial, and of what followed, are not known with accuracy. But it\nappears that Anaxagoras escaped, probably with the help of Pericles,\nand from Athens went back to his native country in Asia Minor. He\nsettled at Lampsacus, and died there at the age of 72. He was the\nauthor of a treatise in which he wrote down his philosophical ideas.\nThis treatise was well-known at the time of Socrates, but only\nfragments now remain.\n\nThe foundation of the philosophy of Anaxagoras is the same as that of\nEmpedocles and the Atomists. He denied any absolute becoming in the\nstrict sense of the passing of being into not-being and not-being into\nbeing. Matter is uncreated and indestructible, and all becoming must\nbe accounted for by the mixing and unmixing of its component parts.\nThis principle Anaxagoras himself expressed with great clearness, in a\nfragment of his treatise which has come down to us. \"The Greeks,\" he\nsays, \"erroneously assume origination and destruction, for nothing\noriginates and nothing is destroyed. All is only mixed and unmixed out\nof pre-existent things, and it were more correct to call the one\nprocess composition and the other process decomposition.\"\n\nThe Atomists had assumed the ultimate constituents of things to be\natoms composed of the same kind of matter. Empedocles had believed in\nfour ultimate and underived kinds of matter. With neither of these\ndoes Anaxagoras agree. For him, all the different kinds of {96} matter\nare equally ultimate and underived, that is to say, such things as\ngold, bone, hair, earth, water, wood, etc., are ultimate kinds of\nmatter, which do not arise from anything else, and do not pass over\ninto one another. He also disagrees with the conception of the\nAtomists that if matter is divided far enough, ultimate and\nindivisible particles will be reached. According to Anaxagoras matter\nis infinitely divisible. In the beginning all these kinds of matter\nwere mixed together in a chaotic mass. The mass stretches infinitely\nthroughout space. The different kinds of matter wholly intermingle and\ninterpenetrate each other. The process of world-formation is brought\nabout by the unmixing of the conglomeration of all kinds of matter,\nand the bringing together of like matter with like. Thus the gold\nparticles separating out of the mass come together, and form gold; the\nwood particles come together and form wood, and so on. But as matter\nis infinitely divisible and the original mixing of the elements was\ncomplete, they were, so to speak, mixed to an infinite extent.\nTherefore the process of unmixing would take infinite time, is now\ngoing on, and will always go on. Even in the purest element there is\nstill a certain admixture of particles of other kinds of matter. There\nis no such thing as pure gold. Gold is merely matter in which the gold\nparticles predominate.\n\nAs with Empedocles and the Atomists, a moving force is required to\nexplain the world-process of unmixing. What, in the philosophy of\nAnaxagoras, is this force? Now up to the present point the philosophy\nof Anaxagoras does not rise above the previous philosophies of\nEmpedocles and the Atomists. On the contrary, in clearness {97} and\nlogical consistency, it falls considerably below the teaching of the\nlatter. But it is just here, on the question of the moving force, that\nAnaxagoras becomes for the first time wholly original, and introduces\na principle peculiar to himself, a principle, moreover, which is\nentirely new in philosophy. Empedocles had taken as his moving forces,\nLove and Hate, mythical and fanciful on the one hand, and yet purely\nphysical on the other. The forces of the Atomists were also completely\nmaterial. But Anaxagoras conceives the moving force as wholly\nnon-physical and incorporeal. It is called Nous, that is, mind or\nintelligence. It is intelligence which produces the movement in things\nwhich brings about the formation of the world. What was it, now, which\nled Anaxagoras to the doctrine of a world-governing intelligence? It\nseems that he was struck with the apparent design, order, beauty and\nharmony of the universe. These things, he thought, could not be\naccounted for by blind forces. The world is apparently a rationally\ngoverned world. It moves towards definite ends. Nature shows plentiful\nexamples of the adaptation of means to ends. There appears to be plan\nand purpose in the world. The Atomists had assumed nothing but matter\nand physical force. How can design, order, harmony and beauty be\nbrought about by blind forces acting upon chaotic matter? Blind forces\nacting upon a chaos would produce motion and change. But the change\nwould be meaningless and purposeless. They could not produce a\nrationally ordered cosmos. One chaos would succeed another chaos ad\ninfinitum. That alone which can produce law and order is intelligence.\nThere must therefore be a world-controlling Nous.\n\n{98}\n\nWhat is the character of the Nous, according to Anaxagoras? Is it, in\nthe first place, really conceived as purely non-material and\nincorporeal? Aristotle, who was in a position to know more of the\nmatter than any modern scholar, clearly implies in his criticism that\nthe Nous of Anaxagoras is an incorporeal principle, and he has been\nfollowed in this by the majority of the best modern writers, such as\nZeller and Erdmann. But the opposite view has been maintained, by\nGrote, for example, and more recently by Professor Burnet, who thinks\nthat Anaxagoras conceived the Nous as a material and physical force.\n[Footnote 8] As the matter is of fundamental importance, I will\nmention the chief arguments upon which Professor Burnet rests his\ncase. In the first place Anaxagoras described the Nous as the\n\"thinnest and purest of all things.\" He also said that it was\n\"unmixed,\" that it had in it no mixture of anything besides itself.\nProfessor Burnet argues that such words as \"thin\" and \"unmixed\" would\nbe meaningless in connection with an incorporeal principle. Only\nmaterial things can properly be described as thin, pure, and unmixed.\nSecondly, Professor Burnet thinks that it is quite certain that the\nNous occupies space, for Anaxagoras speaks of greater and smaller\nportions of it. Greater and smaller are spatial relations. Hence the\nNous occupies space, and that which occupies space is material. But\nsurely these are very inconclusive arguments. In the first place as\nregards the use of the words \"thin\" and \"unmixed.\" It is true that\nthese terms express primarily physical qualities. But, as I pointed\nout in {99} the first chapter, almost all words by which we seek to\nexpress incorporeal ideas have originally a physical signification.\nAnd if Anaxagoras is to be called a materialist because he described\nthe Nous as thin, then we must also plead guilty to materialism if we\nsay that the thought of Plato is \"luminous,\" or that the mind of\nAristotle is \"clear.\" The fact is that all philosophy labours under\nthe difficulty of having to express non-sensuous thought in language\nwhich has been evolved for the purpose of expressing sensuous ideas.\nThere is no philosophy in the world, even up to the present day, in\nwhich expressions could not be found in plenty which are based upon\nthe use of physical analogies to express entirely non-physical ideas.\nThen as regards the Nous occupying space, it is not true that greater\nand smaller are necessarily spatial relations. They are also\nqualitative relations of degree. I say that the mind of Plato is\ngreater than the mind of Callias. Am I to be called a materialist? Am\nI to be supposed to mean that Plato's mind occupies more space than\nthat of Callias? And it is certainly in this way that Anaxagoras uses\nthe terms. \"All Nous,\" he says, \"is alike, both the greater and the\nsmaller.\" He means thereby that the world-forming mind (the greater)\nis identical in character with the mind of man (the smaller). For\nAnaxagoras it is the one Nous which animates all living beings, men,\nanimals, and even plants. These different orders of beings are\nanimated by the same Nous but in different degrees, that of man being\nthe greatest. But this does not mean that the Nous in man occupies\nmore space than the Nous in a plant. But even if Anaxagoras did\nconceive the Nous as spatial, it does not follow that he {100}\nregarded it as material. The doctrine of the non-spatiality of mind is\na modern doctrine, never fully developed till the time of Descartes.\nAnd to say that Anaxagoras did not realize that mind is non-spatial is\nmerely to say that he lived before the time of Descartes. No doubt it\nwould follow from this that the incorporeality of mind is vaguely and\nindistinctly conceived by Anaxagoras, that the antithesis between\nmatter and mind is not so sharply drawn by him as it is by us. But\nstill the antithesis is conceived, and therefore it is correct to say\nthat the Nous of Anaxagoras is an incorporeal principle. The whole\npoint of this introduction of the Nous into the philosophy of\nAnaxagoras is because he could not explain the design and order of the\nuniverse on a purely physical basis.\n\n[Footnote 8: _Early Greek Philosophy_, chap. vi. Sec. 132.]\n\nThe next characteristic of Nous is that it is to be thought of as\nessentially the ground of motion. It is because he cannot in any other\nway explain purposive motion that Anaxagoras introduces mind into his\notherwise materialistic system. Mind plays the part of the moving\nforce which explains the world-process of unmixing. As the ground of\nmotion, the Nous is itself unmoved; for if there were any motion in it\nwe should have to seek for the ground of this motion in something else\noutside it. That which is the cause of all motion, cannot itself be\nmoved. Next, the Nous is absolutely pure and unmixed with anything\nelse. It exists apart, by itself, wholly in itself, and for itself. In\ncontrast to matter, it is uncompounded and simple. It is this which\ngives it omnipotence, complete power over everything, because there is\nno mixture of matter in it to limit it, to clog and hinder its\nactivities. We moderns are {101} inclined to ask the question whether\nthe Nous is personal. Is it, for example, a personal being like the\nGod of the Christians? This is a question which it is almost\nimpossible to answer. Anaxagoras certainly never considered it.\nAccording to Zeller, the Greeks had an imperfect and undeveloped\nconception of personality. Even in Plato we find the same difficulty.\nThe antithesis between God as a personal and as an impersonal being,\nis a wholly modern idea. No Greek ever discussed it.\n\nTo come now to the question of the activity of the Nous and its\nfunction in the philosophy of Anaxagoras, we must note that it is\nessentially a world-forming, and not a world-creating, intelligence.\nThe Nous and matter exist side by side from eternity. It does not\ncreate matter, but only arranges it. \"All things were together,\" says\nAnaxagoras, \"infinitely numerous, infinitely little; then came the\nNous and set them in order.\" In this Anaxagoras showed a sound logical\nsense. He based his idea of the existence of Nous upon the design\nwhich exhibits itself in the world. In modern times the existence of\ndesign in the world has been made the foundation of an argument for\nthe existence of God, which is known as the teleological argument. The\nword teleology means the view of things as adapting means towards\npurposive ends. To see intelligent design in the universe is to view\nthe universe teleologically. And the teleological argument for the\nexistence of God asserts that, as there is evidence of purpose in\nnature, this must be due to an intelligent cause. But, as a matter of\nfact, taken by itself, teleology cannot possibly be made the basis of\nan argument for the existence of a world-creating intelligence, but\nonly for the existence of a world-designing {102} intelligence. If you\nfind in the desert the ruins of ancient cities and temples, you are\nentitled to conclude therefrom, that there existed a mind which\ndesigned these cities and buildings, and which arranged matter in that\npurposive way, but you are not entitled to conclude that the mind\nwhich designed the cities also created the matter out of which they\nwere made. Anaxagoras was, therefore, in that sense quite right.\nTeleology is not evidence of a world-creating mind, and if we are to\nprove that, we must have recourse to other lines of reasoning.\n\nIn the beginning, then, there was a chaotic mixture of different kinds\nof matter. The Nous produced a vortex at one point in the middle of\nthis mass. This vortex spread itself outwards in the mass of matter,\nlike rings caused by the fall of a stone in water. It goes on for ever\nand continually draws more and more matter out of the infinite mass\ninto itself. The movement, therefore, is never-ending. It causes like\nkinds of matter to come together with like, gold to gold, wood to\nwood, water to water, and so on. It is to be noted, therefore, that\nthe action of the Nous is apparently confined to the first movement.\nIt acts only at the one central point, and every subsequent movement\nis caused by the vortex itself, which draws in more and more of the\nsurrounding matter into itself. First are separated out the warm, dry,\nand light particles, and these form the aether or upper air. Next come\nthe cold, moist, dark, and dense particles which form the lower air.\nRotation takes the latter towards the centre, and out of this the\nearth is formed. The earth, as with Anaximenes, is a flat disc, borne\nupon the air. The heavenly bodies consist of {103} masses of stone\nwhich have been torn from the earth by the force of its rotation, and\nbeing projected outwards become incandescent through the rapidity of\ntheir movement. The moon is made of earth and reflects the light of\nthe sun. Anaxagoras was thus the first to give the true cause of the\nmoon's light. He was also the first to discover the true theory of\neclipses, since he taught that the solar eclipse is due to the\nintervention of the moon between the sun and the earth, and that lunar\neclipses arise from the shadow of the earth falling upon the moon. He\nbelieved that there are other worlds besides our own with their own\nsuns and moons. These worlds are inhabited. The sun, according to\nAnaxagoras, is many times as large as the Peloponnese. The origin of\nlife upon the earth is accounted for by germs which existed in the\natmosphere, and which were brought down into the terrestrial slime by\nrain water, and there fructified. Anaxagoras's theory of perception is\nthe opposite of the theories of Empedocles and the Atomists.\nPerception takes place by unlike matter meeting unlike.\n\nAnaxagoras owes his importance in the history of philosophy to the\ntheory of the Nous. This was the first time that a definite\ndistinction had been made between the corporeal and incorporeal.\nAnaxagoras is the last philosopher of the first period of Greek\nphilosophy. In the second chapter, [Footnote 9] I observed that this\nfirst period is characterized by the fact that in it the Greek mind\nlooks only outward upon the external world. It attempts to explain the\noperations of nature. It had not yet learned to look inward upon\nitself. But the transition to the introspective study of mind is found\nin the Nous of {104} Anaxagoras. Mind is now brought to the fore as a\nproblem for philosophy. To find reason, intelligence, mind, in all\nthings, in the State, in the individual, in external nature, this is\nthe characteristic of the second period of Greek philosophy. To have\nformulated the antithesis between mind and matter is the most\nimportant work of Anaxagoras.\n\n[Footnote 9: Pages 23-4.]\n\nSecondly, it is to the credit of Anaxagoras that he was the first to\nintroduce the idea of teleology into philosophy. The system of the\nAtomists formed the logical completion of the mechanical theory of the\nworld. The theory of mechanism seeks to explain all things by causes.\nBut, as we saw, causation can explain nothing. The mechanism of the\nworld shows us by what means events are brought about, but it does not\nexplain why they are brought about at all. That can only be explained\nby showing the reason for things, by exhibiting all process as a means\ntowards rational ends. To look to the beginning (cause) of things for\ntheir explanation is the theory of mechanism. To look to their ends\nfor explanation of them is teleology. Anaxagoras was the first to have\ndimly seen this. And for this reason Aristotle praises him, and,\ncontrasting him with the mechanists, Leucippus and Democritus, says\nthat he appears like \"a sober man among vain babblers.\" The new\nprinciple which he thus introduced into philosophy was developed, and\nformed the central idea of Plato and Aristotle. To have realized the\ntwin antitheses of matter and mind, of mechanism and teleology, is the\nglory of Anaxagoras.\n\nBut it is just here, in the development of these two ideas, that the\ndefects of his system make their appearance. Firstly, he so separated\nmatter and mind that {105} his philosophy ends in sheer dualism. He\nassumes the Nous and matter as existing from the beginning, side by\nside, as equally ultimate and underived principles. A monistic\nmaterialism would have derived the Nous from matter, and a monistic\nidealism would have derived matter from the Nous. But Anaxagoras does\nneither. Each is left, in his theory, an inexplicable ultimate\nmystery. His philosophy is, therefore, an irreconcilable dualism.\n\nSecondly, his teleology turns out in the end to be only a new theory\nof mechanism. The only reason which induces him to introduce the Nous\ninto the world, is because he cannot otherwise explain the origin of\nmovement. It is only the first movement of things, the formation of\nthe vortex, which he explains by mind. All subsequent process is\nexplained by the action of the vortex itself, which draws the\nsurrounding matter into itself. The Nous is thus nothing but another\npiece of mechanism to account for the first impulse to motion. He\nregards the Nous simply as a first cause, and thus the characteristic\nof all mechanism, to look back to first causes, to the beginning,\nrather than to the end of things for their explanation, appears here.\nAristotle, as usual, puts the matter in a nutshell. \"Anaxagoras,\" he\nsays, \"uses mind as a _deus ex machina_ to account for the formation\nof the world, and whenever he is at a loss to explain why anything\nnecessarily is, he drags it in by force. But in other cases he assigns\nas a cause for things anything else in preference to mind.\" [Footnote\n10]\n\n[Footnote 10; Aristotle, _Metaphysics_, book i, chap. iv.]\n\n\n\n{106}\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE SOPHISTS\n\nThe first period of Greek philosophy closes with Anaxagoras. His\ndoctrine of the world-forming intelligence introduced a new principle\ninto philosophy, the principle of the antithesis between corporeal\nmatter and incorporeal mind, and therefore, by implication, the\nantithesis between nature and man. And if the first period of\nphilosophy has for its problem the origin of the world, and the\nexplanation of the being and becoming of nature, the second period of\nphilosophy opens, in the Sophists, with the problem of the position of\nman in the universe. The teaching of the earlier philosophers was\nexclusively cosmological, that of the Sophists exclusively humanistic.\nLater in this second period, these two modes of thought come together\nand fructify one another. The problem of the mind and the problem of\nnature are subordinated as factors of the great, universal,\nall-embracing, world-systems of Plato and Aristotle.\n\nIt is not possible to understand the activities and teaching of the\nSophists without some knowledge of the religious, political, and\nsocial conditions of the time. After long struggles between the people\nand the nobles, democracy had almost everywhere triumphed. But in\nGreece democracy did not mean what we now mean by {107} that word. It\ndid not mean representative institutions, government by the people\nthrough their elected deputies. Ancient Greece was never a single\nnation under a single government. Every city, almost every hamlet, was\nan independent State, governed only by its own laws. Some of these\nStates were so small that they comprised merely a handful of citizens.\nAll were so small that all the citizens could meet together in one\nplace, and themselves in person enact the laws and transact public\nbusiness. There was no necessity for representation. Consequently in\nGreece every citizen was himself a politician and a legislator. In\nthese circumstances, partisan feeling ran to extravagant lengths. Men\nforgot the interests of the State in the interests of party, and this\nended in men forgetting the interests of their party in their own\ninterests. Greed, ambition, grabbing, selfishness, unrestricted\negotism, unbridled avarice, became the dominant notes of the political\nlife of the time.\n\nHand in hand with the rise of democracy went the decay of religion.\nBelief in the gods was almost everywhere discredited. This was partly\ndue to the moral worthlessness of the Greek religion itself. Any\naction, however scandalous or disgraceful, could be justified by the\nexamples of the gods themselves as related by the poets and\nmythologers of Greece. But, in greater measure, the collapse of\nreligion was due to that advance of science and philosophy which we\nhave been considering in these lectures. The universal tendency of\nthat philosophy was to find natural causes for what had hitherto been\nascribed to the action of the divine powers, and this could not but\nhave an undermining effect upon popular {108} belief. Nearly all the\nphilosophers had been secretly, and many of them openly, antagonistic\nto the people's religion. The attack was begun by Xenophanes;\nHeracleitus carried it on; and lastly Democritus had attempted to\nexplain belief in the gods as being caused by fear of gigantic\nterrestrial and astronomical phenomena. No educated man any longer\nbelieved in divination, auguries, and miracles. A wave of rationalism\nand scepticism passed over the Greek people. The age became one of\nnegative, critical, and destructive thought. Democracy had undermined\nthe old aristocratic institutions of the State, and science had\nundermined religious orthodoxy. With the downfall of these two pillars\nof things established, all else went too. All morality, all custom,\nall authority, all tradition, were criticised and rejected. What was\nregarded with awe and pious veneration by their fore-fathers the\nmodern Greeks now looked upon as fit subjects for jest and mockery.\nEvery restraint of custom, law, or morality, was resented as an\nunwarrantable restriction upon the natural impulses of man. What alone\nremained when these were thrust aside were the lust, avarice, and\nself-will of the individual.\n\nThe teaching of the Sophists was merely a translation into theoretical\npropositions of these practical tendencies of the period. The Sophists\nwere the children of their time, and the interpreters of their age.\nTheir philosophical teachings were simply the crystallization of the\nimpulses which governed the life of the people into abstract\nprinciples and maxims.\n\nWho and what were the Sophists? In the first place, they were not a\nschool of philosophers. They are not to be compared, for example, with\nthe Pythagoreans or {109} Eleatics. They had not, as a school has, any\nsystem of philosophy held in common by them all. None of them\nconstructed systems of thought. They had in common only certain loose\ntendencies of thought. Nor were they, as we understand the members of\na school to be, in any close personal association with one another.\nThey were a professional class rather than a school, and as such they\nwere scattered over Greece, and nourished among themselves the usual\nprofessional rivalries. They were professional teachers and educators.\nThe rise of the Sophists was due to the growing demand for popular\neducation, which was partly a genuine demand for light and knowledge,\nbut was mostly a desire for such spurious learning as would lead to\nworldly, and especially political, success. The triumph of democracy\nhad brought it about that political careers were now open to the\nmasses who had hitherto been wholly shut out from them. Any man could\nrise to the highest positions in the State, if he were endowed with\ncleverness, ready speech, whereby to sway the passions of the mob, and\na sufficient equipment in the way of education. Hence the demand arose\nfor such an education as would enable the ordinary man to carve out a\npolitical career for himself. It was this demand which the Sophists\nundertook to satisfy. They wandered about Greece from place to place,\nthey gave lectures, they took pupils, they entered into disputations.\nFor these services they exacted large fees. They were the first in\nGreece to take fees for the teaching of wisdom. There was nothing\ndisgraceful in this in itself, but it had never been customary. The\nwise men of Greece had never accepted any payment for their wisdom.\nSocrates, who never accepted any payment, {110} but gave his wisdom\nfreely to all who sought it, somewhat proudly contrasted himself with\nthe Sophists in this respect.\n\nThe Sophists were not, technically speaking, philosophers. They did\nnot specialise in the problems of philosophy. Their tendencies were\npurely practical. They taught any subject whatever for the teaching of\nwhich there was a popular demand. For example, Protagoras undertook to\nimpart to his pupils the principles of success as a politician or as a\nprivate citizen. Gorgias taught rhetoric and politics, Prodicus\ngrammar and etymology, Hippias history, mathematics and physics. In\nconsequence of this practical tendency of the Sophists we hear of no\nattempts among them to solve the problem of the origin of nature, or\nthe character of the ultimate reality. The Sophists have been\ndescribed as teachers of virtue, and the description is correct,\nprovided that the word virtue is understood in its Greek sense, which\ndid not restrict it to morality alone. For the Greeks, it meant the\ncapacity of a person successfully to perform his functions in the\nState. Thus the virtue of a mechanic is to understand machinery, the\nvirtue of a physician to cure the sick, the virtue of a horse trainer\nthe ability to train horses. The Sophists undertook to train men to\nvirtue in this sense, to make them successful citizens and members of\nthe State.\n\nBut the most popular career for a Greek of ability at the time was the\npolitical, which offered the attraction of high positions in the\nState. And for this career what was above all necessary was eloquence,\nor if that were unattainable, at least ready speech, the ability to\nargue, to meet every point as it arose, if not with sound {111}\nreasoning, then with quick repartee. Hence the Sophists very largely\nconcentrated their energies upon the teaching of rhetoric. In itself\nthis was good. They were the first to direct attention to the science\nof rhetoric, of which they may be considered the founders. But their\nrhetoric also had its bad side, which indeed, soon became its only\nside. The aims of the young politicians whom they trained were, not to\nseek out the truth for its own sake, but merely to persuade the\nmultitude of whatever they wished them to believe. Consequently the\nSophists, like lawyers, not caring for the truth of the matter,\nundertook to provide a stock of arguments on any subject, or to prove\nany proposition. They boasted of their ability to make the worse\nappear the better reason, to prove that black is white. Some of them,\nlike Gorgias, asserted that it was not necessary to have any knowledge\nof a subject to give satisfactory replies as regards it. And Gorgias\nostentatiously undertook to answer any question on any subject\ninstantly and without consideration. To attain these ends mere\nquibbling, and the scoring of verbal points, were employed. Hence our\nword \"sophistry.\" The Sophists, in this way, endeavoured to entangle,\nentrap, and confuse their opponents, and even, if this were not\npossible, to beat them down by mere violence and noise. They sought\nalso to dazzle by means of strange or flowery metaphors, by unusual\nfigures of speech, by epigrams and paradoxes, and in general by being\nclever and smart, rather than earnest and truthful. When a man is\nyoung he is often dazzled by brilliance and cleverness, by paradox and\nepigram, but as he grows older he learns to discount these things and\nto care chiefly for the substance and {112} truth of what is said. And\nthe Greeks were a young people. They loved clever sayings. And this it\nis which accounts for the toleration which they extended even to the\nmost patent absurdities of the Sophists. The modern question whether a\nman has ceased beating his wife is not more childish than many of the\nrhetorical devices of the Sophists, and is indeed characteristic of\nthe methods of the more extravagant among them.\n\nThe earliest known Sophist is Protagoras. He was born at Abdera, about\n480 B.C. He wandered up and down Greece, and settled for some time at\nAthens. At Athens, however, he was charged with impiety and atheism.\nThis was on account of a book written by him on the subject of the\ngods, which began with the words, \"As for the gods, I am unable to say\nwhether they exist or whether they do not exist.\" The book was\npublicly burnt, and Protagoras had to fly from Athens. He fled to\nSicily, but was drowned on the way about the year 410 B.C.\n\nProtagoras was the author of the famous saying, \"Man is the measure of\nall things; of what is, that it is; of what is not, that it is not.\"\nNow this saying puts in a nutshell, so to speak, the whole teaching of\nProtagoras. And, indeed, it contains in germ the entire thought of the\nSophists. It is well, therefore, that we should fully understand\nexactly what it means. The earlier Greek philosophers had made a clear\ndistinction between sense and thought, between perception and reason,\nand had believed that the truth is to be found, not by the senses, but\nby reason. The Eleatics had been the first to emphasize this\ndistinction. The ultimate reality of {113} things, they said, is pure\nBeing, which is known only through reason; it is the senses which\ndelude us with a show of becoming. Heracleitus had likewise affirmed\nthat the truth, which was, for him, the law of becoming, is known by\nthought, and that it is the senses which delude us with a show of\npermanence. Even Democritus believed that true being, that is,\nmaterial atoms, are so small that the senses cannot perceive them, and\nonly reason is aware of their existence. Now the teaching of\nProtagoras really rests fundamentally upon the denying and confusing\nof this distinction. If we are to see this, we must first of all\nunderstand that reason is the universal, sensation the particular,\nelement in man. In the first place, reason is communicable, sensation\nincommunicable. My sensations and feelings are personal to myself, and\ncannot be imparted to other people. For example, no one can\ncommunicate the sensation of redness to a colour-blind man, who has\nnot already experienced it. But a thought, or rational idea, can be\ncommunicated to any rational being. Now suppose the question is\nwhether the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal. We\nmay approach the problem in two ways. We may appeal either to the\nsenses or to reason. If we appeal to the senses, one man will come\nforward and say that to him the angles look equal. Another man will\nsay that one angle looks bigger than the other, and so on. But if,\nlike Euclid, we appeal to reason, then it can be proved that the two\nangles are equal, and there is no room left for mere personal\nimpressions, because reason is a law universally valid and binding\nupon all men. My sensations are private and peculiar to myself. They\nbind no one but myself. My {114} impressions about the triangle are\nnot a law to anyone except myself. But my reason I share with all\nother rational beings. It is not a law for me merely, but for all. It\nis one and the same reason in me and in other men. Reason, therefore,\nis the universal, sensation the particular, element in man. Now it is\npractically this distinction that Protagoras denied. Man, he said, is\nthe measure of all things. By man he did not mean mankind at large. He\nmeant the individual man. And by measure of all things he meant the\nstandard of the truth of all things. Each individual man is the\nstandard of what is true to himself. There is no truth except the\nsensations and impressions of each man. What seems true to me is true\nfor me. What seems true to you is true for you.\n\nWe commonly distinguish between subjective impressions and objective\ntruth. The words subjective and objective are constantly recurring\nthroughout the history of philosophy, and as this is the first time I\nuse them, I will explain them here. In every act of thought there must\nnecessarily be two terms. I am now looking at this desk and thinking\nof this desk. There is the \"I\" which thinks, and there is the desk\nwhich is thought. \"I\" am the subject of the thought, the desk is the\nobject of the thought. In general, the subject is that which thinks,\nand the object is that which is thought. Subjective is that which\nappertains to the subject, and objective is that which appertains to\nthe object. So the meaning of the distinction between subjective\nimpressions and the objective truth is clear. My personal impression\nmay be that the earth is flat, but the objective truth is that the\n{115} earth is round. Travelling through a desert, I may be subject to\na mirage, and think that there is water in front of me. That is my\nsubjective impression. The objective truth is that there is nothing\nbut sand. The objective truth is something which has an existence of\nits own, independent of me. It does not matter what I think, or what\nyou think, what I want, or what you want; the truth is what it is. We\nmust conform ourselves to the truth. Truth will not conform itself to\nour personal inclinations, wishes, or impressions. The teaching of\nProtagoras practically amounted to a denial of this. What it meant was\nthat there is no objective truth, no truth independent of the\nindividual subject. Whatever seems to the individual true is true for\nthat individual. Thus truth is identified with subjective sensations\nand impressions.\n\nTo deny the distinction between objective truth and subjective\nimpression is the same as to deny the distinction between reason and\nsense. To my senses the earth seems flat. It looks flat to the eye. It\nis only through reason that I know the objective truth that the world\nis round. Reason, therefore, is the only possible standard of\nobjective truth. If you deny the rational element its proper part, it\nfollows that you will be left a helpless prey to diverse personal\nimpressions. The impressions yielded by the senses differ in different\npeople. One man sees a thing in one way, another sees it in another.\nIf, therefore, what seems to me true is true for me, and what seems to\nyou true is true for you, and if our impressions differ, it will\nfollow that two contradictory propositions must both be true.\nProtagoras clearly understood this, {116} and did not flinch from the\nconclusion. He taught that all opinions are true, that error is\nimpossible, and that, whatever proposition is put forward, it is\nalways possible to oppose to it a contradictory proposition with\nequally good arguments and with equal truth. In reality, the result of\nthis procedure is to rob the distinction between truth and falsehood\nof all meaning. It makes no difference whether we say that all\nopinions are true, or whether we say that all are false. The words\ntruth and falsehood, in such context, have no meaning. To say that\nwhatever I feel is the truth for me means only that what I feel I\nfeel. To call this \"truth for me,\" adds nothing to the meaning.\n\nProtagoras seems to have been led to these doctrines partly by\nobserving the different accounts of the same object which the\nsense-organs yield to different people, and even to the same person at\ndifferent times. If knowledge depends upon these impressions, the\ntruth about the object cannot be ascertained. He was also influenced\nby the teaching of Heracleitus. Heracleitus had taught that all\npermanence is illusion. Everything is a perpetual becoming; all things\nflow. What is at this moment, at the next moment is not. Even at one\nand the same moment, Heracleitus believed, a thing is and is not. If\nit is true to say that it is, it is equally true that it is not. And\nthis is, in effect, the teaching of Protagoras.\n\nThe Protagorean philosophy thus amounts to a declaration that\nknowledge is impossible. If there is no objective truth, there cannot\nbe any knowledge of it. The impossibility of knowledge is also the\nstandpoint of Gorgias. The title of his book is characteristic of\n{117} the Sophistical love of paradox. It was called \"On Nature, or\nthe non-existent.\" In this book he attempted to prove three\npropositions, (1) that nothing exists: (2) that if anything exists, it\ncannot be known: (3) that if it can be known, the knowledge of it\ncannot be communicated.\n\nFor proof of the first proposition, \"nothing exists,\" Gorgias attached\nhimself to the school of the Eleatics, especially to Zeno. Zeno had\ntaught that in all multiplicity and motion, that is to say, in all\nexistence, there are irreconcilable contradictions. Zeno was in no\nsense a sceptic. He did not seek for contradictions in things for the\nsake of the contradictions, but in order to support the positive\nthesis of Parmenides, that only being is, and that becoming is not at\nall. Zeno, therefore, is to be regarded as a constructive, and not\nmerely as a destructive, thinker. But it is obvious that by\nemphasizing only the negative element in his philosophy, it is\npossible to use his antinomies as powerful weapons in the cause of\nscepticism and nihilism. And it was in this way that Gorgias made use\nof the dialectic of Zeno. Since all existence is self-contradictory,\nit follows that nothing exists. He also made use of the famous\nargument of Parmenides regarding the origin of being. If anything is,\nsaid Gorgias, it must have had a beginning. Its being must have arisen\neither from being, or from not-being. If it arose from being, there is\nno beginning. If it arose from not-being, this is impossible, since\nsomething cannot arise out of nothing. Therefore nothing exists.\n\nThe second proposition of Gorgias, that if anything exists it cannot\nbe known, is part and parcel of the whole Sophistic tendency of\nthought, which identifies knowledge {118} with sense-perception, and\nignores the rational element. Since sense-impressions differ in\ndifferent people, and even in the same person, the object as it is in\nitself cannot be known. The third proposition follows from the same\nidentification of knowledge with sensation, since sensation is what\ncannot be communicated.\n\nThe later Sophists went much further than Protagoras and Gorgias. It\nwas their work to apply the teaching of Protagoras to the spheres of\npolitics and morals. If there is no objective truth, and if what seems\ntrue to each individual is for him the truth, so also, there can be no\nobjective moral code, and what seems right to each man is right for\nhim. If we are to have anything worth calling morality, it is clear\nthat it must be a law for all, and not merely a law for some. It must\nbe valid for, and binding upon, all men. It must, therefore, be\nfounded upon that which is universal in man, that is to say, his\nreason. To found it upon sense-impressions and feelings is to found it\nupon shifting quicksands. My feelings and sensations are binding upon\nno man but myself, and therefore a universally valid law cannot be\nfounded upon them. Yet the Sophists identified morality with the\nfeelings of the individual. Whatever I think right is right for me.\nWhatever you think right is right for you. Whatever each man, in his\nirrational self-will, chooses to do, that is, for him, legitimate.\nThese conclusions were drawn by Polus, Thrasymachus, and Critias.\n\nNow if there is, in this way, no such thing as objective right, it\nfollows that the laws of the State can be founded upon nothing except\nforce, custom, and convention. We often speak of just laws, and good\nlaws. But to speak in that way involves the existence of an objective\n{119} standard of goodness and justice, with which we can compare the\nlaw, and see whether it agrees with that standard or not. To the\nSophists, who denied any such standard, it was mere nonsense to speak\nof just and good laws. No law is in itself good or just, because there\nis no such thing as goodness or justice. Or if they used such a word\nas justice, they defined it as meaning the right of the stronger; or\nthe right of the majority. Polus and Thrasymachus, consequently, drew\nthe conclusion that the laws of the State were inventions of the weak,\nwho were cunning enough, by means of this stratagem, to control the\nstrong, and rob them of the natural fruits of their strength. The law\nof force is the only law which nature recognizes. If a man, therefore,\nis powerful enough to defy the law with impunity, he has a perfect\nright to do so. The Sophists were thus the first, but not the last, to\npreach the doctrine that might is right. And, in similar vein, Critias\nexplained popular belief in the gods as the invention of some crafty\nstatesman for controlling the mob through fear.\n\nNow it is obvious that the whole tendency of this sophistical teaching\nis destructive and anti-social. It is destructive of religion, of\nmorality, of the foundations of the State, and of all established\ninstitutions. And we can now see that the doctrines of the Sophists\nwere, in fact, simply the crystallization into abstract thought of the\npractical tendencies of the age. The people in practice, the Sophists\nin theory, decried and trod under foot the restrictions of law,\nauthority, and custom, leaving nothing but the deification of the\nindividual in his crude self-will and egotism. It was in fact an age\nof \"aufklaerung,\" which means enlightenment or {120} illumination. Such\nperiods of illumination, it seems, recur periodically in the history\nof thought, and in the history of civilization. This is the first, but\nnot the last, such period with which the history of philosophy deals.\nThis is the Greek illumination. Such periods present certain\ncharacteristic features. They follow, as a rule, upon an era of\nconstructive thought. In the present instance the Greek illumination\nfollowed closely upon the heels of the great development of science\nand philosophy from Thales to Anaxagoras. In such a constructive\nperiod the great thinkers bring to birth new principles, which, in the\ncourse of time, filter down to the masses of the people and cause\npopular, if shallow, science, and a wide-spread culture. Popular\neducation becomes a feature of the time. The new ideas, fermenting\namong the people, break up old prejudices and established ideas, and\nthus thought, at first constructive, becomes, among the masses,\ndestructive in character. Hence the popular thought, in a period of\nenlightenment, issues in denial, scepticism, and disbelief. It is\nmerely negative in its activities and results. Authority, tradition,\nand custom are wholly or partially destroyed. And since authority,\ntradition, and custom are the cement of the social structure, there\nresults a general dissolution of that structure into its component\nindividuals. All emphasis is now laid on the individual. Thought\nbecomes egocentric. Individualism is the dominant note. Extreme\nsubjectivity is the principle of the age. All these features make\ntheir appearance in the Greek aufklaerung. The Sophistical doctrine\nthat the truth is what I think, the good what I choose to do, is the\nextreme application of the subjective and egocentric principles.\n\n{121}\n\nThe early eighteenth century in England and France was likewise a\nperiod of enlightenment, and the era from which we are now, perhaps,\njust emerging, bears many of the characteristics of aufklaerung. It is\nsceptical and destructive. All established institutions, marriage, the\nfamily, the state, the law, come in for much destructive criticism. It\nfollowed immediately upon the close of a great period of constructive\nthought, the scientific development of the nineteenth century. And\nlastly, the age has produced its own Protagorean philosophy, which it\ncalls pragmatism. If pragmatism is not egocentric, it is at least\nanthropocentric. Truth is no longer thought of as an objective\nreality, to which mankind must conform. On the contrary, the truth\nmust conform itself to mankind. Whatever it is useful to believe,\nwhatever belief \"works\" in practice, is declared to be true. But since\nwhat \"works\" in one age and country does not \"work\" in another, since\nwhat it is useful to believe to-day will be useless to-morrow, it\nfollows that there is no objective truth independent of mankind at\nall. Truth is not now defined as dependent on the sensations of man,\nas it was with Protagoras, but as dependent on the volition of man. In\neither case it is not the universal in man, his reason, which is made\nthe basis of truth and morals, but the subjective, individual,\nparticular element in him.\n\nWe must not forget the many merits of the Sophists. Individually, they\nwere often estimable men. Nothing is known against the character of\nProtagoras, and Prodicus was proverbial for his wisdom and the genuine\nprobity and uprightness of his principles. Moreover the Sophists\ncontributed much to the advance of learning. {122} They were the first\nto direct attention to the study of words, sentences, style, prosody,\nand rhythm. They were the founders of the science of rhetoric. They\nspread education and culture far and wide in Greece, they gave a great\nimpulse to the study of ethical ideas, which made possible the\nteaching of Socrates, and they stirred up a ferment of ideas without\nwhich the great period of Plato and Aristotle could never have seen\nthe light. But, from the philosophical point of view, their merit is\nfor the first time to have brought into general recognition _the right\nof the subject_. For there is, after all, much reason in these attacks\nmade by the Sophists upon authority, upon established things, upon\ntradition, custom and dogma. Man, as a rational being, ought not to be\ntyrannized over by authority, dogma, and tradition. He cannot be\nsubjected, thus violently, to the imposition of beliefs from an\nexternal source. No man has the right to say to me, \"you _shall_ think\nthis,\" or \"you _shall_ think that.\" I, as a rational being, have the\nright to use my reason, and judge for myself. If a man would convince\nme, he must not appeal to force, but to reason. In doing so, he is not\nimposing his opinions externally upon me; he is educing his opinions\nfrom the internal sources of my own thought; he is showing me that his\nopinions are in reality my own opinions, if I only knew it. But the\nmistake of the Sophists was that, in thus recognizing the right of the\nsubject, they wholly ignored and forgot _the right of the object_. For\nthe truth has objective existence, and is what it is, whether I think\nit or not. Their mistake was that though they rightly saw that for\ntruth and morality to be valid for me, they must be assented to by,\nand developed out of, {123} me myself, not imposed from the outside,\nyet they laid the emphasis on my merely accidental and particular\ncharacteristics, my impulses, feelings, and sensations, and made these\nthe source of truth and morality, instead of emphasizing as the source\nof truth and right the universal part of me, my reason. \"Man is the\nmeasure of all things\"; certainly, but man as a rational being, not\nman as a bundle of particular sensations, subjective impressions,\nimpulses, irrational prejudices, self-will, mere eccentricities,\noddities, foibles, and fancies.\n\nGood examples of the right and wrong principles of the Sophists are to\nbe found in modern Protestantism and modern democracy. Protestantism,\nit is often said, is founded upon the right of private judgment, and\nthis is simply the right of the subject, the right of the individual\nto exercise his own reason. But if this is interpreted to mean that\neach individual is entitled to set up his mere whims and fancies as\nthe law in religious matters, then we have the bad sort of\nProtestantism. Again, democracy is simply political protestantism, and\ndemocratic ideas are the direct offspring of the protestant\nReformation. The democratic principle is that no rational being can be\nasked to obey a law to which his own reason has not assented. But the\nlaw must be founded upon reason, upon the universal in man. I, as an\nindividual, as a mere ego, have no rights whatever. It is only as a\nrational being, as a potentially universal being, as a member of the\ncommonwealth of reason, that I have any rights, that I can claim to\nlegislate for myself and others. But if each individual's capricious\nself-will, his mere whims and fancies, are erected into a law, then\ndemocracy turns into anarchism and bolshevism.\n\n{124}\n\nIt is a great mistake to suppose that the doctrines of the Sophists\nare merely antiquated ideas, dead and fossilized thoughts, of interest\nonly to historians, but of no importance to us. On the contrary,\nmodern popular thought positively reeks with the ideas and tendencies\nof the Sophists. It is often said that a man ought to have strong\nconvictions, and some people even go so far as to say that it does not\nmuch matter what a man believes, so long as what he believes he\nbelieves strongly and firmly. Now certainly it is quite true that a\nman with strong convictions is more interesting than a man without any\nopinions. The former is at least a force in the world, while the\nlatter is colourless and ineffectual. But to put exclusive emphasis on\nthe mere fact of having convictions is wrong. After all, the final\ntest of worth must be whether the man's convictions are true or false.\nThere must be an objective standard of truth, and to forget this, to\ntalk of the mere fact of having strong opinions as in itself a merit,\nis to fall into the error of the Sophists.\n\nAnother common saying is that everyone has a right to his own\nopinions. This is quite true, and it merely expresses the right of the\nsubject to use his own reason. But it is sometimes interpreted in a\ndifferent way. If a man holds a totally irrational opinion, and if\nevery weapon is beaten out of his hands, if he is driven from every\nposition he takes up--so that there is nothing left for him to do,\nexcept to admit that he is wrong, such a man will sometimes take\nrefuge in the saying, that, after all, argue as you may, he has a\nright to his own opinion. But we cannot allow the claim. No man has a\nright to wrong opinions. There cannot be any right {125} in wrong\nopinions. You have no right to an opinion unless it is founded upon\nthat which is universal in man, his reason. You cannot claim this\nright on behalf of your subjective impressions, and irrational whims.\nTo do so is to make the mistake of the Sophists.\n\nThe tendencies of the more shallow type of modern rationalism exhibit\na similar Sophistical thought. It is pointed out that moral ideas vary\nvery much in different countries and ages, that in Japan, for example,\nprostitution is condoned, and that in ancient Egypt incest was not\ncondemned. Now it is important to know these facts. They should serve\nas a warning to us against dogmatic narrow-mindedness in moral\nmatters. But some people draw from these facts the conclusion that\nthere is no universally valid and objectively real moral law. The\nconclusion does not follow from the premises, and the conclusion is\nfalse. People's opinions differ, not only on moral questions, but upon\nevery subject under the sun. Because men, a few hundred years ago,\nbelieved that the earth was flat, whereas now we believe it is round,\nit does not follow that it has in reality no shape at all, that there\nis no objective truth in the matter. And because men's opinions\ndiffer, in different ages and countries, as to what the true moral law\nis, it does not follow that there is no objective moral law.\n\nWe will take as our last example the current talk about the importance\nof developing one's personality. A man, it is said, should \"be\nhimself,\" and the expression of his own individuality must be his\nleading idea. Now certainly it is good to be oneself in the sense that\nit is hypocritical to pretend to be what one is not. Moreover, it is\nno doubt true that each man has certain special {126} gifts, which he\nought to develop, so that all, in their diverse ways, may contribute\nas much as possible to the spiritual and material wealth of the world.\nBut this ideal of individuality often leads to false developments, as\nwe see in the spheres of art and of education. Such a man as Oscar\nWilde, whose personality is essentially evil, defends his artistic\nprinciples on the ground that he must needs express his personality,\nthat art is nothing but such personal expression, and that it is\nsubject to no standard save the individuality of the artist. Some\nwriters on education, among them Mr. Bernard Shaw, who has many points\nin common with the Sophists, tell us that to attempt to mould the\ncharacter of a child by discipline, is to sin against its personality,\nand that the child should be allowed to develop its individuality\nunchecked in its own way. But against this we have to protest that to\nmake the cultivation of individuality an end in itself, and to put\nexclusive emphasis on this, is wrong. The cultivation of an\nindividuality is not in itself a good thing; it is not a good thing if\nthe individuality be a worthless one. If a child exhibits savage or\nselfish tendencies, it must be subjected to discipline, and it is\nridiculous to make a fetish of its personality to such an extent as to\nallow it to develop as it likes. In a similar way, the ideal of\nindividuality is often interpreted to mean that the cultivation of the\nmere eccentricities and oddities of the individual is something good.\nBut the personal peculiarities of a man are just what is worthless\nabout him. That alone which entitles him to the sacred rights of a\n\"person\" is his rational and universal nature.\n\n\n\n{127}\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nSOCRATES\n\nAmid the destruction of all ideals of truth and morality, which was\nbrought about by the Sophists, there appeared in Athens the figure of\nSocrates, who was destined to restore order out of chaos, and to\nintroduce sanity into the disordered intellectual life of the time.\nSocrates was born about 470 B.C. in Athens. His father was a sculptor,\nhis mother a midwife. Very little is known of his early years and\neducation, except that he took up his father's occupation as a\nsculptor. In later years some statues used to be shown at the\nAcropolis in Athens, which were said to be the work of Socrates. But\ncomparatively early in life he deserted his profession in order to\ndevote himself to what he considered his mission in life, philosophy.\nHe spent his entire life in Athens, never departing from it, save for\nshort periods on three occasions, when he served in military\nexpeditions in the Athenian army. For from twenty to thirty years he\nlaboured at his philosophical mission in Athens, until, in his\nseventieth year, he was charged with denying the national gods,\nintroducing new gods of his own, and corrupting the Athenian youth. On\nthese charges he was condemned to death and executed.\n\n{128}\n\nThe personal appearance of Socrates was grotesque. He was short,\nthick-set, and ugly. As he grew older he became bald; his nose was\nbroad, flat, and turned up; he walked with a peculiar gait, and had a\ntrick of rolling his eyes. His clothes were old and poor. He cared\nlittle or nothing for external appearances.\n\nSocrates believed that he was guided in all his actions by a\nsupernatural voice, which he called his \"daemon.\" This voice, he\nthought, gave him premonitions of the good or evil consequences of his\nproposed actions, and nothing would induce him to disobey its\ninjunctions. Socrates constructed no philosophy, that is to say, no\nsystem of philosophy. He was the author of philosophical tendencies,\nand of a philosophic method. He never committed his opinions to\nwriting. His method of philosophizing was purely conversational. It\nwas his habit to go down every day to the market place in Athens, or\nto any other spot where people gathered, and there to engage in\nconversation with anyone who was ready to talk to him about the deep\nproblems of life and death. Rich or poor, young or old, friend or\nstranger, whoever came, and would attend, could listen freely to the\ntalk of Socrates. He took no fees, as the Sophists did, and remained\nalways a poor man. He did not, like the Sophists, deliver long\nspeeches, tirades, and monologues. He never monopolised the\nconversation, and frequently it was the other party who did most of\nthe talking, Socrates only interposing questions and comments, and yet\nremaining always master of the conversation, and directing it into\nfruitful channels. The conversation proceeded chiefly by the method of\nquestion and answer, Socrates by acute questions educing, bringing to\nbirth, {129} the thoughts of his partner, correcting, refuting, or\ndeveloping them.\n\nIn carrying on this daily work, Socrates undoubtedly regarded himself\nas engaged upon a mission in some way supernaturally imposed upon him\nby God. Of the origin of this mission we have an account in the\n\"Apology\" of Plato, who puts into the mouth of Socrates the following\nwords:--\"Chairephon .... made a pilgrimage to Delphi and had the\naudacity to ask this question from the oracle .... He actually asked\nif there was any man wiser than I. And the priestess answered, No ....\nWhen I heard the answer, I asked myself: What can the god mean? what\ncan he be hinting? For certainly I have never thought myself wise in\nanything, great or small. What can he mean then, when he asserts that\nI am the wisest of men? He cannot lie, of course: that would be\nimpossible for him. And for a long while I was at a loss to think what\nhe could mean. At last, after much thought, I started on some such\ncourse as this. I betook myself to one of the men who seemed wise,\nthinking that there, if anywhere, I should refute the utterance, and\ncould say to the oracle: 'This man is wiser than I, and you said I was\nthe wisest.' Now when I looked into the man--there is no need to give\nhis name--it was one of our citizens, men of Athens, with whom I had\nan experience of this kind--when we talked together I thought, 'This\nman seems wise to many men, and above all to himself, but he is not\nso'; and then I tried to show that he thought he was wise, but he was\nnot. Then he got angry with me and so did many who heard us, but I\nwent away and thought to myself, 'Well, at any rate I am wiser than\nthis man: probably neither of {130} us knows anything of beauty or of\ngood, but he thinks he knows something when he knows nothing, and I,\nif I know nothing, at least never suppose that I do. So it looks as\nthough I really were a little wiser than he, just in so far as I do\nnot imagine myself to know things about which I know nothing at all.'\nAfter that I went to another man who seemed to be wiser still, and I\nhad exactly the same experience, and then he got angry with me too,\nand so did many more. Thus I went round them all, one after the other,\naware of what was happening and sorry for it, and afraid that they\nwere getting to hate me.\"\n\nIn this passage we can see, too, the supposed origin of another\npeculiar Socratic feature, the Socratic \"irony.\" In any discussion,\nSocrates would, as a rule, profess himself to be totally ignorant of\nthe matter in hand, and only anxious to learn the wisdom possessed by\nhis interlocutor. This professed ignorance was not affectation. He was\ngenuinely impressed with the notion that not only he, but all other\nmen, live for the most part in ignorance of the things that are the\nmost important to be known, the nature of goodness, beauty, and truth.\nHe believed that the self-styled knowledge of the wise was, for the\nmost part, nothing but pretentious ignorance. Nevertheless, he used\nthis profession of ignorance as a weapon of offence, and it became in\nhis hands a powerful rhetorical instrument, which he used with\nspecially telling effect against those who, puffed up with their own\nimportance and wisdom, pretended to knowledge which they did not\npossess. Such hollow pretence of knowledge met with uncompromising\nexposure at the hands of Socrates. With such persons he would open the\n{131} conversation with a confession of his own ignorance and an\nexpression of his desire to learn the wisdom, which, he knew, they\npossessed. In their eagerness to show off their knowledge, they would,\nperhaps, rush into the breach with some very positive assertion.\nSocrates would express himself as delighted with this, but would add\nthat there were one or two things about it which he did not fully\nunderstand, and he would proceed, with a few dexterous questions, to\nexpose the hollowness, the shallowness, or the ignorance of the\nanswers.\n\nIt was chiefly the young men of Athens who gathered round Socrates,\nwho was for them a centre of intellectual activity and a fountain of\ninspiration. It was this fact which afterwards formed the basis of the\ncharge that he \"corrupted the youth.\" He was a man of the noblest\ncharacter and of the simplest life. Accepting no fees, he acquired no\nwealth. Poor, caring nothing for worldly goods, wholly independent of\nthe ordinary needs and desires of men, he devoted himself exclusively\nto the acquisition of that which, in his eyes, alone had value, wisdom\nand virtue. He was endowed with the utmost powers of physical\nendurance and moral strength. When he served with the army in the\nPeloponnesian war, he astonished his fellow-soldiers by his bravery,\nand his cheerful endurance of every hardship. On two occasions, at\nconsiderable risk to himself, he saved the lives of his companions. At\nthe battle of Delium it is said that Socrates was the only man who\nkept his head in the rout of the Athenians. He was an excellent\ncompanion, and though simple in his habits, and independent of all\nmaterial pleasures, never made a fetish of this independence, nor\nallowed it to degenerate into a harsh asceticism, {132} Thus, he\nneeded no wine, but yet, if occasion called for it, he not only drank,\nbut could drink more than any other man without turning a hair. In the\n\"Banquet\" of Plato, Socrates is depicted sitting all night long\ndrinking and talking philosophy with his friends. One by one the\nguests succumbed, leaving only Socrates and two others, and at last,\nas the dawn broke, these two also fell asleep. But Socrates got up,\nwashed himself, and went down to the market place to begin his daily\nwork.\n\nIn his seventieth year he was tried on three charges: (1) for denying\nthe national gods, (2) for setting up new gods of his own, (3) for\ncorrupting the youth. All these charges were entirely baseless. The\nfirst might well have been brought against almost any of the earlier\nGreek thinkers with some justice. Most of them disbelieved in the\nnational religion; many of them openly denied the existence of the\ngods. Socrates, almost alone, had refrained from any such attitude. On\nthe contrary, he always enjoined veneration towards the gods, and\nurged his hearers, in whatever city they might be, to honour the gods\naccording to the custom of that city. According to Xenophon, however,\nhe distinguished between the many gods and the one creator of the\nuniverse, who controls, guides, and guards over the lives of men. The\nsecond charge appears to have been based upon the claim of Socrates to\nbe guided by a supernatural inner voice, but whatever we may think of\nthis claim, it can hardly constitute good ground for a charge of\nintroducing new gods. The third charge, that of corrupting the youth,\nwas equally baseless, though the fact that Alcibiades, who had been a\nfavourite pupil of Socrates, afterwards turned traitor to Athens, and\n{133} led, moreover, a dissolute and unprincipled life, no doubt\nprejudiced the philosopher in the eyes of the Athenians. But Socrates\nwas not responsible for the misdeeds of Alcibiades, and his general\ninfluence upon the Athenian youth was the very opposite of corrupting.\n\n\nWhat then were the real reasons for these accusations? In the first\nplace, there is no doubt that Socrates had made many personal enemies.\nIn his daily disputations he had not spared even the most powerful men\nin Athens, but had ruthlessly laid bare the ignorance of those who\npretended to be wise. There is, however, no reason to believe that the\nthree men who actually laid the charges, Melitus, Lycon, and Anytus,\ndid so out of any personal animosity. But they were men of straw, put\nforward by more powerful persons who remained behind the scenes. In\nthe second place, Socrates had rendered himself obnoxious to the\nAthenian democracy. He was no aristocrat in feeling, nor was he a\nsupporter of the vested interests and privileges of the few. But he\ncould not accommodate himself to the mob-rule which then went by the\nname of democracy. The government of the State, he believed, should be\nin the hands of the wise, the just, and the good, those competent and\ntrained to govern, and these are necessarily the few. He himself had\ntaken no part in the political life of the time, preferring to guide\nby his influence and advice the young men on whom some day the duties\nof the State would devolve. On two occasions only did he take an\nactive part in politics, and on both occasions his conduct gave great\noffence. Both these incidents are recounted in a passage in Plato's\n\"Apology,\" which I will quote. The {134} first incident refers to the\naftermath of the battle of Arginusae. The Athenian fleet had gained a\nvictory here, but lost twenty-five ships of war, and the whole of the\ncrews of these ships were drowned. This was attributed to the\ncarelessness of the generals, and there was great indignation in\nAthens, upon their return whither the generals were put upon their\ntrial. According to the law of Athens each accused had to be given a\nseparate trial, but in their eagerness to have the generals condemned,\nthe judges in this instance decided to try them all in a body. \"You\nknow, men of Athens,\" says Socrates in the \"Apology,\" \"that I have\nnever held any other office in the State, but I did serve on the\nCouncil. And it happened that my tribe, Antiochis, had the Presidency\nat the time you decided to try the ten generals who had not taken up\nthe dead after the fight at sea. You decided to try them in one body,\ncontrary to law, as you all felt afterwards. On that occasion I was\nthe only one of the Presidents who opposed you, and told you not to\nbreak the law; and I gave my vote against you; and when the orators\nwere ready to impeach and arrest me, and you encouraged them and\nhooted me, I thought then that I ought to take all the risks on the\nside of law and justice, rather than side with you, when your\ndecisions were unjust, through fear of imprisonment or death. That was\nwhile the city was still under the democracy. When the oligarchy came\ninto power, the Thirty, in their turn, summoned me with four others to\nthe Rotunda, and commanded us to fetch Leon of Salamis from that\nisland, in order to put him to death: the sort of commands they often\ngave to many others, anxious as they were to incriminate all they\ncould. And on that occasion {135} I showed not by words only, that for\ndeath, to put it bluntly, I did not care one straw--but I did care,\nand to the full, about doing what was wicked and unjust. I was not\nterrified then into doing wrong by that government in all its power;\nwhen we left the Rotunda, the other four went off to Salamis and\nbrought Leon back, but I went home. And probably I should have been\nput to death for it, if the government had not been overthrown soon\nafterwards.\"\n\nBut there was a third, and greater reason, for the condemnation of\nSocrates. These charges were brought against him because the popular\nmind confused him with the Sophists. This was entirely absurd, because\nSocrates in no respect resembled the Sophists, either in the manner of\nhis life or in the tendency of his thought, which was wholly\nanti-sophistical. But that such a confusion did exist in the popular\nmind is clearly proved by \"The Clouds\" of Aristophanes. Aristophanes\nwas a reactionary in thought and politics, and, hating the Sophists as\nthe representatives of modernism, he lampooned them in his comedy,\n\"The Clouds.\" Socrates appears in the play as the central character,\nand the chief of the Sophists. This was entirely unjust, but it\naffords evidence of the fact that Socrates was commonly mistaken for a\nSophist by the Athenians. Aristophanes would not have ventured to\nintroduce such a delusion into his play, had his audience not shared\nin it. Now at this time a wave of reaction was passing over Athens,\nand there was great indignation against the Sophists, who were rightly\nsupposed to be overturning all ideals of truth and goodness. Socrates\nfell a victim to the anger of the populace against the Sophists.\n\n{136}\n\nAt the trial Socrates conducted himself with dignity and confidence.\nIt was usual in those days for an accused person to weep and lament,\nto flatter the judges, to seek indulgence by grovelling and fawning,\nto appeal for pity by parading his wife and children in the court.\nSocrates refused to do any of these things, considering them unmanly.\nHis \"defence\" was, indeed, not so much a defence of himself as an\narraignment of his judges, the people of Athens, for their corruption\nand vice. This attitude of Socrates certainly brought about his\ncondemnation. There is every reason to believe that if he had adopted\na grovelling, even a conciliatory tone, he would have been acquitted.\nAs it was, he was found guilty by a bare majority. The law enacted\nthat, when the charge was proved, those who had brought the accusation\nshould first propose the penalty which they thought fitting; then the\naccused himself should propose an alternative penalty. It was for the\njudges to decide which of the two should be inflicted. The accusers of\nSocrates proposed the death-penalty. Here again Socrates might have\nescaped by proposing at once some petty punishment. This would have\nsatisfied the people, who were only anxious to score off the\ntroublesome philosopher and pedant. But Socrates proudly affirmed\nthat, as he was guilty of no crime, he deserved no punishment. To\npropose a penalty would be to admit his guilt. Far from being a guilty\nperson, he considered himself in the light of a public benefactor, and\nas such, if he were to get his deserts, he proposed that he should be\npublicly honoured by being given a seat at the President's table.\nNevertheless, as the law forced him to propose a penalty, he would,\nwithout prejudice to his {137} plea of innocence, suggest a fine of\nthirty minas. This conduct so exasperated the judges that he was now\ncondemned to death by a large majority, about eighty of those who had\npreviously voted for his acquittal now voting for his execution.\n\nThirty days elapsed before he was executed, and these days were spent\nin prison. His friends, who had free access to him, urged him to\nescape. These things were possible in Athens. Anaxagoras had\napparently escaped with the help of Pericles. A little silver in the\nhands of the jailguards would probably have settled the matter.\nSocrates could fly to Thessaly, where the law could not reach him, as\nAnaxagoras had fled to Ionia. But Socrates steadily refused, saying\nthat to flee from death was cowardly, and that one ought to obey the\nlaws. The law had decreed his death, and he must obey. After thirty\ndays, therefore, the poison cup was brought to him, and he drank it\nwithout flinching. Here is Plato's account of the death of Socrates,\nwhich I quote from the \"Phaedo.\" In detail it cannot be considered\nhistorical, but we may well believe that the main incidents as well as\nthe picture it gives us of the bearing and demeanour of the\nphilosopher in his last moments, are accurate representations of the\nfacts.\n\n\"He rose and went into a chamber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but\nhe directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, conversing among\nourselves about what had been said, and considering it again, and\nsometimes speaking about our calamity, how severe it would be to us,\nsincerely thinking that, like those who are deprived of a father, we\nshould pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he had bathed and\nhis {138} children were brought to him, for he had two little sons and\none grown up, and the women belonging to his family were come, having\nconversed with them in the presence of Crito, and given them such\ninjunctions as he wished, he directed the women and children to go\naway, and then returned to us. And it was now near sunset; for he\nspent a considerable time within. But when he came from bathing he sat\ndown and did not speak much afterwards: then the officer of the Eleven\ncame in and standing near him said, 'Socrates, I shall not have to\nfind that fault with you that I do with the others, that they are\nangry with me, and curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them\ndrink the poison. But you, on all other occasions during the time you\nhave been here, I have found to be the most noble, meek and excellent\nman of all that ever came into this place; and, therefore, I am now\nwell convinced that you will not be angry with me. Now, then, for you\nknow what I came to announce to you, farewell, and endeavour to bear\nwhat is inevitable as easily as possible.' And at the same time,\nbursting into tears, he turned away and withdrew. And Socrates,\nlooking after him, said, 'And thou too, farewell, we will do as you\ndirect.' At the same time, turning to us he said 'How courteous the\nman is; during the whole time I have been here he has visited me, and\nconversed with me sometimes, and proved the worthiest of men; and how\ngenerously he weeps for me. But come, Crito, let us obey him and let\nsome one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded, but if not let the\nman pound it.'\n\n\"Then Crito said, 'But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still on the\nmountains, and has not yet set. Besides, {139} I know that others have\ndrunk the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and\nhave supped and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the objects\nof their love. Do not hasten them, for there is yet time.'\n\n\"Upon this Socrates replied, 'These men whom you mention, Crito, do\nthese things with good reason, for they think they shall gain by so\ndoing, and I too with good reason, shall not do so; for I think I\nshall gain nothing by drinking a little later, except to become\nridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing of it when\nnone any longer remains. Go then,' he said, 'obey, and do not resist.'\n\n\"Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the\nboy having gone out, and stayed for some time, came, bringing with him\nthe man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready\npounded in a cup. And Socrates, on seeing the man, said, 'Well, my\ngood friend, as you are skilled in these matters, what must I do?'\n'Nothing else,' he replied, 'than when you have drunk it walk about,\nuntil there is a heaviness in your legs, then lie down; thus it will\ndo its purpose.' And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates.\nAnd he having received it very cheerfully, Echecrates, neither\ntrembling, nor changing at all in colour or countenance, but, as he\nwas wont, looking steadfastly at the man, said, 'what say you of this\npotion, with respect to making a libation to anyone, is it lawful or\nnot?' 'We only pound so much, Socrates,' he said, 'as we think\nsufficient to drink.' 'I understand you,' he said, 'but it is\ncertainly both lawful and right to pray to the gods that my departure\nhence thither may be happy; which therefore I pray, and so {140} may\nit be.' And as he said this he drank it off readily and calmly. Thus\nfar, most of us were with difficulty able to restrain ourselves from\nweeping, but when we saw him drinking, and having finished the\ndraught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of myself the tears\ncame in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself,\nfor I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, in being deprived\nof such a friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not\nrestrain his tears, had risen up. But Apollodorus even before this had\nnot ceased weeping, and then, bursting into an agony of grief, weeping\nand lamenting, he pierced the heart of everyone present, except\nSocrates himself. But he said. 'What are you doing, my admirable\nfriends? I indeed, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that\nthey might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it\nis right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up.'\n\n\"When we heard this we were ashamed, and restrained our tears. But he,\nhaving walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy,\nlay down on his back; for the man so directed him. And at the same\ntime he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short\ninterval examined his feet and legs; and then having pressed his foot\nhard, he asked if he felt it; he said that he did not. And after this\nhe pressed his thighs; and thus going higher he showed us that he was\ngrowing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said that\nwhen the poison reached his heart he should then depart. But now the\nparts around the lower belly were almost cold; when uncovering\nhimself, for he had been covered over, he said; and they were his\n{141} last words. 'Crito, we owe a cock to AEsculapius; pay it,\ntherefore, and do not neglect it.' 'It shall be done,' said Crito,\n'but consider whether you have anything else to say.'\n\n\"To this question he gave no reply; but shortly after he gave a\nconvulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed,\nand Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes.\n\n\"This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say,\nthe best of all of his time that we have known, and moreover, the most\nwise and just.\"\n\nOur knowledge of the teaching of Socrates is derived chiefly from two\nsources, Plato and Xenophon, for the peculiarities of each of whom\nallowances must be made. Plato in his dialogues makes Socrates the\nmouthpiece of his own teaching, consequently the majority of the\ntenets to which Socrates is made to give expression are purely\nPlatonic doctrines of which the historical Socrates could never even\nhave dreamed. It might, therefore, seem at first sight that there is\nno possibility of ascertaining from Plato's dialogues any trustworthy\naccount of the ideas of Socrates. But on closer inspection this does\nnot turn out to be correct, because the earlier dialogues of Plato\nwere written before he had developed his own philosophy, and when he\nwas, to all intents and purposes, simply a disciple of Socrates, bent\nonly upon giving the best expression to the Socratic doctrine. Even in\nthese Socratic dialogues, however, we have what is no doubt an\nidealized portrait of Socrates. Plato makes no pretence of being\nmerely a biographer or historian. The incidents and conversation,\nalthough they are no doubt frequently founded upon facts, are, in the\n{142} main, imaginary. All we can say is that they contain the gist\nand substance of the philosophy of Socrates. The other source,\nXenophon, also has his peculiarities. If Plato was an idealizing\nphilosopher, Xenophon was a prosaic and matter of fact man of affairs.\nHe was a plain, honest soldier. He had no great insight into any\nphilosophy, Socratic or otherwise. He was not attached to Socrates\nprimarily as a philosopher, but as an admirer of his character and\npersonality. If Plato puts the teaching of Socrates too high, Xenophon\nputs it too low. But, in spite of this, Xenophon's Memorabilia\ncontains a mass of valuable information both about the life and the\nphilosophical ideas of Socrates.\n\nThe Socratic teaching is essentially ethical in character. In this\nalone did Socrates bear any resemblance to the Sophists. It was the\nSophists who had introduced into Greek philosophy the problem of man,\nand of the duties of man. And to these problems Socrates also turns\nhis exclusive attention. He brushes aside all questions as to the\norigin of the world, or the nature of the ultimate reality, of which\nwe have heard so much in the philosophies of the earlier thinkers.\nSocrates openly deprecated such speculations and considered all such\nknowledge comparatively worthless as against ethical knowledge, the\nknowledge of man. Mathematics, physics, and astronomy, he thought,\nwere not valuable forms of knowledge. He said that he never went for\nwalks outside the city, because there is nothing to be learnt from\nfields and trees.\n\nNevertheless the ethical teaching of Socrates was founded upon a\ntheory of knowledge, which is quite simple, but extremely important.\nThe Sophists had founded knowledge upon perception, with the result\n{143} that all objective standards of truth had been destroyed. It was\nthe work of Socrates to found knowledge upon reason, and thereby to\nrestore to truth its objectivity. Briefly, the theory of Socrates may\nbe summarized by saying that he taught that _all knowledge is knowledge\nthrough concepts_. What is a concept? When we are directly conscious of\nthe presence of any particular thing, a man, a tree, a house, or a\nstar, such consciousness is called perception. When, shutting our\neyes, we frame a mental picture of such an object, such consciousness\nis called an image or representation. Such mental images are, like\nperceptions, always ideas of particular individual objects. But\nbesides these ideas of individual objects, whether through\nsense-perception or imagination, we have also general ideas, that is\nto say, not ideas of any particular thing, but ideas of whole classes\nof things. If I say \"Socrates is mortal,\" I am thinking of the\nindividual, Socrates. But if I say \"Man is mortal,\" I am thinking, not\nof any particular man, but of the class of men in general. Such an\nidea is called a general idea, or a concept. All class-names, such as\nman, tree, house, river, animal, horse, being, which stand, not for\none thing, but for a multitude of things, represent concepts. We form\nthese general ideas by including in them all the qualities which the\nwhole class of objects has in common, and excluding from them all the\nqualities in which they differ, that is to say, the qualities which\nsome of the objects possess, but others do not. For example, I cannot\ninclude the quality whiteness in my general idea of horses, because,\nthough some horses are white, others are not. But I can include the\nquality vertebrate because all horses agree in being vertebrate. Thus\na {144} concept is formed by bringing together the ideas in which all\nthe members of a class of objects agree with one another, and\nneglecting the ideas in which they differ.\n\nNow reason is the faculty of concepts. This may not, at first sight,\nbe obvious. Reason, it might be objected, is the faculty of arguing,\nof drawing conclusions from premises. But a little consideration will\nshow us that, though this is so, yet all reasoning is employed upon\nconcepts. All reasoning is either deductive or inductive. Induction\nconsists in the formulation of general principles from particular\ncases. A general principle is always a statement made, not about a\nparticular thing, but about a whole class of things, that is, about a\nconcept. Concepts are formed inductively by comparing numerous\nexamples of a class. Deductive reasoning is always the opposite\nprocess of applying general principles to particular cases. If we\nargue that Socrates must be mortal because all men are so, the\nquestion is whether Socrates is a man, that is to say, whether the\nconcept, man, is properly applied to the particular object called\nSocrates. Thus inductive reasoning is concerned with the formation of\nconcepts, deductive reasoning with the application of them.\n\nSocrates, in placing all knowledge in concepts, was thus making reason\nthe organ of knowledge. This was in direct opposition to the principle\nof the Sophists, who placed all knowledge in sense-perception. Now\nsince reason is the universal element in man, it follows that\nSocrates, in identifying knowledge with concepts, was restoring the\nbelief in an objective truth, valid for all men, and binding upon all\nmen, and was destroying the Sophistic teaching that the truth is\nwhatever each {145} individual chooses to think it is. We shall see\nthis more clearly if we reflect that a concept is the same thing as a\ndefinition. If we wish to define any word, for example, the word man,\nwe must include in our definition only the qualities which all men\nhave in common. We cannot, for example, define man as a white-skinned\nanimal, because all men are not white-skinned. Similarly we cannot\ninclude \"English-speaking\" in our definition, because, though some men\nspeak English, others do not. But we might include such a quality as\n\"two-legged,\" because \"two-legged\" is a quality common to all human\nbeings, except mere aberrations and distortions of the normal type.\nThus a definition is formed in the same way as a concept, namely, by\nincluding the common qualities of a class of objects, and excluding\nthe qualities in which the members of the class differ. A definition,\nin fact, is merely the expression of a concept in words. Now by the\nprocess of fixing definitions we obtain objective standards of truth.\nIf, for example, we fix the definition of a triangle, then we can\ncompare any geometrical figure with it, and say whether it is a\ntriangle or not. It is no longer open to anyone to declare that\nwhatever he chooses to call a triangle is a triangle. Similarly, if we\nfix upon a definition of the word man, we can then compare any object\nwith that definition, and say whether it is a man or not. Again, if we\ncan decide what the proper concept of virtue is, then the question\nwhether any particular act is virtuous can only be decided by\ncomparing that act with the concept, and seeing if they agree. The\nSophist can no longer say, \"whatever seems to me right, is right for\nme. Whatever I choose to do is virtuous for me.\" His act must be\njudged, not by {146} his subjective impressions, but by the concept or\ndefinition, which is thus an objective standard of truth, independent\nof the individual. This, then, was the theory of knowledge propounded\nby Socrates. Knowledge, he said, is not the same thing as the\nsensations of the individual, which would mean that each individual\ncan name as the truth whatever he pleases. Knowledge means knowledge\nof things as they objectively are, independently of the individual,\nand such knowledge is knowledge of the concepts of things. Therefore\nthe philosophizing of Socrates consisted almost exclusively in trying\nto frame proper concepts. He went about enquiring, \"What is virtue?\"\n\"What is prudence?\" \"What is temperance?\"--meaning thereby \"what are\nthe true concepts or definitions of these things?\" In this way he\nattempted to find a basis for believing in an objectively real truth\nand an objectively real moral law.\n\nHis method of forming concepts was by induction. He would take common\nexamples of actions which are universally admitted to be prudent, and\nwould attempt to find the quality which they all have in common, and\nby virtue of which they are all classed together, and so form the\nconcept of prudence. Then he would bring up fresh examples, and see\nwhether they agreed with the concept so formed. If not, the concept\nmight have to be corrected in the light of the new examples.\n\nBut the Socratic theory of knowledge was not a theory put forward for\nits own sake, but for practical ends. Socrates always made theory\nsubservient to practice. He wanted to know what the concept of virtue\nis, only in order to practise virtue in life. And this brings us to\nthe central point of the ethical teaching of Socrates, {147} which was\nthe identification of virtue with knowledge. Socrates believed that a\nman cannot act rightly, unless he first knows what is right, unless,\nin fact, he knows the concept of right. Moral action is thus founded\nupon knowledge, and must spring from it. But not only did Socrates\nthink that if a man has not knowledge, he cannot do right. He also put\nforward the much more doubtful assertion that if a man possesses\nknowledge, he cannot do wrong. All wrong-doing arises from ignorance.\nIf a man only knows what is right, he must and will infallibly do what\nis right. All men seek the good, but men differ as to what the good\nis. \"No man,\" said Socrates, \"intentionally does wrong.\" He does\nwrong, because he does not know the true concept of right, and being\nignorant, thinks that what he is doing is good. \"If a man intentionally\ndoes wrong,\" said Socrates again, \"he is better than a man who does so\nunintentionally.\" For the former has in him the essential condition of\ngoodness, knowledge of what goodness is, but the latter, lacking that\nknowledge, is hopeless.\n\nAristotle, in commenting upon this whole doctrine, observed that\nSocrates had ignored or forgotten the irrational parts of the soul.\nSocrates imagined that everybody's actions are governed solely by\nreason, and that therefore if only they reasoned aright, they must do\nright. He forgot that the majority of men's actions are governed by\npassions and emotions, \"the irrational parts of the soul.\" Aristotle's\ncriticism of Socrates is unanswerable. All experience shows that men\ndo deliberately do wrong, that, knowing well what is right, they\nnevertheless do wrong. But it is easy to see why Socrates made this\nmistake; he was arguing only from {148} his own case. Socrates really\ndoes appear to have been above human weakness. He was not guided by\npassions, but by reason, and it followed as the night follows the day,\nthat if Socrates knew what was right, he did it. He was unable to\nunderstand how men, knowing the right, could yet do the wrong. If they\nare vicious, he thought, it must be because they do not know what is\nright. The criticism of Aristotle is thus justified. Yet for all that,\nthe theory of Socrates is not to be too quickly brushed aside. There\nis more truth in it than appears at first sight. We say that a man\nbelieves one thing and does another. Yet it is a matter of question\nwhat a man really believes, and what is the test of his belief. Men go\nto church every Sunday, and there repeat formulas and prayers, of\nwhich the main idea is that all earthly riches are worthless in\ncomparison with spiritual treasures. Such men, if asked, might tell us\nthat they believe this to be true. They believe that they believe it.\nAnd yet in actual life, perhaps, they seek only for earthly riches,\nand behave as if they thought these the supreme good. What do such men\nreally believe? Do they believe as they speak, or as they act? Is it\nnot at least arguable that they are really pursuing what they believe\nto be good, and that, if they were genuinely convinced of the\nsuperiority of spiritual treasures, they would seek them, and not\nmaterial riches? This at least is what Socrates thought. All men seek\nthe good, but the many do not know what the good is. There is\ncertainly truth in this in many cases, though in others there can be\nno doubt that men do deliberately what they know to be evil.\n\nThere are two other characteristic Socratic propositions {149} which\nflow from the same general idea, that virtue is identical with\nknowledge. The first is, that virtue can be taught. We do not\nordinarily think that virtue can be taught like arithmetic. We think\nthat virtue depends upon a number of factors, prominent among which\nare the inborn disposition of a man, heredity, environment, modified\nto some extent by education, practice, and habit. The consequence is\nthat a man's character does not change very much as he grows older. By\nconstant practice, by continual self-control, a man may, to some\nextent, make himself better, but on the whole, what he is he remains.\nThe leopard, we say, does not change his spots. But as, for Socrates,\nthe sole condition of virtue is knowledge, and as knowledge is just\nwhat can be imparted by teaching, it followed that virtue must be\nteachable. The only difficulty is to find the teacher, to find some\none who knows the concept of virtue. What the concept of virtue\nis--that is, thought Socrates, the precious piece of knowledge, which\nno philosopher has ever discovered, and which, if it were only\ndiscovered, could at once be imparted by teaching, whereupon men would\nat once become virtuous.\n\nThe other Socraticism is that \"virtue is one.\" We talk of many\nvirtues, temperance, prudence, foresight, benevolence, kindness, etc.\nSocrates believed that all these particular virtues flowed from the\none source, knowledge. Therefore knowledge itself, that is to say,\nwisdom, is the sole virtue, and this includes all the others.\n\nThis completes the exposition of the positive teaching of Socrates. It\nonly remains for us to consider what position Socrates holds in the\nhistory of thought. There are two sides of the Socratic teaching. In\nthe first {150} place, there is the doctrine of knowledge, that all\nknowledge is through concepts. This is the scientific side of the\nphilosophy of Socrates. Secondly, there is his ethical teaching. Now\nthe essential and important side of Socrates is undoubtedly the\nscientific theory of concepts. It is this which gives him his position\nin the history of philosophy. His ethical ideas, suggestive as they\nwere, were yet all tainted with the fallacy that men are governed only\nby reason. Hence they have exercised no great influence on the history\nof thought. But the theory of concepts worked a revolution in\nphilosophy. Upon a development of it is founded the whole of Plato's\nphilosophy, and, through Plato, the philosophy of Aristotle, and,\nindeed, all subsequent idealism. The immediate effect of this theory,\nhowever, was the destruction of the teaching of the Sophists. The\nSophists taught the doctrine that truth is sense-perception, and as\nthe perceptions of different individuals differ in regard to the same\nobject, it followed that truth became a matter of taste with the\nindividual. This undermined all belief in truth as an objective\nreality, and, by similar reasoning, faith in the objectivity of the\nmoral law was also destroyed. The essential position of Socrates is\nthat of a restorer of faith. His greatness lay in the fact that he saw\nthat the only way to combat the disastrous results of the Sophistic\nteaching was to refute the fundamental assumption from which all that\nteaching flowed, the assumption, namely, that knowledge is perception.\nAgainst this, therefore, Socrates opposed the doctrine that knowledge\nis through concepts. To base knowledge upon concepts is to base it\nupon the universality of reason, and therefore to restore it from the\n{151} position of a subjective seeming to that of an objective\nreality.\n\nBut though Socrates is thus a restorer of faith, we must not imagine\nthat his thought is therefore a mere retrogression to the intellectual\ncondition of pre-Sophistic times. It was, on the contrary, an advance\nbeyond the Sophists. We have here, in fact, an example of what is the\nnormal development of all thought, whether in the individual or the\nrace. The movement of thought exhibits three stages. The first stage\nis positive belief, not founded upon reason; it is merely conventional\nbelief. At the second stage thought becomes destructive and sceptical.\nIt denies what was affirmed in the previous stage. The third stage is\nthe restoration of positive belief now founded upon the concept, upon\nreason, and not merely upon custom. Before the time of the Sophists,\nmen took it for granted that truth and goodness are objective\nrealities; nobody specially affirmed it, because nobody denied it. It\nseemed obvious. It was, thus, not believed on rational grounds, but\nthrough custom and habit. This, the first stage of thought, we may\ncall the era of simple faith. When the Sophists came upon the scene,\nthey brought reason and thought to bear upon what had hitherto been\naccepted as a matter of course, namely law, custom, and authority. The\nfirst encroachment of reason upon simple faith is always destructive,\nand hence the Sophists undermined all ideals of goodness and truth.\nSocrates is the restorer of these ideals, but with him they are no\nlonger the ideals of simple faith; they are the ideals of reason. They\nare based upon reason. Socrates substituted comprehending belief for\nunintelligent assent. We may contrast him, in this {152} respect, with\nAristophanes. Aristophanes, the conservative, the believer in the\n\"good old times,\" saw, as clearly as Socrates, the disastrous effects\nworked by the Sophists upon public morals. But the remedy he proposed\nwas a violent return to the \"good old times.\" Since it was thought\nwhich worked these ill effects, thought must be suppressed. We must go\nback to simple faith. But simple faith, once destroyed by thought,\nnever returns either to the individual, or to the race. This can no\nmore happen than a man can again become a child. There is only one\nremedy for the ills of thought, and that is, more thought. If thought,\nin its first inroads, leads, as it always does, to scepticism and\ndenial, the only course is, not to suppress thought, but to found\nfaith upon it. This was the method of Socrates, and it is the method,\ntoo, of all great spirits. They are not frightened of shadows. They\nhave faith in reason. If reason leads them into the darkness, they do\nnot scuttle back in fright. They advance till the light comes again.\nThey are false teachers who counsel us to give no heed to the\npromptings of reason, if reason brings doubt into our beliefs. Thought\ncannot be thus suppressed. Reason has rights upon us as rational\nbeings. We cannot go back. We must go on, and make our beliefs\nrational. We must found them upon the concept, as Socrates did.\nSocrates did not deny the principle of the Sophists that all\ninstitutions, all ideals, all existing and established things must\njustify themselves before the tribunal of reason. He accepted this\nwithout question. He took up the challenge of thought, and won the\nbattle of reason in his day.\n\nThe Sophists brought to light the principle of subjectivity, the\nprinciple that the truth must be _my_ truth, {153} and the right _my_\nright. They must be the products of my own thinking, not standards\nforcibly imposed upon me from without. But the mistake of the Sophists\nwas to imagine that the truth must be mine, merely in my capacity as a\npercipient creature of sense, which means that I have a private truth\nof my own. Socrates corrected this by admitting that the truth must be\nmy truth, but mine in my capacity as a rational being, which means,\nsince reason is the universal, that it is not my private truth, but\nuniversal truth which is shared by and valid for all rational beings.\nTruth is thus established as being not mere subjective appearance, but\nobjective reality, independent of the sensations, whims, and self-will\nof the individual. The whole period of Socrates and the Sophists is\nfull of instruction. Its essential lesson is that to deny the\nsupremacy of reason, to set up any other process of consciousness\nabove reason, must inevitably end in scepticism and the denial of the\nobjectivity of truth and morality. Many theosophists and others, at\nthe present day, teach the doctrine of what they call \"intuition.\" The\nsupreme kind of religious knowledge, they think, is to be reached by\nintuition, which is conceived as something higher than reason. But\nthis is simply to make the mistake of Protagoras over again. It is\ntrue that this so-called intuition is not merely sense-perception, as\nwas the case with Protagoras. It is, however, a form of immediate\nspiritual perception. It is immediate apprehension of the object as\nbeing present to me, as having _thereness_. It is therefore of the\nnature of perception. It is spiritual and super-sensuous, as opposed\nto material and sensuous, perception. But it makes no difference at\nall whether perception is sensuous {154} or super-sensuous. To place\nthe truth in any sort of perception is, in principle, to do as\nProtagoras did, to yield oneself up a helpless prey to the subjective\nimpressions of the individual. I intuit one thing; another man intuits\nthe opposite. What I intuit must be true for me, what he intuits true\nfor him. For we have denied reason, we have placed it below intuition,\nand have thereby discarded that which alone can subject the varying\nimpressions of each individual to the rule of a universal and\nobjective standard. The logical conclusion is that, since each man's\nintuition is true for him, there is no such thing as an objective\ntruth. Nor can there be such a thing, in these circumstances, as an\nobjective goodness. Thus the theory must end in total scepticism and\ndarkness. The fact that theosophists do not, as a matter of fact, draw\nthese sceptical conclusions, simply means that they are not as\nclear-headed and logical as Protagoras was.\n\n{155}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE SEMI-SOCRATICS\n\nUpon the death of Socrates there ensued a phenomenon which is not\ninfrequent in the history of thought. A great and many-sided\npersonality combines in himself many conflicting tendencies and ideas.\nLet us take an example, not, however, from the sphere of intellect,\nbut from the sphere of practical life. We often say that it is\ndifficult to reconcile mercy and justice. Among the many small\npersonalities, one man follows only the ideal of mercy, and as his\nmercy has not in it the stern stuff of justice, it degenerates into\nmawkishness and sentimental humanitarianism. Another man follows only\nthe ideal of justice, forgetting mercy, and he becomes harsh and\nunsympathetic. It takes a greater man, a larger personality,\nharmoniously to combine the two. And as it is in the sphere of\npractical life, so it is in the arena of thought and philosophy. A\ngreat thinker is not he who seizes upon a single aspect of the truth,\nand pushes that to its extreme limit, but the man who combines, in one\nmany-sided system, all the varying and conflicting sides of truth. By\nemphasizing one thought, by being obsessed by a single idea and\npushing it to its logical conclusion, regardless of the other aspects\nof the truth, one may indeed achieve a considerable local and {156}\ntemporary reputation; because such a procedure often leads to striking\nparadoxes, to strange and seemingly uncommon conclusions. The\nreputations of such men as Nietzsche, Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, are\nmade chiefly in this way. But upon the death of a great all-embracing\npersonality, just because his thought is a combination of so many\ndivergent truths, we often find that it splits up into its component\nparts, each of which gives rise to a one-sided school of thought. The\ndisciples, being smaller men, are not able to grasp the great man's\nthought in its wholeness and many-sidedness. Each disciple seizes upon\nthat portion of his master's teaching which has most in common with\nhis own temperament, and proceeds to erect this one incomplete idea\ninto a philosophy, treating the part as if it were the whole. This is\nexactly what happened after the death of Socrates. Only one man among\nhis disciples was able to grasp the whole of his teaching, and\nunderstand the whole of his personality, and that was Plato. Among the\nlesser men who were the followers and personal friends of Socrates,\nthere were three who founded schools of philosophy, each partial and\none-sided, but each claiming to be the exponent of the true\nSocraticism. Antisthenes founded the Cynic school, Aristippus the\nCyrenaic, and Euclid the Megaric.\n\nNow, of the two aspects of the Socratic philosophy, the theory of\nconcepts, and the ethical theory, it is easy for us, looking back upon\nhistory, to see which it was that influenced the history of thought\nmost, and which, therefore, was the most important. But the men of his\nown time could not see this. What they fastened upon was the obvious\naspect of Socrates, his ethics, and above all the ethical teaching\nwhich was expressed, not so {157} much in abstract ideas, as in the\nlife and personality of the master. Both this life and this teaching\nmight be summed up in the thought that virtue is the sole end of life,\nthat, as against virtue, all else in the world, comfort, riches,\nlearning, is comparatively worthless. It is this, then, that virtue is\nthe sole end of life, which forms the point of agreement between all\nthe three semi-Socratic schools. We have now to see upon what points\nthey diverge from one another.\n\nIf virtue is the sole end of life, what precisely is virtue? Socrates\nhad given no clear answer to this question. The only definition he had\ngiven was that virtue is knowledge, but upon examination it turns out\nthat this is not a definition at all. Virtue is knowledge, but\nknowledge of what? It is not knowledge of astronomy, of mathematics,\nor of physics. It is ethical knowledge, that is to say, knowledge of\nvirtue. To define virtue as the knowledge of virtue is to think in a\ncircle, and gets us no further in the enquiry what virtue is. But\nSocrates, as a matter of fact, did not think in a circle. He did not\nmean that virtue is knowledge, although his doctrine is often,\nsomewhat misleadingly, stated in that form. What he meant was--quite a\ndifferent thing--that virtue _depends upon_ knowledge. It is the first\ncondition of virtue. The principle, accurately stated, is, not that\nvirtue is the knowledge of virtue, which is thinking in a circle, but\nthat virtue depends upon the knowledge of virtue, which is quite\nstraight thinking. Only if you know what virtue is can you be\nvirtuous. Hence we have not here any definition of virtue, or any\nattempt to define it. We are still left with the question, \"what is\nvirtue?\" unanswered.\n\n{158}\n\nNo doubt this was due in part to the unmethodical and unsystematic\nmanner in which Socrates developed his thought, and this, in its turn,\nwas due to his conversational style of philosophizing. For it is not\npossible to develop systematic thinking in the course of casual\nconversations. But in part, too, it was due to the very universality\nof the man's genius. He was broad enough to realize that it is not\npossible to tie down virtue in any single narrow formula, which shall\nserve as a practical receipt for action in all the infinitely various\ncircumstances of life. So that, in spite of the fact that his whole\nprinciple lay in the method of definitions, Socrates, in fact, left\nhis followers without any definition of the supreme concept of his\nphilosophy, virtue. It was upon this point, therefore, that the\nfollowers of Socrates disagreed. They all agreed that virtue is the\nsole end of life, but they developed different ideas as to what sort\nof life is in fact virtuous.\n\n\n\nThe Cynics.\n\nAntisthenes, the founder of the Cynic School, repeated the familiar\npropositions that virtue is founded upon knowledge, is teachable, and\nis one. But what aroused the admiration of Antisthenes was not\nSocrates, the man of intellect, the man of science, the philosopher,\nbut Socrates, the man of independent character, who followed his own\nnotions of right with complete indifference to the opinions of others.\nThis independence was in fact merely a by-product of the Socratic\nlife. Socrates had been independent of all earthly goods and\npossessions, caring neither for riches nor for applause, only because\nhis heart was set upon a greater treasure, the acquisition of wisdom.\nMere independence and indifference to the {159} opinions of others\nwere not for him ends in themselves. He did not make fetishes of them.\nBut the Cynics interpreted his teaching to mean that the independence\nof earthly pleasures and possessions is in itself the end and object\nof life. This, in fact, was their definition of virtue, complete\nrenunciation of everything that, for ordinary men, makes life worth\nliving, absolute asceticism, and rigorous self-mortification.\nSocrates, again, thinking that the only knowledge of supreme value is\nethical knowledge, had exhibited a tendency to disparage other kinds\nof knowledge. This trait the Cynics exaggerated into a contempt for\nall art and learning so great as frequently to amount to ignorance and\nboorishness. \"Virtue is sufficient for happiness,\" said Antisthenes,\n\"and for virtue nothing is requisite but the strength of a Socrates;\nit is a matter of action, and does not require many words, or much\nlearning.\" The Cynic ideal of virtue is thus purely negative; it is\nthe absence of all desire, freedom from all wants, complete\nindependence of all possessions. Many of them refused to own houses or\nany dwelling place, and wandered about as vagrants and beggars.\nDiogenes, for the same reason, lived in a tub. Socrates, following\nsingle-heartedly what he knew to be good, cared nothing what the\nvulgar said. But this indifference to the opinion of others was, like\nhis independence of possessions, not an end in itself. He did not\ninterpret it to mean that he was wantonly to offend public opinion.\nBut the Cynics, to show their indifference, flouted public opinion,\nand gave frequent and disgusting exhibitions of indecency.\n\nVirtue, for the Cynics, is alone good. Vice is the only evil. Nothing\nelse in the world is either good or bad. {160} Everything else is\n\"indifferent.\" Property, pleasure, wealth, freedom, comfort, even life\nitself, are not to be regarded as goods. Poverty, misery, illness,\nslavery, and death itself, are not to be regarded as evils. It is no\nbetter to be a freeman than a slave, for if the slave have virtue, he\nis in himself free, and a born ruler. Suicide is not a crime, and a\nman may destroy his life, not however to escape from misery and pain\n(for these are not ills), but to show that for him life is\nindifferent. And as the line between virtue and vice is absolutely\ndefinite, so is the distinction between the wise man and the fool. All\nmen are divided into these two classes. There is no middle term\nbetween them. Virtue being one and indivisible, either a man possesses\nit whole or does not possess it at all. In the former case he is a\nwise man, in the latter case a fool. The wise man possesses all\nvirtue, all knowledge, all wisdom, all happiness, all perfection. The\nfool possesses all evil, all misery, all imperfection.\n\n\n\nThe Cyrenaics.\n\nFor the Cyrenaics, too, virtue is, at least formally, the sole object\nof life. It is only formally, however, because they give to virtue a\ndefinition which robbed it of all meaning. Socrates had not\ninfrequently recommended virtue on account of the advantages which it\nbrings. Virtue, he said, is the sole path to happiness, and he had not\nrefrained from holding out happiness as a motive for virtue. This did\nnot mean, however, that he did not recognize a man's duty to do the\nright for its own sake, and not for the sake of the advantage it\nbrings. \"Honesty,\" we say, \"is the best policy,\" {161} but we do not\nmean thereby to deny that it is the duty of men to be honest even if\nit is not, in some particular case, the best policy. Socrates,\nhowever, had not been very clear upon these points, and had been\nunable to find any definite basis for morality, other than that of\nhappiness. It was this side of his teaching which Aristippus now\npressed to its logical conclusions, regardless of all other claims.\nDoubtless virtue is the sole end of life, but the sole end of virtue\nis one's own advantage, that is to say, pleasure. One may as well say\nat once that the sole end of life is pleasure.\n\nThe influence of Protagoras and the Sophists also played its part in\nmoulding the thought of Aristippus. Protagoras had denied the\nobjectivity of truth, and the later Sophists had applied the same\ntheory to morals. Each man is a law unto himself. There is no moral\ncode binding upon the individual against his own wishes. Aristippus\ncombined this with his doctrine of pleasure. Pleasure being the sole\nend of life, no moral law externally imposed can invalidate its\nabsolute claims. Nothing is wicked, nothing evil, provided only it\nsatisfies the individual's thirst for pleasure.\n\nWhether such a philosophy will lead, in practice, to the complete\ndegradation of its devotees, depends chiefly upon what sort of\npleasure they have in mind. If refined and intellectual pleasures are\nmeant, there is no reason why a comparatively good life should not\nresult. If bodily pleasures are intended, the results are not likely\nto be noble. The Cyrenaics by no means wholly ignored the pleasures of\nthe mind, but they pointed out that feelings of bodily pleasure are\nmore potent and intense, and it was upon these, therefore, that they\nchiefly {162} concentrated their attention. Nevertheless they were\nsaved from the lowest abysses of sensuality and bestiality by their\ndoctrine that, in the pursuit of pleasure, the wise man must exercise\nprudence. Completely unrestrained pursuit of pleasure leads in fact to\npain and disaster. Pain is that which has to be avoided. Therefore the\nwise man will remain always master of himself, will control his\ndesires, and postpone a more urgent to a less urgent desire, if\nthereby in the end more pleasure and less pain will accrue to him. The\nCyrenaic ideal of the wise man is the man of the world, bent indeed\nsolely upon pleasure, restrained by no superstitious scruples, yet\npursuing his end with prudence, foresight, and intelligence. Such\nprinciples would, of course, admit of various interpretations,\naccording to the temperament of the individual. We may notice two\nexamples. Anniceris, the Cyrenaic, believed indeed that pleasure is\nthe sole end, but set such store upon the pleasures that arise from\nfriendship and family affection, that he admitted that the wise man\nshould be ready to sacrifice himself for his friends or family--a\ngleam of light in the moral darkness. Hegesias, a pessimist,\nconsidered that positive enjoyment is impossible of attainment. In\npractice the sole end of life which can be realized is the avoidance\nof pain.\n\n\n\nThe Megarics.\n\nEuclid of Megara was the founder of this school. His principle was a\ncombination of Socraticism with Eleaticism. Virtue is knowledge, but\nknowledge of what? It is here that the Eleatic influence became\nvisible. With Parmenides, the Megarics believed in the One Absolute\nBeing. All multiplicity, all motion, are illusory. {163} the world of\nsense has in it no true reality. Only Being is. If virtue is\nknowledge, therefore, it can only be the knowledge of this Being. If\nthe essential concept of Socrates was the Good and the essential\nconcept of Parmenides Being, Euclid now combined the two. The Good is\nidentified with Being. Being, the One, God, the Good, divinity, are\nmerely different names for one and the same thing. Becoming, the many,\nEvil, are the names of its opposite, not-being, Multiplicity is thus\nidentified with evil, and both are declared illusory. Evil has no real\nexistence. The Good alone truly is. The various virtues, as\nbenevolence, temperance, prudence, are merely different names for the\none virtue, knowledge of Being.\n\nZeno, the Eleatic, had shown that multiplicity and motion are not only\nunreal but even impossible, since they are self-contradictory. The\nMegarics appropriated this idea, together with the dialectic of Zeno,\nand concluded that since not-being is impossible, Being includes all\npossibility. Whatever is possible is also actual. There is no such\nthing as a possible something, which yet does not exist.\n\nAs the Cynics found virtue in renunciation and negative independence,\nthe Cyrenaics in the hedonistic pursuit of pleasure, so the Megarics\nfind it in the life of philosophic contemplation, the knowledge of\nBeing.\n\n{164}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nPLATO\n\nNone of the predecessors of Plato had constructed a system of\nphilosophy. What they had produced, and in great abundance, were\nisolated philosophical ideas, theories, hints, and suggestions. Plato\nwas the first person in the history of the world to produce a great\nall-embracing system of philosophy, which has its ramifications in all\ndepartments of thought and reality. In doing this, Plato laid all\nprevious thought under contribution. He gathered the entire harvest of\nGreek philosophy. All that was best in the Pythagoreans, the Eleatics,\nHeracleitus, and Socrates, reappears, transfigured in the system of\nPlato. But it is not to be imagined, on this account, that Plato was a\nmere eclectic, or a plagiarist, who took the best thoughts of others,\nand worked them into some sort of a patch-work philosophy of his own.\nHe was, on the contrary, in the highest degree an original thinker.\nBut like all great systems of thought, that of Plato grows out of the\nthought of previous thinkers. He does indeed appropriate the ideas of\nHeracleitus, Parmenides, and Socrates. But he does not leave them as\nhe finds them. He takes them as the germs of a new development. They\nare the foundations, below ground, upon which he builds the palace of\nphilosophy. In his hands, all previous thought becomes {165}\ntransfigured under the light of a new and original principle.\n\n\n\n1. Life and Writings.\n\nThe exact date of the birth of Plato is a matter of doubt. But the\ndate usually given, 429-7 B.C. cannot be far wrong. He came of an\naristocratic Athenian family, and was possessed of sufficient wealth\nto enable him to command that leisure which was essential for a life\ndevoted to philosophy. His youth coincided with the most disastrous\nperiod of Athenian history. After a bitter struggle, which lasted over\na quarter of a century, the Peloponnesian war ended in the complete\ndownfall of Athens as a political power. And the internal affairs of\nthe State were in no less confusion than the external. Here, as\nelsewhere, a triumphant democracy had developed into mob-rule. Then at\nthe close of the Peloponnesian war, the aristocratic party again came\ninto power with the Thirty Tyrants, among whom were some of Plato's\nown relatives. But the aristocratic party, so far from improving\naffairs, plunged at once into a reign of bloodshed, terror, and\noppression. These facts have an important bearing upon the history of\nPlato's life. If he ever possessed any desire to adopt a political\ncareer, the actual condition of Athenian affairs must have quenched\nit. An aristocrat, both in thought and by birth, he could not\naccommodate himself to the rule of the mob. And if he ever imagined\nthat the return of the aristocracy to power would improve matters, he\nmust have been bitterly disillusioned by the proceedings of the Thirty\nTyrants. Disgusted alike with the democracy and the aristocracy he\nseems to have retired into seclusion. He never once, throughout his\nlong life, appeared as a {166} speaker in the popular assembly. He\nregarded the Athenian constitution as past help.\n\nNot much is known of the philosopher's youth. He composed poems. He\nwas given the best education that an Athenian citizen of those days\ncould obtain. His teacher, Cratylus, was a follower of Heracleitus,\nand Plato no doubt learned from him the doctrines of that philosopher.\nIt is improbable that he allowed himself to remain unacquainted with\nthe disputations of the Sophists, many of whom were his own\ncontemporaries. He probably read the book of Anaxagoras, which was\neasily obtainable in Athens at the time. But on all these points we\nhave no certain information. What we do know is that the decisive\nevent in his youth, and indeed in his life, was his association with\nSocrates.\n\nFor the last eight years of the life of Socrates, Plato was his friend\nand his faithful disciple. The teaching and personality of the master\nconstituted the supreme intellectual impulse of his life, and the\ninspiration of his entire thought. And the devotion and esteem which\nhe felt for Socrates, so far from waning as the years went by, seem,\non the contrary, to have grown continually stronger. For it is\nprecisely in the latest dialogues of his long life that some of the\nmost charming and admiring portraits of Socrates are to be found.\nSocrates became for him the pattern and exemplar of the true\nphilosopher.\n\nAfter the death of Socrates a second period opens in the life of\nPlato, the period of his travels. He migrated first to Megara, where\nhis friend and fellow-disciple Euclid was then founding the Megaric\nschool. The Megaric philosophy was a combination of the thought of\nSocrates with that of the Eleatics. And it was no doubt here, at {167}\nMegara, under the influence of Euclid, that Plato formed his deeper\nacquaintance with the teaching of Parmenides, which exercised an\nall-important influence upon his own philosophy. From Megara he\ntravelled to Cyrene, Egypt, Italy, and Sicily. In Italy he came in\ncontact with the Pythagoreans. And to the effects of this journey may\nbe attributed the strong Pythagorean elements which permeate his\nthought.\n\nIn Sicily he attended the court of Dionysius the Elder, tyrant of\nSyracuse. But here his conduct seems to have given grave offence.\nDionysius was so angered by his moralizings and philosophical\ndiatribes that he put Plato up to auction in the slave market. Plato\nnarrowly escaped the fate of slavery, but was ransomed by Anniceris,\nthe Cyrenaic. He then returned to Athens, his travels having occupied\na period of about ten years.\n\nWith the return of Plato to Athens we enter upon the third and last\nperiod of his life. With the exception of two journeys to be mentioned\nshortly, he never again left Athens. He now appeared for the first\ntime as a professional teacher and philosopher. He chose for the scene\nof his activities a gymnasium, called the Academy. Here he gradually\ncollected round him a circle of pupils and disciples. For the rest of\nhis life, a period of about forty years, he occupied himself in\nliterary activity, and in the management of the school which he had\nfounded. His manner of life was in strong contrast to that of\nSocrates. Only in one respect did he resemble his master. He took no\nfees for his teaching. Otherwise the lives of the two great men bear\nno resemblance to each other. Socrates had gone out into the highways\nand byways in search of wisdom. He had wrangled in {168} the\nmarket-place with all comers. Plato withdrew himself into the\nseclusion of a school, protected from the hubbub of the world by a\nring of faithful disciples. It was not to be expected that a man of\nPlato's refinement, culture, and aristocratic feelings, should\nappreciate, as Socrates, the man of the people, had done, the\nrough-and-tumble life of the Athenian market-place. Nor was it\ndesirable for the advancement of philosophy that it should be so. The\nSocratic philosophy had suffered from the Socratic manner of life. It\nwas unmethodical and inchoate. Systematic thought is not born of\ndisputes at the street corner. For the development of a great\nworld-system, such as that of Plato, laborious study and quiet\nseclusion were essential.\n\nThis period of Plato's mastership was broken only by two journeys to\nSicily, both undertaken with political objects. Plato knew well that\nthe perfect State, as depicted in his \"Republic,\" was not capable of\nrealization in the Greece of his own time. Nevertheless, he took his\npolitical philosophy very seriously. Though the perfect republic was\nan unattainable ideal, yet, he thought, any real reform of the State\nmust at least proceed in the direction of that ideal. One of the\nessential principles of the \"Republic\" was that the rulers must also\nbe philosophers. Not till philosopher and ruler were combined in one\nand the same person could the State be governed upon true principles.\nNow, in the year 368 B.C., Dionysius the Elder died, and Dionysius the\nyounger became tyrant of Syracuse. Dionysius despatched an invitation\nto Plato to attend his court and give him the benefit of his advice.\nHere was an opportunity to experiment. Plato could train and educate a\n{169} philosopher-king. He accepted the invitation. But the expedition\nended disastrously. Dionysius received him with enthusiasm, and\ninterested himself in the philosophical discourses of his teacher. But\nhe was young, impetuous, hot-headed, and without genuine philosophic\nbent. His first interest gave place to weariness and irritation. Plato\nleft Syracuse a disappointed man; and returned to Athens.\nNevertheless, after the lapse of a few years, Dionysius again invited\nhim to Syracuse, and again he accepted the invitation. But the second\njourney ended in disaster like the first, and Plato was even in danger\nof his life, but was rescued by the intervention of the Pythagoreans.\nHe returned to Athens in his seventieth year, and lived till his death\nin the seclusion of his school, never again attempting to intervene in\npractical politics.\n\nFor more than another decade he dwelt and taught in Athens. His life\nwas serene, quiet, and happy. He died peacefully at the age of\neighty-two.\n\nPlato's writings take the form of dialogues. In the majority of these,\nthe chief part is taken by Socrates, into whose mouth Plato puts the\nexposition of his own philosophy. In a few, as for example the\n\"Parmenides,\" other speakers enunciate the Platonic teaching, but even\nin these Socrates always plays an important _role_. Plato was not only\na philosopher, but a consummate literary artist. The dialogues are\ngenuinely dramatic, enlivened by incident, humour, and life-like\ncharacterization. Not only is the portrait of Socrates drawn with\nloving affection, but even the minor characters are flesh and blood.\n\nA most important element of Plato's style is his use of myths. He does\nnot always explain his meaning in {170} the form of direct scientific\nexposition. He frequently teaches by allegories, fables, and stories,\nall of which may be included under the one general appellation of\nPlatonic myths. These are often of great literary beauty, but in spite\nof this they involve grave disadvantages. Plato slips so easily from\nscientific exposition into myth, that it is often no easy matter to\ndecide whether his statements are meant literally or allegorically.\nMoreover, the myths usually signify a defect in his thought itself.\nThe fact is that the combination of poet and philosopher in one man is\nan exceedingly dangerous combination. I have explained before that the\nobject of philosophy is, not merely to feel the truth, as the poet and\nmystic feel it, but intellectually to comprehend it, not merely to\ngive us a series of pictures and metaphors, but a reasoned explanation\nof things upon scientific principles. When a man, who is at once a\npoet and a philosopher, cannot rationally explain a thing, it is a\nterrible temptation to him to substitute poetic metaphors for the\nexplanation which is lacking. We saw, for example, that the writers of\nthe Upanishads, who believed that the whole world issues forth from\nthe one, absolute, imperishable, being, which they called Brahman,\nbeing unable to explain why the One thus differentiates itself into\nthe many, took refuge in metaphors. As the sparks from the substantial\nfire, so, they say, do all finite beings issue forth from the One. But\nthis explains nothing, and the aim of the philosopher is not thus\nvaguely to feel, but rationally to understand. Now this is not merely\nmy view of the functions of philosophy. It is emphatically Plato's own\nview. In fact Plato was the originator of it. He is perpetually\ninsisting that {171} nothing save full rational comprehension deserves\nthe names of knowledge and philosophy. No writer has ever used such\ncontemptuous language as Plato used of the mere mystic and poet, who\nsays wise and beautiful things, without in the least understanding why\nthey are wise and beautiful. No man has formed such a low estimate of\nthe functions of the poet and mystic. Plato is, in theory at least,\nthe prince of rationalists and intellectualists. In practice, however,\nhe must be convicted of the very fault he so severely censured in\nothers. This, in fact, is the explanation of most of the Platonic\nmyths. Wherever Plato is unable to explain anything, he covers up the\ngap in his system with a myth. This is particularly noticeable, for\nexample, in the \"Timaeus.\" Plato having, in other dialogues, developed\nhis theory of the nature of the ultimate reality, arrives, in the\n\"Timaeus,\" at the problem how the actual world is to be explained from\nthat ultimate reality. At this point, as we shall see, Plato's system\nbreaks down. His account of the absolute reality is defective, and in\nconsequence, it affords no principle whereby the actual universe can\nbe explained. In the \"Timaeus,\" therefore, instead of a reasoned\nexplanation, he gives us a series of wholly fanciful myths about the\norigin of the world. Wherever we find myths in Plato's dialogues, we\nmay suspect that we have arrived at one of the weak points of the\nsystem.\n\nIf we are to study Plato intelligently, it is essential that we should\ncease to regard the dialogues as if they were all produced _en bloc_\nfrom a single phase of their author's mind. His literary activity\nextended over a period of not less than fifty years. During that time,\nhe did not stand still. His thought, and his mode of {172} expression,\nwere constantly developing. If we are to understand Plato, we must\nobtain some clue to enable us to trace this development. And this\nmeans that we must know something of the order in which the dialogues\nwere written. Unfortunately, however, they have not come down to us\ndated and numbered. It is a matter of scholarship and criticism to\ndeduce the period at which any dialogue was written from internal\nevidences. Many minor points are still undecided, as well as a few\nquestions of importance, such as the date of the \"Phaedrus,\" [Footnote\n11] which some critics place quite early and some very late in Plato's\nlife. Neglecting these points, however, we may say in general that\nunanimity has been reached, and that we now know enough to be able to\ntrace the main lines of development.\n\n[Footnote 11: The same remark applies to the \"Symposium,\" the\n\"Republic,\" and the \"Theaetetus.\"]\n\nThe dialogues fall into three main groups, which correspond roughly to\nthe three periods of Plato's life. Those of the earliest group were\nwritten about the time of the death of Socrates, and before the\nauthor's journey to Megara. Some of them may have been written before\nthe death of Socrates. This group includes the \"Hippias Minor,\" the\n\"Lysis,\" the \"Charmides,\" the \"Laches,\" the \"Euthyphro,\" the\n\"Apology,\" the \"Crito,\" and the \"Protagoras.\" The \"Protagoras\" is the\nlongest, the most complex in thought, and the most developed. It is\nprobably the latest, and forms the bridge to the second group.\n\nAll these early dialogues are short and simple, and are still, as\nregards their thought, entirely under the influence of Socrates. Plato\nhas not as yet developed {173} any philosophy of his own. He propounds\nthe philosophy of Socrates almost unaltered. Even so, however, he is\nno mere plagiarist. There are throughout these dialogues evidences of\nfreshness and originality, but these qualities exhibit themselves\nrather in the literary form than in the philosophical substance. We\nfind here all the familiar Socratic propositions, that virtue is\nknowledge, is one, is teachable; that all men seek the good, but that\nmen differ as to what the good is; that a man who does wrong\ndeliberately is better than a man who does it unintentionally; and so\non. Moreover, just as Socrates had occupied himself in attempting to\nfix the concepts of the virtues, asking \"what is prudence?\", \"what is\ntemperance?\", and the like, so in many of these dialogues Plato\npursues similar inquiries. The \"Lysis\" discusses the concept of\nfriendship, the \"Charmides\" of temperance, the \"Laches\" of bravery. On\nthe whole, the philosophical substance of these early writings is thin\nand meagre. There is a preponderance of incident and much biographical\ndetail regarding Socrates. There is more art than matter.\nConsequently, from a purely literary point of view, these are among\nthe most charming of Plato's dialogues, and many of them, such as the\n\"Apology\" and the \"Crito,\" are especially popular with those who care\nfor Plato rather as an artist than as a philosopher.\n\nThe second group of dialogues is generally connected with the period\nof Plato's travels. In addition to the influence of Socrates, we have\nnow the influence of the Eleatics, which naturally connects these\ndialogues with the period of the philosopher's sojourn at Megara. But\nit is in these dialogues, too, that Plato for the first time {174}\ndevelops his own special philosophical thesis. This is in fact his\ngreat constructive period. The central and governing principle of his\nphilosophy is the theory of Ideas. All else hinges on this, and is\ndominated by this. In a sense, his whole philosophy is nothing but the\ntheory of Ideas and what depends upon it. It is in this second period\nthat the theory of Ideas is founded and developed, and its\nrelationship to the Eleatic philosophy of Being discussed. We have\nhere the spectacle of Plato's most original thoughts in the pangs of\nchildbirth. He is now at grips with the central problems of\nphilosophy. He is intent upon the thought itself, and cares little for\nthe ornaments of style. He is struggling to find expression for ideas\nnewly-formed in his mind, of which he is not yet completely master,\nand which he cannot manipulate with ease. Consequently, the literary\ngraces of the first period recede into the background. There is little\nincident, and no humour. There is nothing but close reasoning, hard\nand laborious discussion.\n\nThe twin dialogues, \"Gorgias\" and \"Theaetetus\" are probably the\nearliest of this group. They result in nothing very definite, and are\nchiefly negative in character. Plato is here engaged merely in a\npreparatory clearing of the ground. The \"Gorgias\" discusses and\nrefutes the Sophistic identification of virtue and pleasure, and\nattempts to show, as against it, that the good must be something\nobjectively existent, and independent of the pleasure of the\nindividual. The \"Theaetetus,\" similarly, shows that truth is not, as\nthe Sophists thought, merely the subjective impression of the\nindividual, but is something objectively true in itself. The other\n{175} dialogues of the group are the \"Sophist,\" the \"Statesman,\" and\nthe \"Parmenides.\" The \"Sophist\" discusses Being and not-being, and\ntheir relationship to the theory of Ideas. The \"Parmenides\" inquires\nwhether the absolute reality is to be regarded, in the manner of the\nEleatics, as an abstract One. It gives us, therefore, Plato's\nconception of the relation of his own philosophy to Eleaticism.\n\nThe dialogues of the third group are the work of Plato's maturity. He\nhas now completely mastered his thought, and turns it with ease in all\ndirections. Hence the style returns to the lucidity and purity of the\nfirst period. If the first period was marked chiefly by literary\ngrace, the second by depth of thought, the third period combines both.\nThe perfect substance is now moulded in the perfect form. But a\npeculiarity of all the dialogues of this period is that they take it\nfor granted that the theory of Ideas is already established and\nfamiliar to the reader. They proceed to apply it to all departments of\nthought. The second period was concerned with the formulation and\nproof of the theory of Ideas, the third period undertakes its\nsystematic application. Thus the \"Symposium,\" which has for its\nsubject the metaphysic of love, attempts to connect man's feeling for\nbeauty with the intellectual knowledge of the Ideas. The \"Philebus\"\napplies the theory of Ideas to the sphere of ethics, the \"Timaeus\" to\nthe sphere of physics, and the \"Republic\" to the sphere of politics.\nThe \"Phaedo\" founds the doctrine of the immortality of the soul upon\nthe theory of Ideas. The \"Phaedrus\" is probably to be grouped with the\n\"Symposium.\" The beauty, grace, and lucidity of the style, and the\nfact that it assumes throughout that {176} the theory of Ideas is a\nthing established, lead us to the belief that it belongs to the period\nof Plato's maturity. Zeller's theory that it was written at the\nbeginning of the second period, and is then offered to the reader as a\nsort of sweetmeat to induce him to enter upon the laborious task of\nreading the \"Sophist,\" the \"Statesman,\" and the \"Parmenides,\" seems to\nbe far-fetched and unnecessary. [Footnote 12]\n\n[Footnote 12: Zeller's _Plato and the Older Academy_, chap. iii.]\n\nIf the second is the great constructive period of Plato's life, the\nthird may be described as his systematic and synthetic period. Every\npart of his philosophy is here linked up with every other part. All\nthe details of the system are seen to flow from the one central\nprinciple of his thought, the theory of Ideas. Every sphere of\nknowledge and being is in turn exhibited in the light of that\nprinciple, is permeated and penetrated by it.\n\nThe plan for expounding Plato which first suggests itself is to go\nthrough the dialogues, one by one, and extract the doctrine of each\nsuccessively. But this suggestion has to be given up as soon as it is\nmentioned. For although the philosophy of Plato is in itself a\nsystematic and coherent body of thought, he did not express it in a\nsystematic way. On the contrary, he scatters his ideas in all\ndirections. He throws them out at random in any order. What logically\ncomes first often appears last. It may be found at the end of a\ndialogue, and the next step in reasoning may make its appearance at\nthe beginning, or even in a totally different dialogue. If, therefore,\nwe are to get any connected view of the system, we must abandon\nPlato's own order of exposition, and piece the thought together for\nourselves. We must begin {177} with what logically comes first,\nwherever we may find it, and proceed with the exposition in the same\nmanner.\n\nA similar difficulty attends the question of the division of Plato's\nphilosophy. He himself has given us no single and certain principle of\ndivision. But the principle usually adopted divides his philosophy\ninto Dialectic, Physics, and Ethics. Dialectic, or the theory of\nIdeas, is Plato's doctrine of the nature of the absolute reality.\nPhysics is the theory of phenomenal existence in space and time, and\nincludes therefore the doctrine of the soul and its migrations, since\nthese are happenings in time. Ethics includes politics, the theory of\nthe duty of man as a citizen, as well as the ethics of the individual.\nCertain portions of the system, the doctrine of Eros, for example, do\nnot fall very naturally into any of these divisions. But, on the other\nhand, though some dialogues are mixed as to their subject matter,\nothers, and those the most important, fall almost exclusively into one\nor other division. For example, the \"Timaeus,\" the \"Phaedo,\" and the\n\"Phaedrus,\" are physical. The \"Philebus,\" the \"Gorgias,\" and the\n\"Republic,\" are ethical. The \"Theaetetus,\" the \"Sophist,\" and the\n\"Parmenides,\" are dialectical.\n\n\n\n2. The Theory of Knowledge.\n\nThe theory of Ideas is itself based upon the theory of knowledge. What\nis knowledge? What is truth? Plato opens the discussion by telling us\nfirst what knowledge and truth are not. His object here is the\nrefutation of false theories. These must be disposed of to clear the\nground preparatory to positive exposition. The first such false theory\nwhich he attacks is that knowledge {178} is perception. To refute this\nis the main object of the \"Theaetetus.\" His arguments may be\nsummarized as follows:--\n\n(1) That knowledge is perception is the theory of Protagoras and the\nSophists, and we have seen to what results it leads. What it amounts\nto is that what appears to each individual true is true for that\nindividual. But this is at any rate false in its application to our\njudgment of future events. The frequent mistakes which men make about\nthe future show this. It may appear to me that I shall be Chief\nJustice next year. But instead of that, I find myself, perhaps, in\nprison. In general, what appears to each individual to be the truth\nabout the future frequently does not turn out so in the event.\n\n(2) Perception yields contradictory impressions. The same object\nappears large when near, small when removed to a distance. Compared\nwith some things it is light, with others heavy. In one light it is\nwhite, in another green, and in the dark it has no colour at all.\nLooked at from one angle this piece of paper seems square, from\nanother it appears to be a rhombus. Which of all these impressions is\ntrue? To know which is true, we must be able to exercise a choice\namong these varying impressions, to prefer one to another, to\ndiscriminate, to accept this and reject that. But if knowledge is\nperception, then we have no right to give one perception preference\nover another. For all perceptions are knowledge. All are true.\n\n(3) This doctrine renders all teaching, all discussion, proof, or\ndisproof, impossible. Since all perceptions are equally true, the\nchild's perceptions must be just as much the truth as those of his\nteachers. His teachers, {179} therefore, can teach him nothing. As to\ndiscussion and proof, the very fact that two people dispute about\nanything implies that they believe in the existence of an objective\ntruth. Their impressions, if they contradict each other, cannot both\nbe true. For if so, there is nothing to dispute about. Thus all proof\nand refutation are rendered futile by the theory of Protagoras.\n\n(4) If perception is truth, man is the measure of all things, in his\ncharacter as a percipient being. But since animals are also percipient\nbeings, the lowest brute must be, equally with man, the measure of all\nthings.\n\n(5) The theory of Protagoras contradicts itself. For Protagoras admits\nthat what appears to me true is true. If, therefore, it appears to me\ntrue that the doctrine of Protagoras is false, Protagoras himself must\nadmit that it is false.\n\n(6) It destroys the objectivity of truth, and renders the distinction\nbetween truth and falsehood wholly meaningless. The same thing is true\nand false at the same time, true for you and false for me. Hence it\nmakes no difference at all whether we say that a proposition is true,\nor whether we say that it is false. Both statements mean the same\nthing, that is to say, neither of them means anything. To say that\nwhatever I perceive is true for me merely gives a new name to my\nperception, but does not add any value to it.\n\n(7) In all perception there are elements which are not contributed by\nthe senses. Suppose I say, \"This piece of paper is white.\" This, we\nmight think, is a pure judgment of perception. Nothing is stated\nexcept what I perceive by means of my senses. But on consideration it\nturns out that this is not correct. First of all I must {180} think\n\"this piece of paper.\" Why do I call it paper? My doing so means that\nI have classified it. I have mentally compared it with other pieces of\npaper, and decided that it is of a class with them. My thought, then,\ninvolves comparison and classification. The object is a compound\nsensation of whiteness, squareness, etc. I can only recognise it as a\npiece of paper by identifying these sensations, which I have now, with\nsensations received from other similar objects in the past. And not\nonly must I recognize the sameness of the sensations, but I must\nrecognize their difference from other sensations. I must not confound\nthe sensations I receive from paper with those which I receive from a\npiece of wood. Both identities and differences of sensations must be\nknown before I can say \"this piece of paper.\" The same is true when I\ngo on to say that it \"is white.\" This is only possible by classifying\nit with other white objects, and differentiating it from objects of\nother colours. But the senses themselves cannot perform these acts of\ncomparison and contrast. Each sensation is, so to speak, an isolated\ndot. It cannot go beyond itself to compare itself with others. This\noperation must be performed by my mind, which acts as a co-ordinating\ncentral authority, receiving the isolated sensations, combining,\ncomparing, and contrasting them. This is particularly noticeable in\ncases where we compare sensations of one sense with those of another.\nFeeling a ball with my fingers, I say it feels round. Looking at it\nwith my eyes, I say it looks round. But the feel is quite a different\nsensation from the look. Yet I use the same word, \"round,\" to describe\nboth. And this shows that I have identified the two sensations. This\n{181} cannot be done by the senses themselves. For my eyes cannot\nfeel, and my fingers cannot see. It must be the mind itself, standing\nabove the senses, which performs the identification. Thus the ideas of\nidentity and difference are not yielded to me by my senses. The\nintellect itself introduces them into things. Yet they are involved in\nall knowledge, for they are involved even in the simplest acts of\nknowledge, such as the proposition, \"This is white.\" Knowledge,\ntherefore, cannot consist simply of sense-impressions, as Protagoras\nthought, for even the simplest propositions contain more than\nsensation.\n\nIf knowledge is not the same as perception, neither is it, on the\nother hand, the same as opinion. That knowledge is opinion is the\nsecond false theory that Plato seeks to refute. Wrong opinion is\nclearly not knowledge. But even right opinion cannot be called\nknowledge. If I say, without any grounds for the statement, that there\nwill be a thunderstorm next Easter Sunday, it may chance that my\nstatement turns out to be correct. But it cannot be said that, in\nmaking this blind guess, I had any knowledge, although, as it turned\nout, I had right opinion. Right opinion may also be grounded, not on\nmere guess-work, but on something which, though better, is still not\ntrue understanding. We often feel intuitively, or instinctively, that\nsomething is true, though we cannot give any definite grounds for our\nbelief. The belief may be quite correct, but it is not, according to\nPlato, knowledge. It is only right opinion. To possess knowledge, one\nmust not only know that a thing is so, but why it is so. One must know\nthe reasons. Knowledge must be full and complete understanding,\nrational comprehension, and not mere instinctive belief. {182} It must\nbe grounded on reason, and not on faith. Right opinion may be produced\nby persuasion and sophistry, by the arts of the orator and\nrhetorician. Knowledge can only be produced by reason. Right opinion\nmay equally be removed by the false arts of rhetoric, and is therefore\nunstable and uncertain. But true knowledge cannot be thus shaken. He\nwho truly knows and understands cannot be robbed of his knowledge by\nthe glamour of words. Opinion, lastly, may be true or false. Knowledge\ncan only be true.\n\nThese false theories being refuted, we can now pass to the positive\nside of the theory of knowledge. If knowledge is neither perception\nnor opinion, what is it? Plato adopts, without alteration, the\nSocratic doctrine that all knowledge is knowledge through concepts.\nThis, as I explained in the lecture on Socrates, gets rid of the\nobjectionable results of the Sophistic identification of knowledge\nwith perception. A concept, being the same thing as a definition, is\nsomething fixed and permanent, not liable to mutation according to the\nsubjective impressions of the individual. It gives us objective truth.\nThis also agrees with Plato's view of opinion. Knowledge is not\nopinion, founded on instinct or intuition. Knowledge is founded on\nreason. This is the same as saying that it is founded upon concepts,\nsince reason is the faculty of concepts.\n\nBut if Plato, in answering the question, \"What is knowledge?\" follows\nimplicitly the teaching of Socrates, he yet builds upon this teaching\na new and wholly un-Socratic metaphysic of his own. The Socratic\ntheory of knowledge he now converts into a theory of the nature of\nreality. This is the subject-matter of Dialectic.\n\n{183}\n\n\n\n3. Dialectic, or the Theory of Ideas.\n\nThe concept had been for Socrates merely a rule of thought.\nDefinitions, like guide-rails, keep thought upon the straight path; we\ncompare any act with the definition of virtue in order to ascertain\nwhether it is virtuous. But what was for Socrates merely regulative of\nthought, Plato now transforms into a metaphysical substance. His\ntheory of Ideas is the theory of the objectivity of concepts. That the\nconcept is not merely an idea in the mind, but something which has a\nreality of its own, outside and independent of the mind--this is the\nessence of the philosophy of Plato.\n\nHow did Plato arrive at this doctrine? It is founded upon the view\nthat truth means the correspondence of one's ideas with the facts of\nexistence. If I see a lake of water, and if there really is such a\nlake, then my idea is true. But if there is no lake, then my idea is\nfalse. It is an hallucination. Truth, according to this view, means\nthat the thought in my mind is a copy of something outside my mind.\nFalsehood consists in having an idea which is not a copy of anything\nwhich really exists. Knowledge, of course, means knowledge of the\ntruth. And when I say that a thought in my mind is knowledge, I must\ntherefore mean that this thought is a copy of something that exists.\nBut we have already seen that knowledge is the knowledge of concepts.\nAnd if a concept is true knowledge, it can only be true in virtue of\nthe fact that it corresponds to an objective reality. There must,\ntherefore, be general ideas or concepts, outside my mind. It were a\ncontradiction to suppose, on the one hand, that the concept is true\nknowledge, and on the other, that it corresponds to nothing external\n{184} to us. This would be like saying that my idea of the lake of\nwater is a true idea, but that no such lake really exists. The concept\nin my mind must be a copy of the concept outside it.\n\nNow if knowledge by concepts is true, our experiences through\nsensation must be false. Our senses make us aware of many individual\nhorses. Our intellect gives us the concept of the horse in general. If\nthe latter is the sole truth, the former must be false. And this can\nonly mean that the objects of sensation have no true reality. What has\nreality is the concept; what has no reality is the individual thing\nwhich is perceived by the senses. This and that particular horse have\nno true being. Reality belongs only to the idea of the horse in\ngeneral.\n\nLet us approach this theory from a somewhat different direction.\nSuppose I ask you the question, \"What is beauty?\" You point to a rose,\nand say, \"Here is beauty.\" And you say the same of a woman's face, a\npiece of woodland scenery, and a clear moonlight night. But I answer\nthat this is not what I want to know. I did not ask what things are\nbeautiful, but what is beauty. I did not ask for many things, but for\none thing, namely, beauty. If beauty is a rose, it cannot be\nmoonlight, because a rose and moonlight are quite different things. By\nbeauty we mean, not many things, but one. This is proved by the fact\nthat we use only one word for it. And what I want to know is what this\none beauty is, which is distinct from all beautiful objects. Perhaps\nyou will say that there is no such thing as beauty apart from\nbeautiful objects, and that, though we use one word, yet this is only\na manner of {185} speech, and that there are in reality many beauties,\neach residing in a beautiful object. In that case, I observe that,\nthough the many beauties are all different, yet, since you use the one\nword to describe them all, you evidently think that they are similar\nto each other. How do you know that they are similar? Your eyes cannot\ninform you of this similarity, because it involves comparison, and we\nhave already seen that comparison is an act of the mind, and not of\nthe senses. You must therefore have an idea of beauty in your mind,\nwith which you compare the various beautiful objects and so recognise\nthem as all resembling your idea of beauty, and therefore as\nresembling each other. So that there is at any rate an idea of one\nbeauty in your mind. Either this idea corresponds to something outside\nyou, or it does not. In the latter case, your idea of beauty is a mere\ninvention, a figment of your own brain. If so, then, in judging\nexternal objects by your subjective idea, and in making it the\nstandard of whether they are beautiful or not, you are back again at\nthe position of the Sophists. You are making yourself and the fancies\nof your individual brain the standard of external truth. Therefore,\nthe only alternative is to believe that there is not only an idea of\nbeauty in your mind, but that there is such a thing as the one beauty\nitself, of which your idea is a copy. This beauty exists outside the\nmind, and it is something distinct from all beautiful objects.\n\nWhat has been said of beauty may equally be said of justice, or of\ngoodness, or of whiteness, or of heaviness. There are many just acts,\nbut only one justice, since we use one word for it. This justice must\nbe a real thing, distinct from all particular just acts. Our ideas of\njustice {186} are copies of it. So also there are many white objects,\nbut also the one whiteness.\n\nOf the above examples, several are very exalted moral ideas, such as\nbeauty, justice, and goodness. But the case of whiteness will serve to\nshow that the theory attributes reality not only to exalted ideas, but\nto others also. In fact, we might quite well substitute evil for\ngoodness, and all the same arguments would apply. Or we might take a\ncorporeal object such as the horse, and ask what \"horse\" means. It\ndoes not mean the many individual horses, for since one word is used\nit must mean one thing, which is related to individual horses, just as\nwhiteness is related to individual white things. It means the\nuniversal horse, the idea of the horse in general, and this, just as\nmuch as goodness or beauty, must be something objectively real.\n\nNow beauty, justice, goodness, whiteness, the horse in general, are\nall concepts. The idea of beauty is formed by including what is common\nto all beautiful objects, and excluding those points in which they\ndiffer. And this, as we have seen, is just what is meant by a concept.\nPlato's theory, therefore, is that concepts are objective realities.\nAnd he gives to these objective concepts the technical name Ideas.\nThis is his answer to the chief question of philosophy, namely, what,\namid all the appearances and unrealities of things, is that absolute\nand ultimate reality, from which all else is to be explained? It\nconsists, for Plato, in Ideas.\n\nLet us see next what the characteristics of the Ideas are. In the\nfirst place, they are substances. Substance is a technical term in\nphilosophy, but its philosophical meaning is merely a more consistent\ndevelopment of its {187} popular meaning. In common talk, we generally\napply the word substance to material things such as iron, brass, wood,\nor water. And we say that these substances possess qualities. For\nexample, hardness and shininess are qualities of the substance iron.\nThe qualities cannot exist apart from the substances. They do not\nexist on their own account, but are dependent on the substance. The\nshininess cannot exist by itself. There must be a shiny something.\nBut, according to popular ideas, though the qualities are not\nindependent of the substance, the substance is independent of the\nqualities. The qualities derive their reality from the substance. But\nthe substance has reality in itself. The philosophical use of the term\nsubstance is simply a more consistent application of this idea.\nSubstance means, for the philosopher, that which has its whole being\nin itself, whose reality does not flow into it from anything else, but\nwhich is the source of its own reality. It is self-caused, and\nself-determined. It is the ground of other things, but itself has no\nground except itself. For example, if we believe the popular Christian\nidea that God created the world, but is Himself an ultimate and\nuncreated being, then, since the world depends for its existence upon\nGod, but God's existence depends only upon Himself, God is a substance\nand the world is not. In this sense the word is correctly used in the\nCreed where it speaks of God as \"three persons, but one substance.\"\nAgain, if, with the Idealists, we think that mind is a self-existent\nreality, and that matter owes its existence to mind, then in that case\nmatter is not substance, but mind is. In this technical sense the\nIdeas are substances. They are absolute and ultimate realities. {188}\nTheir whole being is in themselves. They depend on nothing, but all\nthings depend on them. They are the first principles of the universe.\n\nSecondly, the Ideas are universal. An Idea is not any particular\nthing. The Idea of the horse is not this or that horse. It is the\ngeneral concept of all horses. It is the universal horse. For this\nreason the Ideas are, in modern times, often called \"universals.\"\n\nThirdly, the Ideas are not things, but thoughts. There is no such\nthing as the horse-in-general. If there were, we should be able to\nfind it somewhere, and it would then be a particular thing instead of\na universal. But in saying that the Ideas are thoughts, there are two\nmistakes to be carefully avoided. The first is to suppose that they\nare the thoughts of a person, that they are your thoughts or my\nthoughts. The second is to suppose that they are thoughts in the mind\nof God. Both these views are wrong. It would be absurd to suppose that\nour thoughts can be the cause of the universe. Our concepts are indeed\ncopies of the Ideas, but to confuse them with the Ideas themselves is,\nfor Plato, as absurd as to confuse our idea of a mountain with the\nmountain itself. Nor are they the thoughts of God. They are indeed\nsometimes spoken of as the \"Ideas in the divine mind.\" But this is\nonly a figurative expression. We can, if we like, talk of the sum of\nall the Ideas as constituting the \"divine mind.\" But this means\nnothing in particular, and is only a poetical phrase. Both these\nmistakes are due to the fact that we find it difficult to conceive of\nthoughts without a thinker. This, however, is just what Plato meant.\nThey are not subjective ideas, that is, the ideas in a particular and\nexistent {189} mind. They are objective Ideas, thoughts which have\nreality on their own account, independently of any mind.\n\nFourthly, each Idea is a unity. It is the one amid the many. The Idea\nof man is one, although individual men are many. There cannot be more\nthan one Idea for each class of objects. If there were several Ideas\nof justice, we should have to seek for the common element among them,\nand this common element would itself constitute the one Idea of\njustice.\n\nFifthly, the Ideas are immutable and imperishable. A concept is the\nsame as a definition. And the whole point in a definition is that it\nshould always be the same. The object of a definition is to compare\nindividual things with it, and to see whether they agree with it or\nnot. But if the definition of a triangle differed from day to day, it\nwould be useless, since we could never say whether any particular\nfigure were a triangle or not, just as the standard yard in the Tower\nof London would be useless if it changed in length, and were twice as\nlong to-day as it was yesterday. A definition is thus something\nabsolutely permanent, and a definition is only the expression in words\nof the nature of an Idea. Consequently the Ideas cannot change. The\nmany beautiful objects arise and pass away, but the one Beauty neither\nbegins nor ends. It is eternal, unchangeable, and imperishable. The\nmany beautiful things are but the fleeting expressions of the one\neternal beauty. The definition of man would remain the same, even if\nall men were destroyed. The Idea of man is eternal, and remains\nuntouched by the birth, old age, decay, and death, of individual men.\n\nSixthly, the Ideas are the Essences of all things. The definition\ngives us what is essential to a thing. If we {190} define man as a\nrational animal, this means that reason is of the essence of man. The\nfact that this man has a turned-up nose, and that man red hair, are\naccidental facts, not essential to their humanity. We do not include\nthem in the definition of man.\n\nSeventhly, each Idea is, in its own kind, an absolute perfection, and\nits perfection is the same as its reality. The perfect man is the one\nuniversal type-man, that is, the Idea of man, and all individual men\ndeviate more or less from this perfect type. In so far as they fall\nshort of it, they are imperfect and unreal.\n\nEighthly, the Ideas are outside space and time. That they are outside\nspace is obvious. If they were in space, they would have to be in some\nparticular place. We ought to be able to find them somewhere. A\ntelescope or microscope might reveal them. And this would mean that\nthey are individual and particular things, and not universals at all.\nThey are also outside time. For they are unchangeable and eternal; and\nthis does not mean that they are the same at all times. If that were\nso, their immutability would be a matter of experience, and not of\nreason. We should, so to speak, have to look at them from time to time\nto see that they had not really changed. But their immutability is not\na matter of experience, but is known to thought. It is not merely that\nthey are always the same in time, but that time is irrelevant to them.\nThey are timeless. In the \"Timaeus\" eternity is distinguished from\ninfinite time. The latter is described as a mere copy of eternity.\n\nNinthly, the Ideas are rational, that is to say, they are apprehended\nthrough reason. The finding of the common element in the manifold is\nthe work of inductive {191} reason, and through this alone is\nknowledge of the Ideas possible. This should be noted by those persons\nwho imagine that Plato was some sort of benevolent mystic. The\nimperishable One, the absolute reality, is apprehended, not by\nintuition, or in any kind of mystic ecstasy, but only by rational\ncognition and laborious thought.\n\nLastly, towards the end of his life, Plato identified the Ideas with\nthe Pythagorean numbers. We know this from Aristotle, but it is not\nmentioned in the dialogues of Plato himself. It appears to have been a\ntheory adopted in old age, and set forth in the lectures which\nAristotle attended. It is a retrograde step, and tends to degrade the\ngreat and lucid idealism of Plato into a mathematical mysticism. In\nthis, as in other respects, the influence of the Pythagoreans upon\nPlato was harmful.\n\nIt results from this whole theory of Ideas that there are two sources\nof human experience, sense-perception and reason. Sense-perception has\nfor its object the world of sense; reason has for its object the\nIdeas. The world of sense has all the opposite characteristics to the\nIdeas. The Ideas are absolute reality, absolute Being. Objects of\nsense are absolute unreality, not-being, except in so far as the Ideas\nare in them. Whatever reality they have they owe to the Ideas. There\nis in Plato's system a principle of absolute not-being which we shall\nconsider when we come to deal with his Physics. Objects of sense\nparticipate both in the Ideas and in this not-being. They are,\ntherefore, half way between Being and not-being. They are half real.\nIdeas, again, are universal; things of sense are always particular and\nindividual. The Idea is one, the sense-object is always {192} a\nmultiplicity. Ideas are outside space and time, things of sense are\nboth temporal and spatial. The Idea is eternal and immutable;\nsense-objects are changeable and in perpetual flux.\n\nAs regards the last point, Plato adopts the view of Heracleitus that\nthere is an absolute Becoming, and he identifies it with the world of\nsense, which contains nothing stable and permanent, but is a constant\nflow. The Idea always is, and never becomes; the thing of sense always\nbecomes, and never is. It is for this reason that, in the opinion of\nPlato, no knowledge of the world of sense is possible, for one can\nhave no knowledge of that which changes from moment to moment.\nKnowledge is only possible if its subject stands fixed before the\nmind, is permanent and changeless. The only knowledge, then, is\nknowledge of the Ideas.\n\nThis may seem, at first sight, a very singular doctrine. That there\ncan be no knowledge of sense-objects would, it might seem to us\nmoderns, involve the denial that modern physical science, with all its\nexactitude and accumulated knowledge, is knowledge at all. And surely,\nthough all earthly things arise and pass away, many of them last long\nenough to admit of knowledge. Surely the mountains are sufficiently\npermanent to allow us to know something of them. They have relative,\nthough not absolute, permanence. This criticism is partly justified.\nPlato did underestimate the value of physical knowledge. But for the\nmost part, the criticism is a misunderstanding. By the world of sense\nPlato means bare sensation with no rational element in it. Now\nphysical science has not such crude sensation for its object. Its\nobjects are rationalized sensations. {193} If, in Plato's manner, we\nthink only of pure sensation, then it is true that it is nothing but a\nconstant flux without stability; and knowledge of it is impossible.\nThe mountains are comparatively permanent. But our sensation of the\nmountains is perpetually changing. Every change of light, every cloud\nthat passes over the sun, changes the colours and the shades. Every\ntime we move from one situation to another, the mountain appears a\ndifferent shape. The permanence of the mountain itself is due to the\nfact that all these varying sensations are identified as sensations of\none and the same object. The idea of identity is involved here, and it\nis, as it were, a thread upon which these fleeting sensations are\nstrung. But the idea of identity cannot be obtained from the senses.\nIt is introduced into things by reason. Hence knowledge of this\npermanent mountain is only possible through the exercise of reason. In\nPlato's language, all we can know of the mountain is the Ideas in\nwhich it participates. To revert to a previous example, even the\nknowledge \"this paper is white\" involves the activity of intellect,\nand is impossible through sensation alone. Bare sensation is a flow,\nof which no knowledge is possible.\n\nAristotle observes that Plato's theory of Ideas has three sources, the\nteachings of the Eleatics, of Heracleitus, and of Socrates. From\nHeracleitus, Plato took the notion of a sphere of Becoming, and it\nappears in his system as the world of sense. From the Eleatics he took\nthe idea of a sphere of absolute Being. From Socrates he took the\ndoctrine of concepts, and proceeded to identify the Eleatic Being with\nthe Socratic concepts. This gives him his theory of Ideas.\n\n{194}\n\nSense objects, so far as they are knowable, that is so far as they are\nmore than bare sensations, are so only because the Idea resides in\nthem. And this yields the clue to Plato's teaching regarding the\nrelation of sense objects to the Ideas. The Ideas are, in the first\nplace the cause, that is to say, the ground (not the mechanical cause)\nof sense-objects. The Ideas are the absolute reality by which\nindividual things must be explained. The being of things flows into\nthem from the Ideas. They are \"copies,\" \"imitations,\" of the Ideas. In\nso far as they resemble the Idea, they are real; in so far as they\ndiffer from it, they are unreal. In general, sense objects are, in\nPlato's opinion, only very dim, poor and imperfect copies of the\nIdeas. They are mere shadows, and half-realities. Another expression\nfrequently used by Plato to express this relationship is that of\n\"participation.\" Things participate in the Ideas. White objects\nparticipate in the one whiteness, beautiful objects, in the one\nbeauty. In this way beauty itself is the cause or explanation of\nbeautiful objects, and so of all other Ideas. The Ideas are thus both\ntranscendent and immanent; immanent in so far as they reside in the\nthings of sense, transcendent inasmuch as they have a reality of their\nown apart from the objects of sense which participate in them. The\nIdea of man would still be real even if all men were destroyed, and it\nwas real before any man existed, if there ever was such a time. For\nthe Ideas, being timeless, cannot be real now and not then.\n\nOf what kinds of things are there Ideas? That there are moral Ideas,\nsuch as Justice, Goodness, and Beauty, Ideas of corporeal things, such\nas horse, man, tree, star, river, and Ideas of qualities, such as\nwhiteness, heaviness, {195} sweetness, we have already seen. But there\nare Ideas not only of natural corporeal objects, but likewise of\nmanufactured articles; there are Ideas of beds, tables, clothes. And\nthere are Ideas not only of exalted moral entities, such as Beauty and\nJustice. There are also the Ideal Ugliness, and the Ideal Injustice.\nThere are even Ideas of the positively nauseating, such as hair,\nfilth, and dirt. This is asserted in the \"Parmenides.\" In that\ndialogue Plato's teaching is put into the mouth of Parmenides. He\nquestions the young Socrates whether there are Ideas of hair, filth,\nand dirt. Socrates denies that there can be Ideas of such base things.\nBut Parmenides corrects him, and tells him that, when he has attained\nthe highest philosophy, he will no longer despise such things.\nMoreover, these Ideas of base things are just as much perfection in\ntheir kind as Beauty and Goodness are in theirs. In general, the\nprinciple is that there must be an Idea wherever a concept can be\nformed; that is, wherever there is a class of many things called by\none name.\n\nWe saw, in treating of the Eleatics, that for them the absolute Being\ncontained no not-being, and the absolute One no multiplicity. And it\nwas just because they denied all not-being and multiplicity of the\nabsolute reality that they were unable to explain the world of\nexistence, and were forced to deny it altogether. The same problem\narises for Plato. Is Being absolutely excludent of not-being? Is the\nAbsolute an abstract One, utterly exclusive of the many? Is his\nphilosophy a pure monism? Is it a pluralism? Or is it a combination of\nthe two? These questions are discussed in the \"Sophist\" and the\n\"Parmenides.\"\n\n{196}\n\nPlato investigates the relations of the One and the many, Being and\nnot-being, quite in the abstract. He decides the principles involved,\nand leaves it to the reader to apply them to the theory of Ideas.\nWhether the Absolute is one or many, Being or not-being, can be\ndecided independently of any particular theory of the nature of the\nAbsolute, and therefore independently of Plato's own theory, which was\nthat the Absolute consists of Ideas. Plato does not accept the Eleatic\nabstraction. The One cannot be simply one, for every unity must\nnecessarily be a multiplicity. The many and the One are correlative\nideas which involve each other. Neither is thinkable without the\nother. A One which is not many is as absurd an abstraction as a whole\nwhich has no parts. For the One can only be defined as that which is\nnot many, and the many can only be defined as the not-one. The One is\nunthinkable except as standing out against a background of the many.\nThe idea of the One therefore involves the idea of the many, and\ncannot be thought without it. Moreover, an abstract One is unthinkable\nand unknowable, because all thought and knowledge consist in applying\npredicates to subjects, and all predication involves the duality of\nits subject.\n\nConsider the simplest affirmation that can be made about the One,\nnamely, \"The One is.\" Here we have two things, \"the One,\" and \"is,\"\nthat is to say, being. The proposition means that the One is Being.\nHence the One is two. Firstly, it is itself, \"One.\" Secondly, it is\n\"Being,\" and the proposition affirms that these two things are one.\nSimilarly with any other predicate we apply to the One. Whatever we\nsay of it involves its duality. Thus we find that all systems of\nthought which {197} postulate an abstract unity as ultimate reality,\nsuch as Eleaticism, Hinduism, and the system of Spinoza, attempt to\navoid the difficulty by saying nothing positive about the One. They\napply to it only negative predicates, which tell us not what it is,\nbut what it is not. Thus the Hindus speak of Brahman as form_less_,\n_im_mutable, _im_perishable, _un_moved, _un_created. But this, of course,\nis a futile expedient. In the first place, even a negative predicate\ninvolves the duality of the subject. And, in the second place, a\nnegative predicate is always, by implication, a positive one. You\ncannot have a negative without a positive. To deny one thing is to\naffirm its opposite. To deny motion of the One, by calling it the\nunmoved, is to affirm rest of it. Thus a One which is not also a many\nis unthinkable. Similarly, the idea of the many is inconceivable\nwithout the idea of the One. For the many is many ones. Hence the One\nand the many cannot be separated in the Eleatic manner. Every unity\nmust be a unity of the many. And every many is _ipso facto_ a unity,\nsince we think the many in one idea, and, if we did not, we should not\neven know that it is a many. The Absolute must therefore be neither an\nabstract One, nor an abstract many. It must be a many in one.\n\nSimilarly, Being cannot totally exclude not-being. They are, just as\nmuch as the One and the many, correlatives, which mutually involve\neach other. The being of anything is the not-being of its opposite.\nThe being of light is the not-being of darkness. All being, therefore,\nhas not-being in it.\n\nLet us apply these principles to the theory of Ideas. The absolute\nreality, the world of Ideas, is many, since {198} there are many\nIdeas, but it is one, because the Ideas are not isolated units, but\nmembers of a single organized system. There is, in fact, a hierarchy\nof Ideas. Just as the one Idea presides over many individual things of\nwhich it is the common element, so one higher Idea presides over many\nlower Ideas, and is the common element in them. And over this higher\nIdea, together with many others, a still higher Idea will rule. For\nexample, the Ideas of whiteness, redness, blueness, are all subsumed\nunder the one Idea of colour. The Ideas of sweetness and bitterness\ncome under the one Idea of taste. But the Ideas of colour and taste\nthemselves stand under the still higher Idea of quality. In this way,\nthe Ideas form, as it were, a pyramid, and to this pyramid there must\nbe an apex. There must be one highest Idea, which is supreme over all\nthe others. This Idea will be the one final and absolutely real Being\nwhich is the ultimate ground, of itself, of the other Ideas, and of\nthe entire universe. This Idea is, Plato tells us, the Idea of the\nGood. We have seen that the world of Ideas is many, and we now see\nthat it is one. For it is one single system culminating in one supreme\nIdea, which is the highest expression of its unity. Moreover, each\nseparate Idea is, in the same way, a many in one. It is one in regard\nto itself. That is to say, if we ignore its relations to other Ideas,\nit is, in itself, single. But as it has also many relations to other\nIdeas, it is, in this way, a multiplicity.\n\nEvery Idea is likewise a Being which contains not-being. For each Idea\ncombines with some Ideas and not with others. Thus the Idea of\ncorporeal body combines both with the Idea of rest and that of motion.\n{199} But the Ideas of rest and motion will not combine with each\nother. The Idea of rest, therefore, is Being in regard to itself,\nnot-being in regard to the Idea of motion, for the being of rest is\nthe not-being of motion. All Ideas are Being in regard to themselves,\nand not-being in regard to all those other Ideas with which they do\nnot combine.\n\nIn this way there arises a science of Ideas which is called dialectic.\nThis word is sometimes used as identical with the phrase, \"theory of\nIdeas.\" But it is also used, in a narrower sense, to mean the science\nwhich has to do with the knowledge of which Ideas will combine and\nwhich not. Dialectic is the correct joining and disjoining of Ideas.\nIt is the knowledge of the relations of all the Ideas to each other.\n\nThe attainment of this knowledge is, in Plato's opinion, the chief\nproblem of philosophy. To know all the Ideas, each in itself and in\nits relations to other Ideas, is the supreme task. This involves two\nsteps. The first is the formation of concepts. Its object is to know\neach Idea separately, and its procedure is by inductive reason to find\nthe common element in which the many individual objects participate.\nThe second step consists in the knowledge of the inter-relation of\nIdeas, and involves the two processes of classification and division.\nClassification and division both have for their object to arrange the\nlower Ideas under the proper higher Ideas, but they do this in\nopposite ways. One may begin with the lower Ideas, such as redness,\nwhiteness, etc., and range them under their higher Idea, that of\ncolour. This is classification. Or one may begin with the higher Idea,\ncolour, and divide it into the lower Ideas, red, white, {200} etc.\nClassification proceeds from below upwards. Division proceeds from\nabove downwards. Most of the examples of division which Plato gives\nare divisions by dichotomy. We may either divide colour straight away\ninto red, blue, white, etc.; or we may divide each class into two\nsub-classes. Thus colour will be divided into red and not-red, not-red\ninto white and not-white, not-white into blue and not-blue, and so on.\nThis latter process is division by dichotomy, and Plato prefers it\nbecause, though it is tedious, it is very exhaustive and systematic.\n\nPlato's actual performance of the supreme task of dialectic, the\nclassification and arrangement of all Ideas, is not great. He has made\nno attempt to complete it. All he has done is to give us numerous\nexamples. And this is, in reality, all that can be expected, for the\nnumber of Ideas is obviously infinite, and therefore the task of\narranging them cannot be completed. There is, however, one important\ndefect in the dialectic, which Plato ought certainly to have remedied.\nThe supreme Idea, he tells us, is the Good. This, as being the\nultimate reality, is the ground of all other Ideas. Plato ought\ntherefore to have derived all other Ideas from it, but this he has not\ndone. He merely asserts, in a more or less dogmatic way, that the Idea\nof the Good is the highest, but does nothing to connect it with the\nother Ideas. It is easy to see, however, why he made this assertion.\nIt is, in fact, a necessary logical outcome of his system. For every\nIdea is perfection in its kind. All the Ideas have perfection in\ncommon. And just as the one beauty is the Idea which presides over all\nbeautiful things, so the one perfection must be the supreme Idea which\npresides {201} over all the perfect Ideas. The supreme Idea,\ntherefore, must be perfection itself, that is to say, the Idea of the\nGood. On the other hand it might, with equal force, be argued that\nsince all the Ideas are substances, therefore the highest Idea is the\nIdea of substance. All that can be said is that Plato has left these\nmatters in obscurity, and has merely asserted that the highest Idea is\nthe Good.\n\nConsideration of the Idea of the Good leads us naturally to enquire\nhow far Plato's system is teleological in character. A little\nconsideration will show that it is out and out teleological. We can\nsee this both by studying the many lower Ideas, and the one supreme\nIdea. Each Idea is perfection of its kind. And each Idea is the ground\nof the existence of the individual objects which come under it. Thus\nthe explanation of white objects is the perfect whiteness, of\nbeautiful objects the perfect beauty. Or we may take as our example\nthe Idea of the State which Plato describes in the \"Republic.\" The\nordinary view is that Plato was describing a State which was the\ninvention of his own fancy, and is therefore to be regarded as\nentirely unreal. This is completely to misunderstand Plato. So far was\nhe from thinking the ideal State unreal, that he regarded it, on the\ncontrary, as the only real State. All existent States, such as the\nAthenian or the Spartan, are unreal in so far as they differ from the\nideal State. And moreover, this one reality, the ideal State, is the\nground of the existence of all actual States. They owe their existence\nto its reality. Their existence can only be explained by it. Now since\nthe ideal State is not yet reached in fact, but is the perfect State\ntowards which all actual States tend, it is clear that we have here\n{202} a teleological principle. The real explanation of the State is\nnot to be found in its beginnings in history, in an original contract,\nor in biological necessities, but in its end, the final or perfect\nState. Or, if we prefer to put it so; the true beginning is the end.\nThe end must be in the beginning, potentially and ideally, otherwise\nit could never begin: It is the same with all other things. Man is\nexplained by the ideal man, the perfect man; white things by the\nperfect whiteness, and so on. Everything is explained by its end, and\nnot by its beginning. Things are not explained by mechanical causes,\nbut by reasons.\n\nAnd the teleology of Plato culminates in the Idea of the Good. That\nIdea is the final explanation of all other Ideas, and of the entire\nuniverse. And to place the final ground of all things in perfection\nitself means that the universe arises out of that perfect end towards\nwhich all things move.\n\nAnother matter which requires elucidation here is the place which the\nconception of God holds in Plato's system. He frequently uses the word\nGod both in the singular and the plural, and seems to slip with\nremarkable ease from the monotheistic to the polytheistic manner of\nspeaking. In addition to the many gods, we have frequent reference to\nthe one supreme Creator, controller, and ruler of the world, who is\nfurther conceived as a Being providentially watching over the lives of\nmen. But in what relation does this supreme God stand to the Ideas,\nand especially to the Idea of the Good? If God is separate from the\nhighest Idea, then, as Zeller points out, [Footnote 13] only three\nrelations are possible, all of which are {203} equally objectionable.\nFirstly, God may be the cause or ground of the Idea of the Good. But\nthis destroys the substantiality of the Idea, and indeed, destroys\nPlato's whole system. The very essence of his philosophy is that the\nIdea is the ultimate reality, which is self-existent, and owes its\nbeing to nothing else. But this theory makes it a mere creature of\nGod, dependent on Him for its existence. Secondly, God may owe His\nbeing to the Idea. The Idea may be the ground of God's existence as it\nis the ground of all else in the universe. But this theory does\nviolence to the idea of God, turning Him into a mere derivative\nexistence, and, in fact, into an appearance. Thirdly, God and the Idea\nmay be co-ordinate in the system as equally primordial independent\nultimate realities. But this means that Plato has given two mutually\ninconsistent accounts of the ultimate reality, or, if not, that his\nsystem is a hopeless dualism. As none of these theories can be\nmaintained, it must be supposed that God is identical with the Idea of\nthe Good, and we find certain expressions in the \"Philebus\" which seem\nclearly to assert this. But in that case God is not a personal God at\nall, since the Idea is not a person. The word God, if used in this\nway, is merely a figurative term for the Idea. And this is the most\nprobable theory, if we reflect that there is in fact no room for a\npersonal God in a system which places all reality in the Idea, and\nthat to introduce such a conception threatens to break up the whole\nsystem. Plato probably found it useful to take the popular conceptions\nabout the personality of God or the gods and use them, in mythical\nfashion, to express his Ideas. Those parts of Plato which speak of\nGod, and the governance of God, {204} are to be interpreted on the\nsame principles as the other Platonic myths.\n\n[Footnote 13: _Plato and the Older Academy_, chap. vi.]\n\nBefore closing our discussion of dialectic, it may be well to consider\nwhat place it occupies in the life of man, and what importance is\nattached to it. Here Plato's answer is emphatic. Dialectic is the\ncrown of knowledge, and knowledge is the crown of life. All other\nspiritual activities have value only in so far as they lead up to the\nknowledge of the Idea. All other subjects of intellectual study are\nmerely preparatory to the study of philosophy. The special sciences\nhave no value in themselves, but they have value inasmuch as their\ndefinitions and classifications form a preparation for the knowledge\nof Ideas. Mathematics is important because it is a stepping-stone from\nthe world of sense to the Ideas. Its objects, namely, numbers and\ngeometrical figures, resemble the Ideas in so far as they are\nimmutable, and they resemble sense-objects in so far as they are in\nspace or time. In the educational curriculum of Plato, philosophy\ncomes last. Not everyone may study it. And none may study it till he\nhas been through all the preparatory stages of education, which form a\nrigorous discipline of the mind before it finally enters upon\ndialectic. Thus all knowledge ends in dialectic, and that life has not\nattained its end which falls short of philosophy.\n\nPerhaps the most striking illustration of the subordination of all\nspiritual activities to philosophy is to be found in the doctrine of\nEros, or Love. The phrase \"platonic love\" is on the lips of many, but,\nas a rule, something very different from Plato's own doctrine is\nmeant. According to him, love is always concerned with beauty, and his\nteaching on the subject is expounded {205} chiefly in the \"Symposium,\"\nHe believed that before birth the soul dwelt disembodied in the pure\ncontemplation of the world of Ideas. Sinking down into a body,\nbecoming immersed in the world of sense, it forgets the Ideas. The\nsight of a beautiful object reminds it of that one Idea of beauty of\nwhich the object is a copy. This accounts for the mystic rapture, the\nemotion, the joy, with which we greet the sight of the beautiful.\nSince Plato had expressly declared that there are Ideas of the ugly as\nwell as of the beautiful, that there are Ideas, for example, of hair,\nfilth, and dirt, and since these Ideas are just as divine and perfect\nas the Idea of the beautiful, we ought, on this theory, to greet the\nugly, the filthy, and the nauseating, with a ravishment of joy similar\nto that which we experience in the presence of beauty. Why this is not\nthe case Plato omitted to explain. However, having learned to love the\none beautiful object, the soul passes on to the love of others. Then\nit perceives that it is the same beauty which reveals itself in all\nthese. It passes from the love of beautiful forms to the love of\nbeautiful souls, and from that to the love of beautiful sciences. It\nceases to be attached to the many objects, as such, that is to say, to\nthe sensuous envelopes of the Idea of beauty. Love passes into the\nknowledge of the Idea of beauty itself, and from this to the knowledge\nof the world of Ideas in general. It passes in fact into philosophy.\n\nIn this development there are two points which we cannot fail to note.\nIn the first place, emotional love is explained as being simply the\nblind groping of reason towards the Idea. It is reason which has not\nyet recognized itself as such. It appears, therefore, in the {206}\nguise of feeling. Secondly, the later progress of the soul's love is\nsimply the gradual recognition of itself by reason. When the soul\nperceives that the beauty in all objects is the same, that it is the\ncommon element amid the many, this is nothing but the process of\ninductive reasoning. And this development ends at last in the complete\nrational cognition of the world of Ideas, in a word, philosophy. Love\nis but an instinctive reason. The animal has no feeling of the\nbeautiful, just because it has no reason. Love of the beautiful is\nfounded upon the nature of man, not as a percipient or feeling being,\nbut as a rational being. And it must end in the complete recognition\nof reason by itself, not in the feeling and intuition, but in the\nrational comprehension, of the Idea.\n\nOne can imagine what Plato's answer would be to the sort of vulgarians\nand philistines who want to know what the use of philosophy is, and in\nwhat way it is \"practical.\" To answer such a question is for Plato\nimpossible, because the question itself is illegitimate. For a thing\nto have a use involves that it is a means towards an end. Fire has\nuse, because it may be made a means towards the cooking of food. Money\nis useful, because it is a means to the acquisition of goods. That\nwhich is an end in itself, and not a means towards any further end,\ncannot possibly have any use. To suggest that philosophy ought to have\nuse is, therefore, to put the cart before the horse, to invert the\nwhole scale of values. It suggests that philosophy is a means towards\nsome further end, instead of being the absolute end to which all other\nthings are means. Philosophy is not _for_ anything. Everything else is\n_for_ it. And, if this seems an exaggerated or unpractical view, we may\nat least {207} remember that this is the view taken by the religious\nconsciousness of man. Religion makes the supreme end of life the\nknowledge of, and communion with, God. God is for religion what the\nIdea is for philosophy. God is a figurative name for the Idea. To\nplace the end of life in the knowledge of the Absolute, or the Idea,\nis therefore the teaching both of philosophy and religion.\n\n\n\n4. Physics, or the Theory of Existence.\n\nDialectic is the theory of reality, physics the theory of existence,\ndialectic of that which lies behind things as their ground, physics of\nthe things which are thus grounded. That is to say, physics is\nconcerned with phenomena and appearances, things which exist in space\nand time, as opposed to the timeless and non-spatial Ideas. Things of\nthis kind are both corporeal and incorporeal. Physics falls therefore\ninto two parts, the doctrine of the outward corporeality, the world,\nwith its incorporeal essence, the World-Soul, and the doctrine of the\nincorporeal soul of man.\n\n\n\n_(a) The Doctrine of the World_.\n\nIf, in the dialectic, Plato has given an account of the nature of the\nfirst principle and ground of all things, the problem now arises of\nexplaining how the actual universe of things arises out of that\nground, how it is derived from the first principle. In other words,\nthe Ideas being the absolute reality, how does the world of sense,\nand, in general, the existent universe, arise out of the Ideas? Faced\nwith this problem, the system of Plato broke down. The things of sense\nare, we are told, \"copies\" or \"imitations\" of the Ideas. {208} They\n\"participate\" in the Ideas. So far, so good. But why should there be\nany copies of the Ideas? Why should the Ideas give rise to copies of\nthemselves, and how is the production of these copies effected? To\nthese questions Plato has no answer, and he therefore has recourse to\nthe use of myths. Poetic description here takes the place of\nscientific explanation.\n\nThis poetic description of the origin of the world is to be found in\nthe \"Timaeus.\" We have seen that the Ideas are absolute Being, and\nthat things of sense are half real and half unreal. They are partly\nreal because they participate in Being. They are partly unreal because\nthey participate in not-being. There must be, therefore, a principle\nof absolute not-being. This, in Plato's opinion, is matter. Things of\nsense are copies of the Ideas fashioned out of, or stamped upon,\nmatter. But Plato does not understand by matter what we, in modern\ntimes, understand by it. Matter, in our sense, is always some\nparticular kind of matter. It is brass, or wood, or iron, or stone. It\nis matter which has determinate character and quality. But the\npossession of specific character means that it is matter with the copy\nof Ideas already stamped upon it. Since iron exists in great\nquantities in the world, and there is a common element in all the\nvarious pieces of iron, by virtue of which all are classed together,\nthere must be a concept of iron. There is, therefore, an Idea of iron\nin the world of Ideas. And the iron which we find in the earth must be\nmatter which is already formed into a copy of this Idea. It\nparticipates in the Idea of iron. The same remarks apply to any other\nparticular kind of matter. In fact, all form, all the specific\ncharacters and {209} features of matter, as we know it, are due to the\noperation of the Ideas. Hence matter as it is in itself, before the\nimage of the Ideas is stamped upon it, must be absolutely without\nquality, featureless, formless. But to be absolutely without any\nquality is to be simply nothing at all. This matter is, therefore, as\nPlato says, absolute not-being. Zeller conjectures, probably rightly,\nthat what Plato meant was simply empty space. [Footnote 14] Empty\nspace is an existent not-being, and it is totally indeterminate and\nformless. It accords with this view that Plato adopted the Pythagorean\ntenet that the differential qualities of material substances are due\nto their smallest particles being regular geometrical figures limited\nout of the unlimited, that is, out of space. Thus earth is composed of\ncubes. That is to say, empty space when bound into cubes (the limiting\nof the unlimited) becomes earth. The smallest particles of fire are\n_tetrahedra_, of air _octahedra_, of water _icosahedra_.\n\n[Footnote 14: _Plato and the Older Academy_, chap. vii. ]\n\nWe have, then, on the one hand, the world of Ideas, on the other,\nmatter, an absolutely formless, chaotic, mass. By impressing the\nimages of the Ideas upon this mass, \"things\" arise, that is to say,\nthe specific objects of sense. They thus participate both in Being and\nin not-being. But how is this mixing of Being and not-being brought\nabout? How do the Ideas come to have their images stamped upon matter?\nIt is at this point that we enter upon the region of myth. Up to this\npoint Plato is certainly to be taken literally. He of course believed\nin the reality of the world of Ideas, and he no doubt also believed in\nhis principle of matter. And he thought that the objects of sense are\nto be {210} explained as copies of the Ideas impressed upon matter.\nBut now, with the problem how this copying is brought about, Plato\nleaves the method of scientific explanation behind. If the Ideas are\nthe absolute ground of all things, then the copying process must be\ndone by the Ideas themselves. They must themselves be made the\nprinciples for the production of things. But this is, for Plato,\nimpossible. For production involves change. If the Ideas produce\nthings out of themselves, the Ideas must in the process undergo\nchange. But Plato has declared them to be absolutely unchangeable, and\nto be thus immutable is to be sterile. Hence the Ideas have within\nthemselves no principle for the production of things, and the\nscientific explanation of things by this means becomes impossible.\nHence there is nothing for it but to have recourse to myth. Plato can\nonly imagine that things are produced by a world-former, or designer,\nwho, like a human artist, fashions the plastic matter into images of\nthe Ideas.\n\nGod, the Creator, the world-designer, finds beside him, on the one\nhand, the Ideas, on the other, formless matter. First, he creates the\nWorld-Soul. This is incorporeal, but occupies space. He spreads it out\nlike a huge net in empty space. He bisects it, and bends the two\nhalves into an inner and an outer circle, these circles being destined\nto become the spheres of the planets and the stars respectively. He\ntakes matter and binds it into the four elements, and these elements\nhe builds into the empty framework of the World-Soul. When this is\ndone, the creation of the universe is complete. The rest of the\n\"Timaeus\" is occupied with the details of Plato's ideas of astronomy\nand physical {211} science. These are mostly worthless and tedious,\nand we need not pursue them here. But we may mention that Plato, of\ncourse, regarded the earth as the centre of the world. The stars,\nwhich are divine beings, revolve around it. They necessarily move in\ncircles, because the circle is the perfect figure. The stars, being\ndivine, are governed solely by reason, and their movement must\ntherefore be circular, because a circular motion is the motion of\nreason.\n\nThe above account of the origin of the world is merely myth, and Plato\nknows that it is myth. What he apparently did believe in, however, was\nthe existence of the World-Soul, and a few words upon this subject are\nnecessary. The soul, in Plato's system, is the mediator between the\nworld of Ideas and the world of sense. Like the former, it is\nincorporeal and immortal. Like the latter, it occupies space. Plato\nthought that there must be a soul in the world to account for the\nrational behaviour of things, and to explain motion. The reason which\ngoverns and directs the world dwells in the World-Soul. And the\nWorld-Soul is the cause of motion in the outer universe, just as the\nhuman soul is the cause of the motions of the human body. The cosmos\nis a living being.\n\n\n\n_(b) The Doctrine of the Human Soul_.\n\nThe human soul is similar in kind to the World-Soul. It is the cause\nof the body's movements, and in it the human reason dwells. It has\naffinities both with the world of Ideas and the world of sense. It is\ndivided into two parts, of which one part is again subdivided into\ntwo. The highest part is reason, which is {212} that part of the soul\nwhich apprehends the Ideas. It is simple and indivisible. Now all\ndestruction of things means the sundering of their parts. But the\nrational part of the soul, being simple, has no parts. Therefore it is\nindestructible and immortal. The irrational part of the soul is\nmortal, and is subdivided into a noble and an ignoble half. To the\nnoble half belong courage, love of honour, and in general the nobler\nemotions. To the ignoble portion belong the sensuous appetites. The\nnoble half has a certain affinity with reason, in that it has an\ninstinct for what is noble and great. Nevertheless, this is mere\ninstinct, and is not rational. The seat of reason is the head, of the\nnoble half of the lower soul, the breast, of the ignoble half, the\nlower part of the body. Man alone possesses the three parts of the\nsoul. Animals possess the two lower parts, plants only the appetitive\nsoul. What distinguishes man from the lower orders of creation is thus\nthat he alone possesses reason.\n\nPlato connects the doctrine of the immortality of the rational soul\nwith the theory of Ideas by means of the doctrines of recollection and\ntransmigration. According to the former doctrine, all knowledge is\nrecollection of what was experienced by the soul in its disembodied\nstate before birth. It must carefully be noted, however, that the word\nknowledge is here used in the special and restricted sense of Plato.\nNot everything that we should call knowledge is recollection. The\nsensuous element in my perception that this paper is white is not\nrecollection, since, as being merely sensuous, it is not, in Plato's\nopinion, to be called knowledge. Here, as elsewhere, he confines the\nterm {213} to rational knowledge, that is to say, knowledge of the\nIdeas, though it is doubtful whether he is wholly consistent with\nhimself in the matter, especially in regard to mathematical knowledge.\nIt must also be noted that this doctrine has nothing in common with\nthe Oriental doctrine of the memory of our past lives upon the earth.\nAn example of this is found in the Buddhist Jatakas, where the Buddha\nrelates from memory many things that happened to him in the body in\nhis previous births. Plato's doctrine is quite different. It refers\nonly to recollection of the experiences of the soul in its disembodied\nstate in the world of Ideas.\n\nThe reasons assigned by Plato for believing in this doctrine may be\nreduced to two. Firstly, knowledge of the Ideas cannot be derived from\nthe senses, because the Idea is never pure in its sensuous\nmanifestation, but always mixed. The one beauty, for example, is only\nfound in experience mixed with the ugly. The second reason is more\nstriking. And, if the doctrine of recollection is itself fantastic,\nthis, the chief reason upon which Plato bases it, is interesting and\nimportant. He pointed out that mathematical knowledge seems to be\ninnate in the mind. It is neither imparted to us by instruction, nor\nis it gained from experience. Plato, in fact, came within an ace of\ndiscovering what, in modern times, is called the distinction between\nnecessary and contingent knowledge, a distinction which was made by\nKant the basis of most far-reaching developments in philosophy. The\ncharacter of necessity attaches to rational knowledge, but not to\nsensuous. To explain this distinction, we may take as our example of\nrational knowledge such a proposition as that two {214} and two make\nfour. This does not mean merely that, as a matter of fact, every two\nobjects and every other two objects, with which we have tried the\nexperiment, make four. It is not merely a fact, it is a necessity. It\nis not merely that two and two do make four, but that they must make\nfour. It is inconceivable that they should not. We have not got to go\nand see whether, in each new case, they do so. We know beforehand that\nthey will, because they must. It is quite otherwise with such a\nproposition as, \"gold is yellow.\" There is no necessity about it. It\nis merely a fact. For all anybody can see to the contrary it might\njust as well be blue. There is nothing inconceivable about its being\nblue, as there is about two and two making five. Of course, that gold\nis yellow is no doubt a mechanical necessity, that is, it is\ndetermined by causes, and in that sense could not be otherwise. But it\nis not a logical necessity. It is not a logical contradiction to\nimagine blue gold, as it would be to imagine two and two making five.\nAny other proposition in mathematics possesses the same necessity.\nThat the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal is a\nnecessary proposition. It could not be otherwise without\ncontradiction. Its opposite is unthinkable. But that Socrates is\nstanding is not a necessary truth. He might just as well be sitting.\n\nSince a mathematical proposition is necessarily true, its truth is\nknown without verification by experience. Having proved the\nproposition about the isosceles triangle, we do not go about measuring\nthe angles of triangular objects to make sure there is no exception.\nWe know it without any experience at all. And if we {215} were\nsufficiently clever, we might even evolve mathematical knowledge out\nof the resources of our own minds, without its being told us by any\nteacher. That Caesar was stabbed by Brutus is a fact which no amount\nof cleverness could ever reveal to me. This information I can only get\nby being told it. But that the base angles of an isosceles triangle\nare equal I could discover by merely thinking about it. The\nproposition about Brutus is not a necessary proposition. It might be\notherwise. And therefore I must be told whether it is true or not. But\nthe proposition about the isosceles triangle is necessary, and\ntherefore I can see that it must be true without being told.\n\nNow Plato did not clearly make this distinction between necessary and\nnon-necessary knowledge. But what he did perceive was that\nmathematical knowledge can be known without either experience or\ninstruction. Kant afterwards gave a less fantastic explanation of\nthese facts. But Plato concluded that such knowledge must be already\npresent in the mind at birth. It must be recollected from a previous\nexistence. It might be answered that, though this kind of knowledge is\nnot gained from the experience of the senses, it may be gained from\nteaching. It may be imparted by another mind. We have to teach\nchildren mathematics, which we should not have to do if it were\nalready in their minds. But Plato's answer is that when the teacher\nexplains a geometrical theorem to the child, directly the child\nunderstands what is meant, he assents. He sees it for himself. But if\nthe teacher explains that Lisbon is on the Tagus, the child cannot see\nthat this is true for himself. He must either believe the word {216}\nof the teacher, or he must go and see. In this case, therefore, the\nknowledge is really imparted from one mind to another. The teacher\ntransfers to the child knowledge which the child does not possess. But\nthe mathematical theorem is already present in the child's mind, and\nthe process of teaching merely consists in making him see what he\nalready potentially knows. He has only to look into his own mind to\nfind it. This is what we mean by saying that the child sees it for\nhimself.\n\nIn the \"Meno\" Plato attempts to give an experimental proof of the\ndoctrine of recollection. Socrates is represented as talking to a\nslave-boy, who admittedly has no education in mathematics, and barely\nknows what a square is. By dint of skilful questioning Socrates\nelicits from the boy's mind a theorem about the properties of the\nsquare. The point of the argument is that Socrates tells him nothing\nat all. He imparts no information. He only asks questions. The boy's\nknowledge of the theorem, therefore, is not due to the teaching of\nSocrates, nor is it due to experience. It can only be recollection.\nBut if knowledge is recollection, it may be asked, why is it that we\ndo not remember at once? Why is the tedious process of education in\nmathematics necessary? Because the soul, descending from the world of\nIdeas into the body, has its knowledge dulled and almost blotted out\nby its immersion in the sensuous. It has forgotten, or it has only the\ndimmest and faintest recollection. It has to be reminded, and it takes\na great effort to bring the half-lost ideas back to the mind. This\nprocess of being reminded is education.\n\nWith this, of course, is connected the doctrine of {217}\ntransmigration, which Plato took, no doubt, from the Pythagoreans.\nMost of the details of Plato's doctrine of transmigration are mere\nmyth. Plato does not mean them seriously, as is shown by the fact that\nhe gives quite different and inconsistent accounts of these details in\ndifferent dialogues. What, in all probability, he did believe,\nhowever, may be summarized as follows. The soul is pre-existent as\nwell as immortal. Its natural home is the world of Ideas, where at\nfirst it existed, without a body, in the pure and blissful\ncontemplation of Ideas. But because it has affinities with the world\nof sense, it sinks down into a body. After death, if a man has lived a\ngood life, and especially if he has cultivated the knowledge of Ideas,\nphilosophy, the soul returns to its blissful abode in the world of\nIdeas, till, after a long period it again returns to earth in a body.\nThose who do evil suffer after death severe penalties, and are then\nreincarnated in the body of some being lower than themselves. A man\nmay become a woman. Men may even, if their lives have been utterly\nsensual, pass into the bodies of animals.\n\n\n\n5. Ethics\n\n_(a) The Ethics of the Individual_\n\nJust as Plato's theory of knowledge begins with a negative portion,\ndesigned to refute false theories of what truth is, so does his theory\nof morals begin with a negative portion, intended to refute false\ntheories of what virtue is. These two negative departments of Plato's\nphilosophy correspond in every way. As he was then engaged in showing\nthat knowledge is not perception, as Protagoras thought, so he now\nurges that {218} virtue is not the same as pleasure. And as knowledge\nis not mere right opinion, neither is virtue mere right action. The\npropositions that knowledge is perception, and that virtue is\npleasure, are indeed only the same principle applied to different\nspheres of thought. For the Sophists whatever appeared true to the\nindividual was true for that individual. This is the same as saying\nthat knowledge is perception. For the Sophists, again, whatever\nappeared right to the individual was right for that individual. This\nis the same as saying that it is right for each man to do whatever he\npleases. Virtue is defined as the pleasure of the individual. This\nconsequence of the Sophistic principles was drawn both by many of the\nSophists themselves, and later by the Cyrenaics.\n\nAs these two propositions are thus in fact only one principle, what\nPlato has said in refutation of the former provides also his\nrefutation of the latter. The theory that virtue is pleasure has the\nsame destructive influence upon morals as the theory that knowledge is\nperception had upon truth. We may thus shortly summarize Plato's\narguments.\n\n(1) As the Sophistic theory of truth destroys the objectivity of\ntruth, so the doctrine that virtue is the pleasure of the individual\ndestroys the objectivity of the good. Nothing is good in itself.\nThings are only good for me or for you. There results an absolute\nmoral relativity, in which the idea of an objective standard of\ngoodness totally disappears.\n\n(2) This theory destroys the distinction between good and evil. Since\nthe good is whatever the individual pleases, and since the pleasure of\none individual is the {219} displeasure of another, the same thing is\nboth good and evil at the same time, good for one person and evil for\nanother. Good and evil are therefore not distinct. They are the same.\n\n(3) Pleasure is the satisfaction of our desires. Desires are merely\nfeelings. This theory, therefore, founds morality upon feeling. But an\nobjective morality cannot be founded upon what is peculiar to\nindividuals. If the moral code is to be a law binding upon all men, it\ncan only be founded upon that which is common to all men, the\nuniversal reason.\n\n(4) The end of moral activity must fall within, and not outside, the\nmoral act itself. Morality must have an intrinsic, not a merely\nextrinsic, value. We must not do right for the sake of something else.\nWe must do right because it is right, and thus make virtue an end in\nitself. But the Sophistic theory places the end of morality outside\nmorality. We are to do right, not for its own sake, but for the sake\nof pleasure. Morality is thus not an end in itself, but merely a means\ntowards a further end.\n\nVirtue, therefore, is not pleasure, any more than knowledge is\nperception. Likewise, just as knowledge is not right opinion, so\nvirtue is not right action. Right opinion may be held upon wrong\ngrounds, and right action may be performed on wrong grounds. For true\nvirtue we must not only know what is right, but why it is right. True\nvirtue is thus right action proceeding from a rational comprehension\nof true values. Hence there arises in Plato's philosophy a distinction\nbetween philosophic virtue and customary virtue. Philosophic virtue is\nfounded upon reason, and understands the {220} principle on which it\nacts. It is, in fact, action governed by principles. Customary virtue\nis right action proceeding from any other grounds, such as custom,\nhabit, tradition, good impulses, benevolent feelings, instinctive\ngoodness. Men do right merely because other people do it, because it\nis customary, and they do it without understanding the reasons for it.\nThis is the virtue of the ordinary honest citizen, the \"respectable\"\nperson. It is the virtue of bees and ants, who act as if rationally,\nbut without any understanding of what they are doing. And Plato\nobserves--no doubt with an intentional spice of humour--that such\npeople may in the next life find themselves born as bees and ants.\nPlato denies philosophic virtue not only to the masses of men, but\neven to the best statesmen and politicians of Greece.\n\nAs true virtue is virtue which knows at what it is aiming, the\nknowledge of the nature of the highest aim becomes the chief question\nof ethics. What is the end of moral activity? Now we have just seen\nthat that end must fall within, and not outside, the moral act. The\nend of goodness is the good. What, then, is the good? What is the\nsupreme good, the _summum bonum_?\n\nA note of warning is necessary before we enter upon the details of\nthis problem. Plato frequently speaks of all moral activity aiming at,\nand ending in, happiness. With modern phrases ringing in our ears, we\nmight easily suppose this to mean that Plato is a utilitarian. The\nutilitarianism of Bentham and Mill is distinguished by the fact that\nit places the end of morality in happiness. Yet Plato was not a\nutilitarian, and would unhesitatingly have condemned the theory of\nMill. He {221} would have found it identical in principle with the\nSophistic doctrine that pleasure is the end of virtue. The only\ndifference is that, whereas the Sophists identified virtue with the\npleasure of the individual, Mill makes it the pleasure of the\ncommunity. That act is right which leads to \"the greatest happiness of\nthe greatest number.\" In practice, of course, this makes a tremendous\ndifference. But the principle is equally objectionable because, like\nthe Sophistic theory, it founds morality upon mere feeling, instead of\nupon reason, and because it places the end of morality outside\nmorality itself. Yet the formula of Mill, that the end of morals is\nhappiness, seems the same as Plato's formula. What is the difference?\n\nThe fact is that what Mill calls happiness Plato would have called\npleasure. Pleasure is the satisfaction of one's desires, whether they\nare noble or ignoble. Then what is happiness? It can only be defined\nas the general harmonious well-being of life. Only that man is happy\nwhose soul is in the state it ought to be in, only in fact the just,\nthe good, and the moral man. Happiness has nothing to do with\npleasure. If you could conceive an absolutely just and upright man,\nwho was yet weighed down with every possible misery and disaster, in\nwhose life pleasure had no part, such a man would still be absolutely\nhappy. Happiness is, therefore, in Plato, merely another name for the\n_summum bonum_. In saying that the _summum bonum_ is happiness, Plato\nis not telling us anything about it. He is merely giving it a new\nname. And we are still left to enquire: what is the _summum bonum_?\nwhat is happiness?\n\nPlato's answer, as indeed his whole ethics, is but {222} an\napplication of the theory of Ideas. But here we can distinguish two\ndifferent and, to some extent, inconsistent strains of thought, which\nexist side by side in Plato, and perpetually struggle for the mastery.\nBoth views depend upon the theory of Ideas. In the first place, the\nIdea, in Plato's philosophy, is the sole reality. The object of sense\nis unreal, and merely clogs and dims the soul's vision of the Ideas.\nMatter is that which obstructs the free activity of the Idea.\nSense-objects hide the Idea from our view. Therefore the world of\nsense is wholly evil. True virtue must consist in flying from the\nworld of sense, in retiring from the affairs of the world, and even\nfrom the beauty of the senses, into the calm of philosophic\ncontemplation. And if this were all, philosophy, the knowledge of the\nIdeas, would be the sole constituent of the _summum bonum_. But it is\npossible to regard sense-objects in another light. They are, after\nall, copies of the Ideas. They are therefore a manifestation and\nrevelation of the ideal world. Hence Plato is compelled by this\nthought to allow a certain value to the world of sense, its affairs,\nand its beauty.\n\nThe result of this inconsistency is, at any rate, that Plato remains\nbroad and human. He does not, on the one hand, preach a purely selfish\nretirement into philosophy, or a narrow ascetic ideal. He does not, on\nthe other hand, adopt a low utilitarian view of life, allowing value\nonly to that which is \"practical.\" He remains true to the Greek ideal\nof life as a harmonious play of all the faculties, in which no one\npart of man is over-developed at the expense of the others.\n\nThe result is that Plato's _summum bonum_ is not a single {223} end.\nIt is a compound consisting of four parts. First, and chief of all, is\nthe knowledge of the Ideas as they are in themselves, philosophy.\nSecondly, the contemplation of the Ideas as they reveal themselves in\nthe world of sense, the love and appreciation of all that is\nbeautiful, ordered, and harmonious. Thirdly, the cultivation of the\nspecial sciences and arts. And fourthly, indulgence in pure, refined,\nand innocent pleasures of the senses, excluding, of course, whatever\nis base and evil.\n\nPlato had also a specific doctrine of virtue. As already stated, he\ndistinguished between philosophic and customary virtue, and attached\nabsolute value only to the former. He does not, however, deny a\nrelative value to customary virtue, inasmuch as it is a means towards\ntrue virtue. Plato saw that man cannot rise at one bound to the\npinnacles of rational virtue. He must needs pass through the\npreparatory stage of customary virtue. In the man in whom reason is\nnot yet awakened, good habits and customs must be implanted, in order\nthat, when reason comes, it may find the ground ready prepared.\n\nSocrates had taught that virtue is one. And Plato in his earlier\nwritings adopted this view. But later on he came to see that every\nfaculty of man has its place and its function, and the due performance\nof its function is a virtue. He did not, however, surrender the unity\nof virtue altogether, but believed that its unity is compatible with\nits plurality. There are four cardinal virtues. Three of these\ncorrespond to the three parts of the soul, and the fourth is the unity\nof the others. The virtue of reason is wisdom, of the noble half of\n{224} the mortal soul courage, of the ignoble appetites, temperance or\nself-control, in which the passions allow themselves to be governed by\nreason. The fourth virtue, justice, arises from the others. Justice\nmeans proportion and harmony, and accrues to the soul when all three\nparts perform their functions and co-operate with each other.\n\nFollowing Zeller, we may add to this account of the virtues some of\nPlato's views upon the details of life. And first, his opinion of\nwomen and marriage. Here Plato does not rise above the level of\nordinary Greek morals. He has nothing specially original to say, but\nreflects the opinions of his age. Women he regards as essentially\ninferior to men. Moreover, the modern view of woman as the complement\nof man, as possessing those special virtues of womanliness, which a\nman lacks, is quite alien to Plato. The difference between men and\nwomen is, in his view, not one of kind but only of degree. The only\nspecific difference between the sexes is the physical difference.\nSpiritually they are quite the same, except that woman is inferior.\nHence Plato would not exclude women from the same education which man\nreceives. He would educate them in exactly the same way, but this\ninvolves the imposition upon them of the same burdens. Even military\nduties are not outside the sphere of women.\n\nHis views of marriage flow from the same principle. Since woman is not\nthe complement of man, she is in no special sense fitted to be his\ncompanion. Hence the ideal of spiritual companionship is absent from\nPlato's view of marriage, the sole object of which, in his opinion, is\nthe propagation of children. The natural companion {225} of a man is\nnot a woman, but another man. The ideal of friendship, therefore,\ntakes the place of the spiritual ideal of marriage in Plato and,\nindeed, among the ancients generally.\n\nSlavery is not denounced by Plato. He takes no trouble to justify it,\nbecause he thinks it so obviously right that it needs no\njustification. All that can be said to his credit is that he demands\nhumane and just, though firm and unsentimental, treatment of slaves.\n\nIf in these respects Plato never transcends the Greek view of life, in\none matter at least he does so. The common view of his time was that\none ought to do good to one's friends and evil to one's enemies. This\nPlato expressly repudiates. It can never be good, he thinks, to do\nevil. One should rather do good to one's enemies, and so convert them\ninto friends. To return good for evil is no less a Platonic than a\nChristian maxim.\n\n\n\n_(b) The State_.\n\n\n\nWe pass from the ethics of individual life to the ethics of the\ncommunity. Plato's \"Republic\" is not an attempt to paint an imaginary\nand unreal perfection. Its object is to found politics on the theory\nof Ideas by depicting the Idea of the State. This State is, therefore,\nnot unreal, but the only real State, and its reality is the ground of\nthe existence of all actually existent States.\n\nWe can trace here, too, the same two strains of thought as we found in\nconsidering the ethics of the individual. On the one hand, since the\nIdea alone is real, the existent world a mere illusion, the service of\nthe {226} State cannot be the ideal life for a rational being.\nComplete retirement from the world into the sphere of Ideas is a far\nnobler end, and the aims of the ordinary politician are, in\ncomparison, worthless baubles. Though only the philosopher is\ncompetent to rule, yet he will not undertake the business of the\nState, except under compulsion. In the political States, as they exist\nin the world, the philosopher dwells with his body, but his soul is a\nstranger, ignorant of their standards, unmoved by their ambitions. But\nthe opposite strain of thought is uppermost when we are told that it\nis, after all, only in the State, only in his capacity as a citizen\nand a social being that the individual can attain perfection. It is\nonly possible to reconcile these views in one way. If the ideals of\nthe State and of philosophy seem inconsistent, they must be brought\ntogether by adapting the State to philosophy. We must have a State\nfounded upon philosophy and reason. Then only can the philosopher\ndwell in it with his soul as well as with his body. Then only can\neither the individual or the State reach perfection. To found the\nState upon reason is the keynote of Plato's politics.\n\nAnd this gives us, too, the clue to the problem, what is the end of\nthe State? Why should there be a State at all? This does not mean, how\nhas the State arisen in history? We are not in search of the cause,\nbut of the reason, or end, of the State. The end of all life is\nwisdom, virtue, and knowledge. The unassisted individual cannot reach\nthese ends. It is only by the State that they can be brought down from\nheaven to earth. The end of the State is thus the virtue and happiness\n(not pleasure) of the citizens. And since this is only possible {227}\nthrough education, the State's primary function is educational.\n\nSince the State is to be founded upon reason, its laws must be\nrational, and rational laws can only be made by rational men,\nphilosophers. The rulers must be philosophers. And since the\nphilosophers are few, we must have an aristocracy, not of birth, or of\nwealth, but of intellect. The first operative principle of the State\nis reason, the second is force. For it is not to be expected that the\nirrational masses will willingly submit to rational laws. They must be\ncompelled. And since the work of the world must go on, the third\noperative principle will be labour. Plato believed in the principle of\ndivision of labour. Only he can excel at any occupation whose life is\ndevoted to it. Hence to the three operative principles correspond\nthree classes, castes, or professions. Reason is embodied in the\nphilosopher-rulers, force in the warriors, labour in the masses. This\ndivision of the functions of the State is based upon the threefold\ndivision of the soul. To the rational soul correspond the\nphilosopher-rulers, to the nobler half of the mortal soul the\nwarriors, to the appetitive soul the masses. Consequently the four\ncardinal virtues belong to the State through the functioning of the\nthree classes. The virtue of the philosopher-rulers is wisdom, of the\nwarriors courage, of the masses, temperance. The harmonious\nco-operation of all three produces justice.\n\nThe rulers must not cease to be philosophers. Most of their time must\nbe spent in the study of the Ideas, philosophy, and only a portion in\nthe affairs of government. This is rendered possible by the system of\ntaking turns. Those who are not at any particular time {228} engaged\nupon government retire into thought. The duty of the warriors is the\nprotection of the State, both against its external enemies, and\nagainst the irrational impulses of the masses of its own citizens.\nNormally, the latter will be their chief duty, the enforcement of the\ndecrees of the philosopher-rulers upon the masses. The masses will\nengage themselves in trade, commerce, and agriculture. Both the other\nranks are prohibited from soiling their fingers with trade or\nagriculture, upon which Plato, as a Greek aristocrat, looked down with\nunbounded contempt. To what rank a citizen belongs is not determined\nby birth, nor by individual choice. No individual can choose his own\nprofession. This will be determined by the officers of the State, who\nwill base their decision, however, upon the disposition and\ncapabilities of the individual. As they have also to decide the\nnumbers required for each rank, the magistrates also control the birth\nof children. Parents cannot have children when they wish. The sanction\nof the State is required.\n\nSince the end of the State is the virtue of the citizens, this\ninvolves the destruction of whatever is evil and the encouragement of\nwhatever is good. To compass the destruction of evil, the children of\nbad parents, or offspring not sanctioned by the State, will be\ndestroyed. Weak and sickly children will also not be allowed to live.\nThe positive encouragement of good involves the education of the\ncitizens by the State. Children from their earliest years do not\nbelong to their parents, but to the State. They are, therefore, at\nonce removed from the custody of their parents, and transferred to\nState nurseries. Since the parents are to have no {229} property nor\ninterest in them, stringent means are adopted to see that, after\nremoval to the public nurseries, parents shall never again be able to\nrecognize their own children. All the details of the educational\ncurriculum are decreed by the State. Poetry, for example, is only\nallowed in an emasculated form. Of the three kinds, epic, dramatic,\nand lyric, the two former are banished from the State altogether,\nbecause, in the base example of the immorality of the gods, which they\ndepict, they are powerful instruments in the propagation of evil. Only\nlyric poetry is allowed, and that under strict supervision. The\nsubject, the form, even the metre, will be prescribed by the proper\nauthorities. Poetry is not recognized as valuable in itself, but only\nas an educative moral influence. All poems, therefore, must strictly\ninculcate virtue.\n\nIt is, in Plato's opinion, intolerable that the individual should have\nany interest apart from the interests of the State. Private interests\nclash with those of the community, and must therefore be abolished.\nThe individual can possess no property either in material things, or\nin the members of his family. This involves the community of goods,\ncommunity of wives, and the State ownership of children from their\nbirth.\n\n\n\n6. Views upon Art.\n\nIn modern times aesthetics is recognized as a separate division of\nphilosophy. This was not the case in Plato's time, and yet his\nopinions upon art cannot be fitted into either dialectic, physics, or\nethics. On the other hand, they cannot be ignored, and there is\nnothing for it, therefore, but to treat them as a sort of appendix\n{230} to his philosophy. Plato has no systematic theory of art, but\nonly scattered opinions, the most important of which will now be\nmentioned.\n\nMost modern theories of art are based upon the view that art is an end\nin itself, that the beautiful has, as such, absolute value, and not\nvalue merely as a means to some further end. Upon such a view, art is\nrecognized as autonomous within its own sphere, governed only by its\nown laws, judged only by its own standards. It cannot be judged, as\nTolstoi would have us believe, by the standard of morals. The\nbeautiful is not a means to the good. They may be indeed, ultimately\nidentical, but their identity cannot be recognized till their\ndifference has been admitted. Nor can one be subordinated to the\nother.\n\nNow this view of art finds no place at all in Plato's thought. Art is,\nfor him, absolutely subservient both to morals and to philosophy. That\nit subserves morality we see from the \"Republic,\" where only that\npoetry is allowed which inculcates virtue, and only because it\ninculcates virtue. It is no sufficient justification of a poem to\nplead that it is beautiful. Beautiful or not, if it does not subserve\nthe ends of morality, it is forbidden. Hence too the preposterous\nnotion that its exercise is to be controlled, even in details, by the\nState. That this would mean the utter destruction of art either did\nnot occur to Plato, or if it did, did not deter him. If poetry cannot\nexist under the yoke of morality, it must not be allowed to exist at\nall. That art is merely a means to philosophy is even more evident.\nThe end of all education is the knowledge of the Ideas, and every\nother subject, science, mathematics, art, is introduced into the {231}\neducational curriculum solely as a preparation for that end. They have\nno value in themselves. This is obvious from the teaching of the\n\"Republic,\" and it is even more evident in the \"Symposium,\" where the\nlove of beautiful objects is made to end, not in itself, but in\nphilosophy.\n\nPlato's low estimate of art appears also in his theory of art as\nimitation, and his contemptuous references to the nature of artistic\ngenius. As to the first, art is, to him, only imitation. It is the\ncopy of an object of the senses, and this again is only a copy of an\nIdea. Hence a work of art is only a copy of a copy. Plato did not\nrecognise the creativeness of art. This view is certainly false. If\nthe aims of art were merely to imitate, a photograph would be the best\npicture, since it is the most accurate copy of its object. What Plato\nfailed to see was that the artist does not copy his object, but\nidealizes it. And this means that he does not see the object simply as\nan object, but as the revelation of an Idea. He does not see the\nphenomenon with the eyes of other men, but penetrates the sensuous\nenvelope and exhibits the Idea shining through the veils of sense.\n\nThe second point is Plato's estimate of artistic genius. The artist\ndoes not work by reason, but by inspiration. He does not, or he should\nnot, create the beautiful by means of rules, or by the application of\nprinciples. It is only after the work of art is created that the\ncritic discovers rules in it. This does not mean that the discovery of\nrules is false, but that the artist follows them unconsciously and\ninstinctively. If, for example, we believe Aristotle's dictum that the\nobject of tragedy {232} is to purge the heart by terror and pity, we\ndo not mean that the tragedian deliberately sets out to accomplish\nthat end. He does so without knowing or intending it. And this kind of\ninstinctive impulse we call the inspiration of the artist. Now Plato\nfully recognizes these facts. But far from considering inspiration\nsomething exalted, he thinks it, on the contrary, comparatively low\nand contemptible, just because it is not rational. He calls it \"divine\nmadness,\" divine indeed, because the artist produces beautiful things,\nbut madness because he himself does not know how or why he has done\nit. The poet says very wise and beautiful things, but he does not know\nwhy they are wise and beautiful. He merely feels, and does not\nunderstand anything. His inspiration, therefore, is not on the level\nof knowledge, but only of right opinion, which knows what is true, but\ndoes not know why.\n\nPlato's views of art are thus not satisfactory. He is doubtless right\nin placing inspiration below reason, and art below philosophy. They do\nstand to each other in the relation of higher and lower. Not that such\na question can be decided by mere personal preferences. The usual\ndiscussions whether art or philosophy is better, whether emotion or\nreason is higher, are pointless and insipid, because the disputants\nmerely exalt their personal peculiarities. The man of artistic\ntemperament naturally prefers art, and says it is the highest. The\nphilosopher exalts philosophy above art, merely because it is his pet\nhobby. This kind of discussion is futile. The matter must be decided\nupon some principle. And the principle is quite clear. Both art and\nphilosophy have the same object, the {233} apprehension of the\nAbsolute, or the Idea. Philosophy apprehends it as it is in itself,\nthat is to say, as thought. Art apprehends it in a merely sensuous\nform. Philosophy apprehends it in its truth, art in a comparatively\nuntrue way. Philosophy, therefore, is the higher. But while any true\nphilosophy of art must recognize this, it must not interpret it to\nmean that art is to be made merely a means towards philosophy. It must\nsomehow find room for the recognition of the truth that art is an end\nin itself, and it is in this that Plato fails.\n\nAristotle, who had no spark of artistic capacity in his composition,\nwhose own writings are the severest of scientific treatises, did far\ngreater justice to art than Plato, and propounded a far more\nsatisfactory theory. Plato, himself a great artist, is utterly unjust\nto art. Paradoxical as it may appear, the very reason why Aristotle\ncould be just to art was that he was no artist. Being solely a\nphilosopher, his own writings are scientific and inartistic. This\nenables him to recognize art as a separate sphere, and therefore as\nhaving its own rights. Plato could not keep the two separate. His\ndialogues are both works of art and of philosophy. We have seen\nalready that this fact exercised an evil influence on his philosophy,\nsince it made him substitute poetic myths for scientific explanation.\nNow we see that it exercised an equally evil influence on his views of\nart. As a philosopher-artist his own practice is to use literary art\nsolely as a means towards the expression of philosophical ideas. And\nthis colours his whole view of art. It is, to him, nothing but a means\ntowards philosophy. And this is the tap-root of his entire view of the\nsubject.\n\n\n\n{234}\n\n7. Critical Estimate of Plato's Philosophy,\n\nIf we are to form a just estimate of the value of Plato's philosophy,\nwe must not fritter away our criticism on the minor points, the\nexternal details, the mere outworks of the system. We must get at the\nheart and governing centre of it all. Amid the mass of thought which\nPlato has developed, in all departments of speculation, that which\nstands out as the central thesis of the whole system is the theory of\nIdeas. All else is but deduction from this. His physics, his ethics,\nhis politics, his views upon art, all flow from this one governing\ntheory. It is here then that we must look, alike for the merits and\nthe defects of Plato's system.\n\nThe theory of Ideas is not a something sprung suddenly upon the world\nout of Plato's brain. It has its roots in the past. It is, as\nAristotle showed, the outcome of Eleatic, Heracleitean, and Socratic\ndeterminations. Fundamentally, however, it grows out of the\ndistinction between sense and reason, which had been the common\nproperty of Greek thinkers since the time of Parmenides. Parmenides\nwas the first to emphasize this distinction, and to teach that the\ntruth is to be found by reason, the world of sense being illusory.\nHeracleitus, and even Democritus, were pronounced adherents of reason,\nas against sense. The crisis came with the Sophists, who attempted to\nobliterate the distinction altogether, and to find all knowledge in\nsensation, thus calling forth the opposition of Socrates and Plato. As\nagainst them Socrates pointed out that all knowledge is through\nconcepts, reason: and Plato added to this that the concept is not a\nmere rule of thought but a metaphysical reality. This was the\nsubstance of the theory of Ideas. {235} Every philosophy which makes a\nsystematic attempt to solve the riddle of the universe necessarily\nbegins with a theory of the nature of that absolute and ultimate\nreality from which the universe is derived. This absolute reality we\nwill call simply the Absolute. Plato's theory is that the Absolute\nconsists of concepts. To say that the Absolute is reason, is thought,\nis concepts, is the universal--these are merely four different\nexpressions of the same theory. Now this proposition, that the\nAbsolute is reason, is the fundamental thesis of all idealism. Since\nPlato's time there have been several great idealistic systems of\nphilosophy. That the Absolute is reason is the central teaching of\nthem all. Plato, therefore, is the founder and initiator of all\nidealism. It is this that gives him his great place in the history of\nphilosophy. That the Absolute is universal thought, this is what Plato\nhas contributed to the philosophical speculation of the world. This is\nhis crowning merit.\n\nBut we must go somewhat more into details. We must see how far he\napplied this principle successfully to the unravelment of the great\nproblems of philosophy. In lecturing upon the Eleatics, I said that\nany successful philosophy must satisfy at least two conditions. It\nmust give such an account of the Absolute, that the Absolute is shown\nas capable of explaining the world. It must be possible to deduce the\nactual world of facts from the first principle. Secondly, not only\nmust this first principle explain the world; it must also explain\nitself. It must be really ultimate, that is, we must not, in order to\nunderstand it, have to refer to anything beyond and outside it. If we\nhave to do so then our ultimate is not an ultimate at all; our first\nprinciple {236} is not first. That thing by means of which we explain\nit must itself be the ultimate reality. And besides being ultimate,\nour principle must be wholly intelligible. It must not be a mere\nultimate mystery; for to reduce the whole world to an ultimate mystery\nis clearly not to explain it. Our first principle must, in a word, be\nself-explanatory. Let us apply this two-fold test to Plato's system.\nLet us see, firstly, whether the principle of Ideas explains the\nworld, and secondly, whether it explains itself.\n\nDoes it explain the world? Is the actual existence of things, horses,\ntrees, stars, men, explained by it? What, in the first place, is the\nrelation between things and the Ideas? Things, says Plato, are\n\"copies,\" or \"imitations\" of the Ideas. They \"participate\" in the\nIdeas. The Ideas are \"archetypal\" of things. Now all these phrases are\nmere poetic metaphors. They do not really tell us how things are\nrelated to Ideas. But suppose we ignore this, and assume, for the sake\nof argument, that we understand what is meant by \"participation\" and\nthat things are, in the literal sense, \"copies\" of Ideas. The question\nstill remains, why do such copies exist, how do they arise? Now, if\nthis problem is to be solved, it is not enough to show, merely as a\nfact, that, by some mysterious act, copies of Ideas come into\nexistence. There must be a reason for it, and this reason it is the\nbusiness of philosophy to explain. This reason, too, must exist in the\nnature of the Ideas themselves, and not outside them. There must be,\nin the very nature of the Ideas, some inner necessity which forces\nthem to reproduce themselves in things. This is what we {237} mean by\nsaying that the Ideas are a sufficient explanation of the existence of\nthings. But there is in Plato's Ideas no such necessity. The Ideas are\ndefined as being the sole reality. They have already all reality in\nthemselves. They are self-sufficient. They lack nothing. It is not\nnecessary for them further to realize their being in the concrete\nmanifestation of things, because they, as wholly real, need no\nrealization. Why, then, should they not remain for ever simply as they\nare? Why should they go out of themselves into things? Why should they\nnot remain in themselves and by themselves? Why should they need to\nreproduce themselves in objects? There are, we know, white objects in\nthe universe. Their existence, we are told, is explained by the Idea\nof whiteness? But why should the Idea of whiteness produce white\nthings? It is itself the perfect whiteness. Why should it stir itself?\nWhy should it not remain by itself, apart, sterile, in the world of\nIdeas, for all eternity? We cannot see. There is in the Ideas no\nnecessity urging them towards reproduction of themselves, and this\nmeans that they possess no principle for the explanation of things.\n\nNevertheless Plato has to make some attempt to meet the difficulty.\nAnd as the Ideas are themselves impotent to produce things, Plato,\nunable to solve the problem by reason, attempts to solve it by\nviolence. He drags in the notion of God from nowhere in particular,\nand uses him as a _deus ex machina_. God fashions matter into the\nimages of Ideas. The very fact that Plato is forced to introduce a\ncreator shows that, in the Ideas themselves, there is no ground of\nexplanation. Things ought to be explained by the Ideas themselves,\n{238} but as they are incapable of explaining anything, God is called\nupon to do their work for them. Thus Plato, faced with the problem of\nexistence, practically deserts his theory of Ideas, and falls back\nupon a crude theism. Or if we say that the term God is not to be taken\nliterally, and that Plato uses it merely as a figurative term for the\nIdea of Good, then this saves Plato from the charge of introducing a\ntheism altogether inconsistent with his philosophy, but it brings us\nback to the old difficulty. For in this case, the existence of things\nmust be explained by means of the Idea of the Good. But this Idea is\njust as impotent as the other Ideas.\n\nIn this connection, too, the dualism of Plato's system becomes\nevident. If everything is grounded in the one ultimate reality, the\nIdeas, then the entire universe must be clasped together in a system,\nall parts of which flow out of the Ideas. If there exists in the\nuniverse anything which stands aloof from this system, remains\nisolated, and cannot be reduced to a manifestation of the Ideas, then\nthe philosophy has failed to explain the world, and we have before us\na confessed dualism. Now not only has Plato to drag in God for the\nexplanation of things, he has also to drag in matter. God takes matter\nand forms it into copies of the Ideas. But what is this matter, and\nwhere does it spring from? Clearly, if the sole reality is the Ideas,\nmatter, like all else, must be grounded in the Ideas. But this is not\nthe case in Plato's system. Matter appears as a principle quite\nindependent of the Ideas. As its being is self-derived and original,\nit must be itself a substance. But this is just what Plato denies,\ncalling it absolute {239} not-being. Yet since it has not its source\nin the Ideas or in anything outside itself, we must say that though\nPlato calls it absolute not-being, it is in fact an absolute being.\nThe Ideas and matter stand face to face in Plato's system neither\nderived from the other, equally ultimate co-ordinate, absolute\nrealities. This is sheer dualism.\n\nThe source of this dualism is to be found in the absolute separation\nwhich Plato makes between sense and reason. He places the world of\nsense on one side, the world of reason on the other, as things\nradically different and opposed. Hence it is impossible for him ever\nto bridge the gulf that he has himself created between them. We may\nexpect the dualism of a philosophy which builds upon such premises to\nbreak out at numerous points in the system. And so indeed it does. It\nexhibits itself as the dualism of Ideas and matter, of the sense-world\nand the thought-world, of body and soul. Not, of course, that it is\nnot quite right to recognize the distinction between sense and reason.\nAny genuine philosophy must recognize that. And no doubt too it is\nright to place truth and reality on the side of reason rather than\nsense. But although sense and reason are distinct, they must also be\nidentical. They must be divergent streams flowing from one source. And\nthis means that a philosophy which considers the absolute reality to\nbe reason must exhibit sense as a lower form of reason. Because Plato\nfails to see the identity of sense and reason, as well as their\ndifference, his philosophy becomes a continual fruitless effort to\noverreach the dualism thus generated.\n\nThus the answer to our first question, whether the theory of Ideas\nexplains the world of things, must be {240} answered in the negative.\nLet us pass on to the second test. Is the principle of Ideas a\nself-explanatory principle? Such a principle must be understood purely\nout of itself. It must not be a principle, like that of the\nmaterialist, which merely reduces the whole universe to an ultimate\nmysterious fact. For even if it be shown that the reason of everything\nis matter, it is still open to us to ask what the reason of matter is.\nWe cannot see any reason why matter should exist. It is a mere fact,\nwhich dogmatically forces itself upon our consciousness without giving\nany reason for itself. Our principle must be such that we cannot ask a\nfurther reason of it. It must be its own reason, and so in itself\nsatisfy the demand for a final explanation. Now there is only one such\nprinciple in the world, namely, reason itself. You can ask the reason\nof everything else in the world. You can ask the reason of the sun,\nthe moon, stars, the soul, God, or the devil. But you cannot ask the\nreason of reason, because reason is its own reason. Let us put the\nsame thought in another way. When we demand the explanation of\nanything, what do we mean by explanation? What is it we want? Do we\nnot mean that the thing appears to us irrational, and we want it shown\nthat it is rational? When this is done, we say it is explained. Think,\nfor example, of what is called the problem of evil. People often talk\nof it as the problem of the \"origin of evil,\" as if what we want to\nknow is, how evil began. But even if we knew this, it would not\nexplain anything. Suppose that evil began because someone ate an\napple. Does this make the matter any clearer? Do we feel that all our\ndifficulties about the existence of evil are solved? No. This is {241}\nnot what we want to know. The difficulty is that evil appears to us\nsomething irrational. The problem can only be solved by showing us\nthat somehow, in spite of appearances, it is rational that evil should\nexist. Show us this, and evil is explained. Explanation of a thing,\nthen, means showing that the thing is rational. Now we can ask that\neverything else in the world should be shown to be rational. But we\ncannot demand that the philosopher shall show that reason is rational.\nThis is absurd. Reason is what is already absolutely rational. It is\nwhat explains itself. It is its own reason. It is a self-explanatory\nprinciple. This, then, must be the principle of which we are in\nsearch. The Absolute, we said, must be a self-explanatory principle,\nand there is only one such, namely, reason. The Absolute, therefore,\nis reason.\n\nIt was the greatness and glory of Plato to have seen this, and thereby\nto have become the founder of all true philosophy. For to say that the\nAbsolute is concepts is the same as saying it is reason. It might\nseem, then, that Plato has satisfied the second canon of criticism. He\ntakes as first principle a self-explanatory reality. But we cannot\nquite so quickly jump to this conclusion. After all, the mere word\nreason is not a key which will unlock to us the doors of the universe.\nSomething more is necessary than the mere word. We must, in fact, be\ntold what reason is. Now there are two senses in which we might ask\nthe question, what reason is, one of which is legitimate, the other\nillegitimate. It is illegitimate to ask what reason is, in the sense\nof asking that it shall be explained to us in terms of something else,\nwhich is not reason. This would be {242} to give up our belief that\nreason is its own reason. It would be to seek the reason of reason in\nsomething which is not reason. It would be to admit that reason, in\nitself, is not rational. And this is absurd. But it is legitimate to\nask, what reason is, meaning thereby, what is the _content_ of reason.\nThe content of reason, we have seen, is concepts. But what concepts?\nHow are we to know whether any particular concept is part of the\nsystem of reason or not? Only, it is evident, by ascertaining whether\nit is a rational concept. If a concept is wholly rational, then it is\na part of reason. If not, not. What we need, then, is a detailed\naccount of all the concepts which reason contains, and a proof that\neach of these concepts is really rational. It is obvious that only in\nthis way can we make a satisfactory beginning in philosophy. Before we\ncan show that reason explains, that is, rationalizes the world, we\nmust surely first show that reason itself is rational, or rather, to\nbe more accurate, that _our conception_ of reason is rational. There\nmust not be any mere inexplicable facts, any mysteries, any dark\nplaces, in our notion of reason. It must be penetrated through and\nthrough by the light of reason. It must be absolutely transparent,\ncrystalline. How can we hope to explain the world, if our very first\nprinciple itself contains irrationalities?\n\nEach concept then must prove itself rational. And this means that it\nmust be a necessary concept. A necessary proposition, we saw, is one,\nsuch as that two and two equal four, the opposite of which is\nunthinkable. So for Plato's Ideas to be really necessary it ought to\nbe logically impossible for us to deny their {243} reality. It ought\nto be impossible to think the world at all without these concepts. To\nattempt to deny them ought to be shown to be self-contradictory. They\nought to be so necessarily involved in reason that thought without\nthem becomes impossible. Clearly this is the same as saying that the\nIdeas must not be mere ultimate inexplicable facts. Of such a fact we\nassert merely that it is so, but we cannot see any reason for it. To\nsee a reason for it is the same as seeing its necessity, seeing not\nmerely that it is so, but that it must be so.\n\nNow Plato's Ideas are not of this necessary kind. There is, we are\ntold, an Idea of whiteness. But why should there be such an Idea? It\nis a mere fact. It is not a necessity. We can think the world quite\nwell without the Idea of whiteness. The world, so far as we can see,\ncould get on perfectly well without either white objects or the Idea\nof whiteness. To deny its reality leads to no self-contradictions. Put\nit in another way. There are certainly white objects in the world. We\ndemand that these, among other things, be explained. Plato tells us,\nby way of explanation, that there are white objects because there is\nan Idea of whiteness. But in that case why is there an Idea of\nwhiteness? We cannot see. There is no reason. There is no necessity in\nthis. The same thing applies to all the other Ideas. They are not\nrational concepts. They are not a part of the system of reason.\n\nBut at this point, perhaps, a glimmer of hope dawns upon us. We ask\nthe reason for these Ideas. Has not Plato asserted that the ultimate\nreason and ground of all the lower Ideas will be found in the supreme\nIdea of {244} the Good? Now if this is so, it means that the lower\nIdeas must find their necessity in the highest Idea. If we could see\nthat the Idea of the Good necessarily involves the other Ideas, then\nthese other Ideas would be really explained. In other words, we ought\nto be able to deduce all the other Ideas from this one Idea. It ought\nto be possible to show that, granted the Idea of the Good, all the\nother Ideas necessarily follow, that to assume the Good and deny the\nother Ideas would be self-contradictory and unthinkable. There are\nexamples in Plato of the kind of deduction we require. For example, in\nthe \"Parmenides\" he showed that the Idea of the one necessarily\ninvolves the Idea of the many, and vice versa. You cannot think the\none without also thinking the many. This means that the many is\ndeduced from the one, and the one from the many. Just in the same way,\nwe ought to be able to deduce the Idea of whiteness from the Idea of\nthe Good. But this is clearly not possible. You may analyse the Good\nas long as you like, you may turn it in every conceivable direction,\nbut you cannot get whiteness out of it. The two Ideas do not involve\neach other. They are thinkable apart. It is quite possible to think\nthe Good without thinking whiteness. And it is the same with all the\nother Ideas. None of them can be deduced from the Good.\n\nAnd the reason of this is very obvious. Just as the lower Ideas\ncontain only what is common among the things of a class, and exclude\ntheir differences, so the higher Ideas include what is common to the\nIdeas that come under them, but exclude what is not common. For\nexample, the Idea of colour contains what white, blue, red, and green,\nhave in common. But all colours {245} have not whiteness in common.\nGreen, for example, is not white. Hence the Idea of colour excludes\nthe Idea of whiteness, and it likewise excludes all the Ideas of the\nother particular colours. So too the highest Idea of all contains only\nwhat all the Ideas agree in, but all the rest falls outside it. Thus\nthe Idea of whiteness is perfect in its kind. And as all Ideas are\nlikewise perfect, the highest Idea is that in which they all agree,\nnamely, perfection itself. But this means that the perfection of the\nIdea of whiteness is contained in the supreme Idea, but its specific\ncharacter in which it differs from other Ideas is excluded. Its\nspecific character is just its whiteness. Thus the perfection of\nwhiteness is contained in the Good, but its whiteness is not.\nConsequently it is impossible to deduce whiteness from the Good,\nbecause the Good does not contain whiteness. You cannot get out of it\nwhat is not in it. When Plato deduced the many from the one, he did so\nonly by showing that the One contains the many. He cannot deduce\nwhiteness from goodness, because goodness does not contain whiteness.\n\nThe lower Ideas thus have not the character of necessity. They are\nmere facts. And the hope that we shall find their necessity in the\nsupreme Idea fails. But suppose we waive this. Suppose we grant that\nthere must be an Idea of whiteness, because there is an Idea of the\nGood. Then why is there an Idea of the Good? What is the necessity of\nthat? We cannot see any necessity in it. What we said of the other\nIdeas applies with equal force to the highest Idea. The Good may be a\nnecessary Idea, but Plato has not shown it.\n\nThus, though Plato named reason as the Absolute, {246} and though\nreason is a self-explanatory principle, his account of the detailed\ncontent of reason is so unsatisfactory that none of the concepts which\nhe includes in it are really shown to be rational. His philosophy\nbreaks down upon the second test as it did upon the first. He has\nneither explained the world from the Ideas, nor has he made the Ideas\nexplain themselves.\n\nThere is one other defect in Plato's system which is of capital\nimportance. There runs throughout it a confusion between the notions\nof reality and existence. To distinguish between existence and reality\nis an essential feature of all idealism. Even if we go back to the dim\nidealism of the Eleatics, we shall see this. Zeno, we saw, denied\nmotion, multiplicity, and the world of sense. But he did not deny the\nexistence of the world. That is an impossibility. Even if the world is\ndelusion, the delusion exists. What he denied was the reality of\nexistence. But if reality is not existence, what is it? It is Being,\nreplied the Eleatics. But Being does not exist. Whatever exists is\nthis or that particular sort of being. Being itself is not anywhere to\nbe found. Thus the Eleatics first denied that existence is reality,\nand then that reality exists. They did not themselves draw this\nconclusion, but it is involved in their whole position.\n\nWith a fully developed idealism, like Plato's, this ought to be still\nclearer. And, in a sense, it is. The individual horse is not real. But\nit certainly exists. The universal horse is real. But it does not\nexist. But, upon this last point, Plato wavered and fell. He cannot\nresist the temptation to think of the absolute reality as existing.\nAnd consequently the Ideas are {247} not merely thought as the real\nuniversal in the world, but as having a separate existence in a world\nof their own. Plato must have realised what is, in truth, involved in\nhis whole position, that the absolute reality has no existence. For he\ntells us that it is the universal, and not any particular individual\nthing. But everything that exists is an individual thing. Again, he\ntells us that the Idea is outside time. But whatever exists must exist\nat some time. Here then this central idealistic thought seems well\nfixed in Plato's mind. But when he goes on to speak of recollection\nand reincarnation, when he tells us that the soul before birth dwelt\napart in the world of Ideas, to which after death it may hope to\nreturn, it is clear that Plato has forgotten his own philosophy, that\nhe is now thinking of the Ideas as individual existences in a world of\ntheir own. This is a world of Ideas having a separate existence and\nplace of its own. It is not this world. It is a world beyond. Thus the\nPlatonic philosophy which began on a high level of idealistic\nthinking, proclaiming the sole reality of the universal, ends by\nturning the universal itself into nothing but an existent particular.\nIt is the old old story of trying to form mental pictures of that\nwhich no picture is adequate to comprehend. Since all pictures are\nformed out of sensuous materials, and since we can form no picture of\nanything that is not an individual thing, to form a picture of the\nuniversal necessarily means thinking of it as just what it is not, an\nindividual. So Plato commits the greatest sin that can be ascribed to\na philosopher. He treats thought as a thing.\n\nTo sum up. Plato is the great founder of idealism, the initiator of\nall subsequent truths in philosophy. {248} But, as always with\npioneers, his idealism is crude. It cannot explain the world; it\ncannot explain itself. It cannot even keep true to its own principles,\nbecause, having for the first time in history definitely enunciated\nthe truth that reality is the universal, it straightway forgets its\nown creed and plunges back into a particularism which regards the\nIdeas as existent individuals. It was these defects which Aristotle\nset himself to rectify in a purer idealism, shorn of Plato's\nimpurities.\n\n\n\n{249}\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nARISTOTLE\n\n1. Life, Writings, and general character of his Work.\n\nAristotle was born in 384 B.C. at Stagirus, a Grecian colony and\nseaport on the coast of Thrace. His father Nichomachus was court\nphysician to King Amyntas of Macedonia, and from this began\nAristotle's long association with the Macedonian Court, which\nconsiderably influenced his life and destinies. While he was still a\nboy his father died, and he was sent by his guardian, Proxenus, to\nAthens, the intellectual centre of the world, to complete his\neducation. He was then aged seventeen. He joined the Academy and\nstudied under Plato, attending the latter's lectures for a period of\ntwenty years. In subsequent times, Aristotle's detractors, anxious to\nvilify his character, accused him of \"ingratitude\" to his master,\nPlato. It was said that Plato's old age had been embittered by\ndissensions in the school caused by the factious spirit of Aristotle.\nThat there is no ground for attaching any blame to Aristotle for the\ntroubles of Plato, which either did not exist or have been grossly\nexaggerated, is evident both from the facts within our knowledge and\nfrom the reference to Plato in Aristotle's works. It is not likely\nthat, had Aristotle rendered himself genuinely objectionable, he could\nhave remained for twenty years in {250} the Academy, and only left it\nupon the death of Plato. Moreover, although Aristotle in his works\nattacks the teaching of Plato with unsparing vigour, there is nowhere\nto be found in these attacks any suggestion of acrimony or personal\nrancour. On the contrary, he refers to himself as the friend of Plato,\nbut a greater friend of the truth. The fact, in all probability, is\nthat a man of such independent and original mind as Aristotle did not\naccord to Plato the kind of blind adoration and hero-worship which he\nmay have received from the inferior intellects in the school. As is so\noften the case with young men of marked ability, the brilliant student\nmay have suffered from the impatience and self-assertion of youth.\nThere was certainly nothing worse.\n\nWhile at the Academy Aristotle exhibited an unflagging spirit and\nunwearied zeal in the pursuit of knowledge in all its forms, a spirit\nwhich gave rise to nick-names and anecdotes, which probably contained\nas much truth, or as little, as most of the anecdotes which gather\nround remarkable characters. One of these stories was that he used a\nmechanical contrivance to wake him up whenever sleep threatened to put\nan end to his hours of study.\n\nIn 347 B.C. Plato died, and his nephew Speusippus was chosen as head\nof the Academy. Aristotle left Athens with his fellow-student\nXenocrates, and together they repaired to the court of Hermeias, King\nof Atarneus, in Asia Minor. Hermeias, a man of low origin, but of high\ninstincts and advanced education, had himself attended the lectures of\nPlato, and received the two young philosophers as welcome guests.\nAristotle stayed three years at Atarneus, and, while there, married\n{251} Pythias, the niece of the King. In later life he was married a\nsecond time to one Herpyllis, who bore him a son, Nichomachus. At the\nend of three years Hermeias fell a victim to the treachery of the\nPersians, and Aristotle went to Mytilene. Here he remained for several\nyears till he received an invitation from Philip of Macedonia to\nbecome the tutor of the young Alexander, afterwards conqueror of the\nworld, then aged thirteen. Aristotle obeyed the summons, and for about\nfive years superintended the education of Alexander. Both Philip and\nAlexander appear to have paid Aristotle high honour, and there were\nstories that he was supplied by the Macedonian court, not only with\nfunds for the prosecution of learning, but even with thousands of\nslaves for the collection of specimens. These stories are probably\nfalse and certainly exaggerated. But there is no doubt that, in his\nscientific and philosophical enquiries, he was backed by the influence\nof the court, and could even perhaps have looked to that quarter for\nsupplies, had it ever been necessary.\n\nUpon the death of Philip, Alexander succeeded to the kingship. The\nperiod of his studies was now over, and he began to make preparations\nfor his subsequent conquests. Aristotle's work being finished, he\nreturned to Athens, which he had not visited since the death of Plato.\nHe found the Platonic school flourishing under Xenocrates, and\nPlatonism the dominant philosophy of Athens. He thereupon set up his\nown school at a place called the Lyceum. It was in connection with\nthis that his followers became known, in after years, as the\n\"peripatetics,\" a name which arose from Aristotle's habit of walking\nabout as he discoursed. The period of {252} his residence in Athens\nlasted thirteen years, during which time he was occupied in the\nleadership of his school and in literary labours. This appears to have\nbeen the most fruitful period of his life. There is no doubt that all\nhis most important writings were composed at this time. But at the end\nof this period his fortunes changed.\n\nIn B.C. 323 Alexander the Great died suddenly at Babylon in the midst\nof his triumphs. The Athenian Government was in the hands of a\npro-Macedonian party. Upon the death of Alexander this party was\noverthrown, and a general reaction occurred against everything\nMacedonian. Alexander had been regarded in Greece much as Napoleon was\nregarded in Europe a century ago. He had insulted the free Greek\ncities. He had even sacked the city of Thebes. The whole of Greece\nlived in perpetual terror of invasion. Now that this fear was removed\nby his death, there was a general outburst of feeling against\nMacedonia. An anti-Macedonian party came into power. Now Aristotle had\nalways been regarded as a representative and protege of the Macedonian\ncourt, although, as a matter of fact, he had recently fallen out of\nfavour with the autocratic Alexander. A charge of impiety was trumped\nup against him. To escape prosecution he fled to Chalcis in Euboea, in\norder that, as he said, \"the Athenians might not have another\nopportunity of sinning against philosophy as they had already done in\nthe person of Socrates.\" He perhaps intended to return to Athens as\nsoon as the storm had blown over. But in the first year of his\nresidence at Chalcis he was overtaken by a sudden illness, and died at\nthe age of sixty-three, in B.C. 322.\n\n{253}\n\nAristotle is said to have composed some four hundred books. Our\nastonishment at this productivity diminishes somewhat when we remember\nthat what is here called a \"book\" is much the same as what we should\ncall a chapter in a modern treatise. More than three-quarters of these\nwritings have been lost. But, by good fortune, what remains to us is\nundoubtedly by far the most important part, and we have preserved in\nit a fairly complete account of the whole Aristotelian system in all\nits departments. Nearly all the writings, however, have come down to\nus in a mutilated state. This is especially the case with the\n\"Metaphysics.\" This treatise is unfinished, and it was probably left\nunfinished by its author at his death. But apart from this, several of\nthe books of the \"Metaphysics\" are undoubtedly spurious. Others\napparently come in the wrong order. We end one book in the middle of a\ndiscussion, and when we begin the next we find ourselves in the middle\nof an entirely different subject. There are frequent repetitions, and\nparts of it read as if they were mere lecture notes. There are many\ninterpolations. The same characteristics are to be observed in\nAristotle's other writings, though in a less degree. It seems probable\nthat they were not intended, in their present state, for publication.\nFinal revision and finishing touches are lacking. In spite of these\ndefects, the writings are voluminous and clear enough to enable us to\ntrace out the whole of the main positions of Aristotle's thought.\n\nWe saw, in the case of Plato, that, as his literary activity lasted\nover a period of half a century, during which his philosophy was in\nconstant development, it became important to trace this development in\nthe {254} order of his Dialogues. The same thing is not true in the\ncase of Aristotle. The whole of his writings, or rather those that\nhave come down to us, seem to have been written during his last\nthirteen years, while he was at Athens, that is to say, after he had\npassed his fiftieth year. His system was then complete, mature, and\nfully developed. The question of the order in which they were written\nhas no great importance. The result of critical investigations,\nhowever, is to show that he probably began with the various works upon\nlogic, composed next the treatises upon physical science, next the\nethical and political books, and lastly the \"Metaphysics,\" which he\nleft unfinished.\n\nIt must not be forgotten that Aristotle was not only a philosopher in\nthe modern restricted sense of that term. He was a man of universal\nlearning. There is no branch of knowledge which did not receive his\nattention, and upon which he was not the greatest expert of his time,\nexcept perhaps mathematics. So far was he from being only an abstract\nphilosopher, that his natural tastes seem to have lain rather in the\nfield of physical science than of abstract thought. But his design\nseems to have been to work over the entire field of knowledge,\nthoroughly to overhaul the sciences already in existence, rejecting\nwhat seemed false in the work of his predecessors, and invariably\nadding to the residue valuable developments and suggestions of his\nown. Where there was no science already in existence, his plan\ninvolved the foundation of new sciences wherever necessary, and he\nthus became the founder of at least two sciences, Logic and Zoology.\nHe thus attained to a pre-eminence in all branches {255} of knowledge\nwhich would be impossible for a single man in modern times. His works\ninclude treatises upon Logic and Metaphysics, upon Ethics, Politics,\nand Art. He wrote a treatise upon the principles of Rhetoric, another\nupon Astronomy, under the title \"On the Heavens,\" another upon\nMeteorology. Several of his treatises deal with the biology of animal\nlife, in which he was intensely interested. They include books\nentitled \"On the Parts of Animals,\" \"On the Movements of Animals,\" \"On\nthe Origin of Animals,\" as well as his great treatise, \"Researches on\nAnimals,\" which contains an enormous mass of facts collected from\nevery possible source. It is true that a large proportion of these\nfacts have turned out to be fictions, but this was inevitable in the\ninfancy of science. It has been calculated that Aristotle shows\nhimself acquainted with about five hundred different species of living\nbeings, though they are not, of course, classified by him in the\nmodern way. With these books upon animals he founded the science of\nZoology, for no one before his day had made any special study of the\nsubject.\n\nIt has been said that everyone has either an Aristotelian or a\nPlatonic type of mind. As this implies that Aristotle and Plato are\nopposites, it is considerably less than a half truth. No genuine\nunderstanding of Aristotle can endorse the opinion that his\nphilosophical system was the opposite of Plato's. It would be truer to\nsay that Aristotle was the greatest of all Platonists, since his\nsystem is still founded upon the Idea, and is an attempt to found an\nidealism free from the defects of Plato's system. It is in fact a\ndevelopment of Platonism. What is the cause then of the popular notion\nthat {256} Aristotle was the opposite of Plato? Now the fact is that\nthey _were_ opposites in many important respects. But there was a\nfundamental agreement between them which lies deeper than the\ndifferences. The differences are largely superficial, the agreement is\ndeep-seated. Hence it is the differences that are most obvious, and it\nwas the differences, too, which were most obvious to Aristotle\nhimself. The popular opinion arises largely from the fact that\nAristotle never loses an opportunity of attacking the Platonic theory\nof Ideas. He is continually at pains to emphasize the difference\nbetween himself and Plato, but says nothing of the agreement. But no\nman is a judge of his own deeper relations to his predecessors and\ncontemporaries. It is only in after years, when the hubbub of\ncontroversy has settled down into the silence of the past, that the\nhistorian can see the true perspective, and can penetrate the\nrelations of each great man to the time in which he lived. Plato was\nthe founder of idealism, and his idealism was in many respects crude\nand untenable. It was the special mission of Aristotle to clear away\nthese crudities, and so develop Platonism into a tenable philosophy.\nAnd it was natural that he should emphasize the crudities, which he\nhad to fight so hard to overcome, rather than that substratum of truth\nwhich Plato had already developed, and which therefore required no\nspecial treatment at his hands. It was the differences between himself\nand his predecessor which were most obvious to him, and it was\ninevitable that he should adopt a thoroughly polemical attitude\ntowards his master.\n\nBut if the agreement was more deep-seated than the differences, and\nlay in the recognition of the Idea as the {257} absolute foundation of\nthe world, the differences were none the less very striking. In the\nfirst place, Aristotle loved facts. What he wanted was always definite\nscientific knowledge. Plato, on the other hand, had no love of facts\nand no gift for physical enquiries. And what disgusted Aristotle about\nthe system of Plato was the contempt which it poured upon the world of\nsense. To depreciate objects of sense, and to proclaim the knowledge\nof them valueless, was a fundamental characteristic of all Plato's\nthinking. But the world of sense is the world of facts, and Aristotle\nwas deeply interested in facts. No matter in what branch of knowledge,\nany fact was received by Aristotle with enthusiasm. To Plato it\nappeared of no interest what the habits of some obscure animal might\nbe. That alone which should be pursued is the knowledge of the Idea.\nAnd he went so far as to deny that knowledge of the sense-world could\nproperly be described as knowledge at all. But the habits of animals\nappeared to Aristotle a matter worthy of investigation for its own\nsake. Francis Bacon in his \"Novum Organum\" has many contemptuous\nreferences to Aristotle. And the gist of them all is that Aristotle\nhad no regard for facts, but theorized a priori out of his head, and\nthat instead of patiently investigating the facts of nature, he\ndecided, upon so-called \"rational\" grounds, what nature ought to do,\nand squared the facts with his theories.\n\nIt was natural for Bacon to be unjust to him. He, with the other\nthinkers of his time, was engaged upon an uphill fight against\nscholasticism, then dominant, which claimed to represent the true\nteaching of Aristotle. And it was true that the schoolmen theorized a\npriori, {258} and ignored facts, or, what was worse, appealed to the\nwritings of Aristotle to decide questions of fact which should have\nbeen decided by an appeal to nature. And Bacon not unnaturally\nconfounded Aristotle with these modern Aristotelians, and attributed\nto him the faults that were really theirs. But no man was ever keener\non facts than Aristotle as is proved by his treatises upon animals,\nwhich contain evidences of astonishing patience and laborious work in\nthe collection of facts. It is true, however, that even in the domain\nof facts, Aristotle, like all the ancients, was guilty of introducing\n_a priori_ reasonings when they were quite out of place. Thus he does\nnot scruple to argue that the stars must move in circles because the\ncircle is the perfect figure. And numerous similar instances could be\nquoted. But it was inevitable that, with science in its swaddling\nclothes, without the aid of any instruments, or of any body of\npreviously ascertained truths, Aristotle should fall into these\nsnares. He well understood the fundamental necessity of all natural\nsciences for a laborious investigation of facts, but, when this was\nimpossible, he used the only means in his power, his reason.\n\nSecondly, in spite of Plato's rationalism, he had allowed to myths and\npoetry a large share in the development of his thoughts, and had even\nexhibited a distinct tendency towards mysticism. Here again what\nAristotle wanted was definite knowledge. It pained him to see poetic\nmetaphors substituted for rational explanation. And this accounts for\nthe third main difference between Plato and Aristotle, the marked\ncontrast in their prose styles. Plato was a master-artist in words.\nAristotle cared nothing for the ornaments and beauties of style. {259}\nHe harshly excludes them from his work. What alone he is intent upon\nis the meaning, the truth that the words express. He is too much in\nearnest with philosophy to lose himself in a haze of beautiful words,\nor to be put off with metaphors instead of reasons. His style is even\nharsh, abrupt, and ugly. But what it loses in beauty it gains in\nclearness of conception. For every thought or shade of thought which\nit is desired to express there is an accurate term. If no term in\ncommon use will express the thought, Aristotle coins one. Hence he is\none of the greatest terminologists that ever lived. He adapted or\ninvented an enormous number of terms. He may be not unjustly regarded\nas the founder of philosophical language, as the inventor of a\nvocabulary of technical terms. Many of the terms used to this day to\nexpress man's most abstract thoughts, were invented or introduced by\nAristotle. It must not be supposed that Aristotle wrote in a rigidly\nscientific style because he had no aesthetic sense. The very contrary\nis the case. His treatise on art shows him by far the best critic of\nthe ancient world, and in his appreciation and estimation of the\nbeautiful he far excels Plato. But he saw that art and science have\neach their own sphere, and that it is fatal to confuse the two.\nNothing is so damaging to art as to be made the mere vehicle of\nreasoning. Nothing is so damaging to philosophy as to allow itself to\nbe governed by poetry. If we want beauty, we must follow the path of\nart. But if we desire truth, we must stick close to reason.\n\nAristotle's system falls most easily into the fivefold division of\nlogic, metaphysics, physics, ethics, and aesthetics.\n\n{260}\n\n2. Logic.\n\nNot much need be said under this head, because whoever knows the\ncommon logic of the text-books knows the logic of Aristotle. Of the\ntwo branches of reasoning, deductive and inductive, Aristotle clearly\nrecognizes the latter. And many of his observations upon induction are\nacute and penetrating. But he has not reduced induction to a science.\nHe has not laid bare the fundamental canons of inductive thought. This\nwas a work not performed until comparatively modern times. His name\ntherefore is more especially associated with deductive logic, of which\nhe was the founder. He not only founded the science, but practically\ncompleted it. What we now know as \"formal logic,\" what is to this day\ncontained in all text-books, taught in all schools and universities,\nis, in all its essentials, nothing more than the logic of Aristotle.\nHis writings upon the subject include the treatment of the well-known\nlaws of thought, the doctrine of the ten categories, the five\npredicables, the doctrines of terms, of propositions, of syllogisms,\nand of the reduction of the other figures to the first figure of the\nsyllogism. And these heads might well form the list of contents of a\nmodern work on formal logic. In only two respects has any advance been\nmade upon Aristotle by subsequent logicians. The fourth figure of the\nsyllogism is not recognized by Aristotle; and he dealt only with\ncategorical syllogisms, and does not treat conditional syllogisms. But\nwhether or not the fourth figure of the syllogism has any value is\nstill a matter open to dispute. And though the doctrine of conditional\nsyllogisms is important, it is not essential, because all conditional\nsyllogisms can be reduced to categorical {261} syllogisms. The\ncategorical syllogism is the fundamental type of reasoning, to which\nevery other form of deduction can be reduced. As for the rest of the\nhuge treatises on formal logic which some moderns have produced, the\nsupposed additions are nothing but wearisome, endless, useless,\nnauseating, academic distinctions and refinements, which are much\nbetter forgotten than remembered. Aristotle's logic contains therefore\nall that is essential to the subject. The only ground on which it can\nbe attacked is its wholly empirical procedure. But that is another\nstory. As a collection, arrangement, and analysis of the facts of\nreason, it is to all intents and purposes finality achieved at one\nstroke.\n\n\n\n3. Metaphysics.\n\nThe treatise now known as the \"Metaphysics\" of Aristotle did not\noriginally bear that name. Aristotle's name for this subject is \"first\nphilosophy,\" by which he means the knowledge of the first, highest, or\nmost general principles of the universe. All other branches of\nknowledge are subordinate to this science, not because they are\ninferior in value, but because they are lower in logical sequence as\ndealing with principles less universal in their scope. Thus all the\nspecial sciences deal with one or another particular sphere of being,\nbut the \"first philosophy\" has for its subject being as such, \"being\nso far forth as it is being.\" It studies, not the characteristics of\nthis or that kind of being, but the principles which are equally true\nof all being. The laws of Zoology apply only to animals, but the\nprinciples of the \"first philosophy\" apply to everything. The name\n\"metaphysics\" came into use only half a century B.C., when {262}\nAndronicus published a complete edition of Aristotle's known works. In\nthis edition the treatise on \"first philosophy\" was placed after the\n\"physics,\" and \"metaphysics\" signifies simply \"after physics.\" The\nderivation of the word thus appears to be merely accidental and\nadventitious. Whether it was also in any way intended to signify that\nthe subject is \"beyond physics,\" that is, deals with what transcends\nphysical existence, seems doubtful.\n\nAristotle's metaphysical theory grows naturally out of his polemic\nagainst Plato's theory of Ideas, because his own system was in effect\nsimply an attempt to overcome the defects which he found in Plato. The\nmain heads of this polemic are the following:--\n\n(1) Plato's Ideas do not explain the existence of things. To explain\nwhy the world is here is after all the main problem of philosophy, and\nPlato's theory fails to do this. Even admitting that, say, the Idea of\nwhiteness exists, we cannot see how it produces white objects.\n\n(2) Plato has not explained the relation of Ideas to things. Things,\nwe are told, are \"copies\" of Ideas, and \"participate\" in them. But how\nare we to understand this \"participation\"? In using such phrases, says\nAristotle, Plato is giving no real account of the relationship, but is\nmerely \"uttering poetic metaphors.\"\n\n(3) Even if the existence of things is explained by the Ideas, their\nmotion is not. Suppose that the Idea of whiteness produces white\nthings, the Idea of beauty beautiful things, and so on, yet, since the\nIdeas themselves are immutable and motionless, so will be the world\nwhich is their copy. Thus the universe would be {263} absolutely\nstatic, like Coleridge's \"painted ship upon a painted ocean.\" But the\nworld, on the contrary, is a world of change, motion, life, becoming.\nPlato makes no attempt to explain the unceasing becoming of things.\nEven if the Idea of whiteness explains white objects, yet why do these\nobjects arise, develop, decay, and cease to exist? To explain this\nthere must be some principle of motion in the Ideas themselves. But\nthere is not. They are immovable and lifeless.\n\n(4) The world consists of a multitude of things, and it is the\nbusiness of philosophy to explain why they exist. By way of\nexplanation Plato merely assumes the existence of another multitude of\nthings, the Ideas. But the only effect of this is to double the number\nof things to be explained. How does it help thus to duplicate\neverything? And Aristotle likens Plato to a man who, being unable to\ncount with a small number, fancies that, if he doubles the number, he\nwill find it easier to count.\n\n(5) The Ideas are supposed to be non-sensuous, but they are, in fact,\nsensuous. Plato thought that a non-sensuous principle must be sought\nin order to explain the world of sense. But not being able to find any\nsuch principle, he merely took the objects of sense over again and\ncalled them non-sensuous. But there is, in fact, no difference between\nthe horse and the Idea of the horse, between the man and the Idea of\nthe man, except a useless and meaningless \"in-itself\" or \"in-general\"\nattached to each object of sense to make it appear something\ndifferent. The Ideas are nothing but hypostatized things of sense, and\nAristotle likens them to the anthropomorphic gods of the popular\nreligion. \"As {264} these,\" he says, \"are nothing but deified men, so\nthe Ideas are nothing but eternalized things of nature.\" Things are\nsaid to be copies of Ideas, but in fact the Ideas are only copies of\nthings.\n\n(6) Next comes the argument of the \"third man,\" so called by Aristotle\nfrom the illustration by which he explained it. Ideas are assumed in\norder to explain what is common to many objects. Wherever there is a\ncommon element there must be an Idea. Thus there is a common element\nin all men, and therefore there is an Idea of man. But there is also\nan element common to the individual man and to the Idea of man. There\nmust, therefore, be a further Idea, the \"third man,\" to explain this.\nAnd between this further Idea and the individual man there must be yet\nanother Idea to explain what they have in common, and so on _ad\ninfinitum_.\n\n(7) But by far the most important of all Aristotle's objections to the\nideal theory, and that which, to all intents and purposes, sums up all\nthe others, is that it assumes that Ideas are the essences of things,\nand yet places those essences outside the things themselves. The\nessence of a thing must be in it, and not outside it. But Plato\nseparated Ideas from things, and placed the Ideas away somewhere in a\nmysterious world of their own. The Idea, as the universal, can only\nexist in the particular. Possibly the reality in all horses is the\nuniversal horse, but the universal horse is not something that exists\nby itself and independently of individual horses. Hence Plato was led\ninto the absurdity of talking as if, besides the individual horses we\nknow, there is somewhere another individual called the\nhorse-in-general, or as if besides white objects there is a thing\ncalled {265} whiteness. And this is in fact the supreme\nself-contradiction of the theory of Ideas, that it begins by saying\nthat the universal is real, and the particular unreal, but ends by\ndegrading the universal again into a particular. This is the same\nthing as saying that Plato's mistake lay in first (rightly) seeing\nthat existence is not reality, but then (wrongly) going on to imagine\nthat the reality is an existence.\n\nOut of this last objection grows Aristotle's own philosophy, the\nfundamental principle of which is that the universal is indeed the\nabsolute reality, but that it is a universal which exists only in the\nparticular. What is reality? What is substance? This is the first\nquestion for the metaphysician. Now substance is what has an\nindependent existence of its own; it is that whose being does not flow\ninto it from any source outside itself. Consequently, substance is\nwhat is never a predicate; it is that to which all predicates are\napplied. Thus in the proposition, \"Gold is heavy,\" gold is the\nsubject, or substance, and \"heavy\" is its predicate. The heaviness is\ndependent for its existence on the gold, and it is therefore the\nlatter, and not the former, that is the substance.\n\nNow, keeping this in mind, are universals, as Plato asserts,\nsubstances? No; because the universal is merely a common predicate\nwhich attaches to many objects of a class. Thus the concept of man is\nmerely what is common to all men. It is the same thing as the\npredicate \"humanness.\" But humanness cannot exist apart from human\nbeings, any more than heaviness apart from the heavy object.\nUniversals, then, are not substances. But neither are particulars\nsubstances. For there is no such thing as that which is absolutely\n{266} particular and isolated. If humanness does not exist apart from\nmen, neither do men exist apart from humanness. Take away from a man\nwhat he has in common with other men, and what he has in common with\nother objects, and you will find that, having stripped him of all his\nqualities, there is absolutely nothing left. We say gold is heavy,\nyellow, malleable, etc. Now the heaviness, the yellowness, and the\nother qualities, cannot exist apart from the gold. But it is equally\ntrue that the gold cannot exist apart from its qualities. Strip off\nall its qualities in thought, and then ask yourself what the gold\nitself is apart from its qualities. You will find that your mind is a\ntotal blank. In taking away the qualities you have taken away the gold\nitself. The gold can only be thought through its qualities. It only\nexists through its qualities. The gold, therefore, just as much\ndepends on the qualities for its existence as the qualities depend\nupon the gold. Hence neither of them, considered apart from the other,\nis substance. But the qualities are the universal element in the gold,\nthe gold without the qualities is the absolutely particular and\nisolated. For, first, the yellowness is a quality which this gold has\nin common with that gold, and is therefore a universal, and so with\nall the qualities. Even if a particular piece of gold has a quality\npossessed by no other gold, it is yet possessed by some other object\nin the universe, or it would be unknowable. Every quality is\nconsequently a universal. Secondly, the gold without its qualities is\nthe absolutely particular. For, being stripped of all qualities, it is\nstripped of whatever it has in common with other things; it is\nstripped of whatever universality it has, and it remains an absolute\nparticular. Hence the {267} universal is not substance, nor is the\nparticular. For neither of them can exist without the other. Substance\nmust be a compound of the two; it must be the universal in the\nparticular. And this means that that alone which is substance is the\nindividual object, for example, the gold with all its qualities\nattached to it.\n\nIt is usually believed that Aristotle contradicted himself in as much\nas he first states, as above, that the individual object, the compound\nof universal and particular, is substance, but later on allows a\nsuperior reality to the universal, or \"form\" as he calls it, and in\neffect teaches, like Plato, that the universal is what alone is\nabsolutely real, that is, that the universal is substance. I do not\nagree that there is any real inconsistency in Aristotle. Or rather,\nthe inconsistency is one of words and not of thought. It must be\nremembered that, whenever Aristotle says that the individual, and not\nthe universal, is substance, he is thinking of Plato. What he means to\ndeny is that the universal can exist on its own account, as Plato\nthought. Nevertheless he agrees with Plato that the universal is the\nreal. When he says that the universal is not substance he means, as\nagainst Plato, that it is not existent. What alone exists is the\nindividual thing, the compound of universal and particular. When he\nsays, or implies, that the universal is substance, he means that,\nthough it is not existent, it is real. His words are contradictory,\nbut his meaning is not. He has not expressed himself as clearly as he\nshould; that is all.\n\nThe further development of Aristotle's metaphysics depends upon his\ndoctrine of causation. By causation here, however, is meant a very\nmuch wider conception {268} than what is understood by that term in\nmodern times. I have in previous lectures attempted to make clear the\ndistinction between causes and reasons. The cause of a thing does not\ngive any reason for it, and therefore does not explain it. The cause\nis merely the mechanism by which a reason produces its consequence.\nDeath is caused by accident or disease, but these causes explain\nnothing as to why death should be in the world at all. Now if we\naccept this distinction, we may say that Aristotle's conception of\ncausation includes both what we have called causes and reasons.\nWhatever is necessary, whether facts or principles, whether causes or\nreasons, fully to understand the existence of a thing, or the\nhappening of an event, is included in the Aristotelian notion of\ncausation.\n\nTaking causation in this wide sense, Aristotle finds that there are\nfour kinds of causes, the material, the efficient, the formal, and the\nfinal cause. These are not alternative causes; it is not meant that,\nto explain anything, one or other of the four must be present. In\nevery case of the existence or production of a thing all four causes\noperate simultaneously. Moreover the same four causes are to be found\nboth in human and in cosmic production, in the making of manufactured\narticles by man and in the production of things by nature. They are\nmore clearly and easily seen, however, in human production, from which\nsphere, therefore, we select our example. The material cause of a\nthing is the matter of which it is composed. It is the raw material\nwhich becomes the thing. For example, in the making of a bronze statue\nof Hermes, the bronze is the material cause of the statue. This\nexample might lead one to suppose {269} that Aristotle means by\nmaterial cause what we call matter, physical substance, such as brass,\niron, or wood. As we shall see later, this is not necessarily the\ncase, though it is so in the present instance. The efficient cause is\nalways defined by Aristotle as the cause of motion. It is the energy\nor moving force required to bring about change. It must be remembered\nthat by motion Aristotle means not merely change of place but change\nof any sort. The alteration of a leaf from green to yellow is just as\nmuch motion, in his sense, as the falling of a stone. The efficient\ncause, then, is the cause of all change. In the example taken, what\ncauses the bronze to become a statue, what produces this change, is\nthe sculptor. He is, therefore, the efficient cause of the statue. The\nformal cause Aristotle defines as the substance and essence of the\nthing. Now the essence of a thing is given in its definition. But the\ndefinition is the explication of the concept. Therefore the formal\ncause is the concept, or, as Plato would call it, the Idea of the\nthing. Plato's Ideas thus reappear in Aristotle as formal causes. The\nfinal cause is the end, purpose, or aim, towards which the movement is\ndirected. When a statue is being produced, the end of this activity,\nwhat the sculptor aims at, is the completed statue itself. And the\nfinal cause of a thing in general is the thing itself, the completed\nbeing of the object.\n\nWe can see at once how much wider this conception of causation is than\nthe modern conception. If we take Mill's definition of a cause as the\nbest expression of modern scientific ideas, we find that he defines a\ncause as the \"invariable and unconditional antecedent of a\nphenomenon.\" This cuts out final causes at once. For {270} the final\ncause is the end, and is not an antecedent in time. It also does not\ninclude formal causes. For we do not now think of the concept of a\nthing as being part of its cause. This leaves us with only material\nand efficient causes, and these correspond roughly to the modern\nnotions of matter and energy. Even the efficient causes of Aristotle,\nhowever, appear on further consideration, to be excluded from the\nmodern idea of causation. For, though the efficient cause is the\nenergy which produces motion, modern science regards it as purely\nmechanical energy, whereas Aristotle thinks of it, as we shall see, as\nan ideal force, operating not from the beginning but from the end. But\nit must not be supposed that, in saying that the modern idea of\ncausation excludes formal and final causes, we mean that Aristotle is\nwrong in adding them, or that the modern idea is better than\nAristotle's. It is not a question of better and worse at all. Modern\nscience does not in any way deny the reality of formal and final\ncauses. It merely considers them to be outside its sphere. It is no\nbusiness of science whether they exist or not. As knowledge advances,\ndifferentiation and division of labour occur. Science takes as its\nprovince mechanical causes, and leaves formal and final causes to the\nphilosopher to explicate. Thus, for example, formal causes are not\nconsidered by science because they are not, in the modern sense,\ncauses at all. They are what we have called reasons. If we are to\nexplain the existence of an object in the universe it may be necessary\nto introduce formal causes, concepts, to show why the thing exists, to\nshow in fact its reasons. But science makes no attempt to explain the\nexistence of objects. It takes their {271} existence for granted, and\nseeks to trace their history and their relations to each other.\nTherefore it does not require formal causes. It seeks to work out the\nmechanical view of the universe, and therefore considers only\nmechanical causes. But Aristotle's theory, as being philosophy rather\nthan science, includes both the principles of mechanism and teleology.\n\n\nIt was not Aristotle's habit to propound his theories as if they were\nsomething absolutely new, sprung for the first time out of his own\nbrain. In attacking any problem, his custom was to begin by\nenumerating current and past opinions, to criticise them, to reject\nwhat was valueless in them, to retain the residue of truth, and to add\nto it his own suggestions and original ideas. The resultant of this\nprocess was his own theory, which he thus represented, not as\nabsolutely new, but as a development of the views of his predecessors.\nThis course he follows also in the present instance. The first book of\nthe \"Metaphysics\" is a history of all previous philosophy, from Thales\nto Plato, undertaken with the object of investigating how far the four\ncauses had been recognized by his predecessors. The material cause, he\nsays, had been recognized from the first. The Ionics believed in this\nand no other cause. They sought to explain everything by matter,\nthough they differed among themselves as to the nature of the material\ncause, Thales describing it as water, Anaximenes as air. Later\nphilosophers also gave different accounts of it, Heracleitus thinking\nit was fire, Empedocles the four elements, Anaxagoras an indefinite\nnumber of kinds of matter. But the point is that they all recognized\nthe necessity for a material cause of some sort to explain the\nuniverse.\n\n{272}\n\nThe earliest thinkers, then, the Ionics, assumed only this one cause.\nBut as thought advanced, says Aristotle, and other philosophers came\nupon the scene, \"the thing itself guided them.\" It was seen that a\nsecond cause was necessary to explain the motion and becoming of\nthings. For matter itself does not produce its motion. Wood is not the\ncause of its becoming a bed, nor is brass the cause of its becoming a\nstatue. Hence arose the idea of the efficient cause. The Eleatics did\nnot recognize it, for they denied motion, and for them, therefore, no\ncause of motion could be assumed. But Parmenides, Aristotle thinks,\nwavered on this point, somehow allowing vaguely the existence of a\nsecond cause, which he denominated the hot and the cold. The reference\nis, of course, to the second part of the poem of Parmenides. Other\nphilosophers clearly assumed an efficient cause, for they thought that\none element, for example, fire, is more active, that is, more\nproductive of motion, than others. Empedocles certainly attained to\nthe idea of an efficient cause, for he named as moving forces, harmony\nand discord, love and hate. Anaxagoras also, used Nous as a moving\nforce.\n\nFormal causes had, perhaps, been recognized by the Pythagoreans, for\nnumbers are forms. But they straightway degraded the formal cause to\nthe level of a material cause by declaring that number is the stuff or\nmatter of which things are made. Plato alone clearly saw the necessity\nfor the formal cause, for formal causes are, as we have seen, the same\nas Plato's Ideas. But Plato's philosophy contains only two of the four\ncauses, namely the material and the formal, for Plato made all things\nout of matter and the Ideas. Since the Ideas have in them {273} no\nprinciple of motion, Plato's system contains no efficient cause. As\nfor final causes, Plato had indeed the vague idea that everything is\nfor the sake of the Good, but he makes no use of this conception and\ndoes not develop it. Final causes were introduced into philosophy by\nAnaxagoras, whose doctrine of the world forming mind was assumed to\nexplain the design and purpose which the universe exhibits. But as his\nsystem developed he forgot about this, and used the Nous merely as a\npiece of mechanism to explain motion, thus letting it sink into\nnothing more than an efficient cause.\n\nIn the result, Aristotle finds that all four causes have been\nrecognized in greater or lesser degrees by his predecessors, and this,\nin his opinion, greatly reinforces his own doctrine. But whereas\nmaterial and efficient causes have been clearly understood, his\npredecessors had only vaguely foreshadowed and dimly perceived the\nvalue of formal and final causes.\n\nThe next step in Aristotle's metaphysics is to reduce these four\nprinciples to two, which he calls matter and form. This reduction\ntakes place by showing that formal cause, efficient cause, and final\ncause, all melt into the single conception of form. In the first\nplace, the formal cause and the final cause are the same. For the\nformal cause is the essence, the concept, the Idea, of the thing. Now\nthe final cause, or the end, is simply the realisation of the Idea of\nthe thing in actuality. What the thing aims at is the definite\nexpression of its form. It thus aims at its form. Its end, final\ncause, is thus the same as its formal cause. Secondly, the efficient\ncause is the same as the final cause. For the efficient cause is the\ncause of becoming. The final cause is the end of {274} the becoming,\nit is what it becomes. And, in Aristotle's opinion, what causes the\nbecoming is just that it aims at the end. The striving of all things\nis towards the end, and exists because of the end. The end is thus\nitself the cause of becoming or motion. That is to say, the final\ncause is the real efficient cause. We may see this better by an\nexample. The end or final cause of the acorn is the oak. And it is the\noak which is the cause of the acorn's growth, which consists\nessentially in a movement by which the acorn is drawn towards its end,\nthe oak. We may see this even more definitely in the case of human\nproductions, because here the striving towards an end is conscious,\nwhereas in nature it is unconscious or instinctive. The efficient\ncause of the statue is the sculptor. It is he that moves the brass.\nBut what moves the sculptor, and causes him to act upon the brass, is\nthe idea of the completed statue in his mind. The idea of the end, the\nfinal cause, is thus the real ultimate cause of the movement. Only, in\nthe case of human production, the idea of the end is actually present\nin the sculptor's mind as a motive. In nature there is no mind in\nwhich the end is conscious of itself, but nevertheless nature moves\ntowards the end, and the end is the cause of the movement. Thus the\nthree causes named all melt into a single notion, which Aristotle\ncalls the form of the thing. And this leaves only the material cause\nunreduced to any other. So we are left with the single antithesis of\nmatter and form.\n\nNow as matter and form are the fundamental categories of Aristotle's\nphilosophy, by means of which he seeks to explain the entire universe,\nit is essential that we should thoroughly understand their\ncharacteristics. {275} First of all, matter and form are inseparable.\nWe think of them as separate in order to understand them clearly. And\nthis is quite right, because they are opposite principles, and\ntherefore they are separable in thought. But they are never separable\nin fact. There is no such thing as form without matter, or matter\nwithout form. Every existent thing, that is, every individual object,\nis a compound of matter and form. We may compare them in this respect\nto the material and the shape of a thing, though we must be careful\nnot to think that form is merely shape. Geometry considers shapes as\nif they existed by themselves. But, in fact, we know that there are no\nsuch things as squares, circles, and triangles. There are only square\nobjects, circular objects, etc. And as there are no shapes without\nobjects, so there are no objects without shapes. We talk of things\nbeing \"shapeless,\" but this only means that their shape is irregular\nor unusual. Some shape an object must have. Yet, though shape and\nmatter are inseparable in fact, they are opposite principles, and are\nseparable in thought. Geometry is quite right to treat shapes as if\nthey existed by themselves, but it is nevertheless dealing with mere\nabstractions. Just in the same way, matter and form are never apart,\nand to think of form by itself or matter by itself is a mere\nabstraction. No such thing exists. In fact, to imagine that forms can\nexist by themselves was just the mistake of which, as we have seen,\nAristotle accuses Plato. For the form is the Idea, and Plato imagined\nthat Ideas exist in a world of their own.\n\nFrom this, too, we can see that the form is the universal, the matter\nthe particular. For the form is the Idea, and the Idea is the\nuniversal. To say that form and {276} matter cannot exist apart is\nthus the same as saying that the universal only exists in the\nparticular, which, as we have seen, is the fundamental note of\nAristotle's philosophy. But if we thus identify matter with the\nparticular element in things, we must be careful that we do not\nconfuse the particular with the individual. We often use these two\nwords as practically synonymous, and there is no harm in this, but\nhere we must be careful to separate them. For every individual is,\naccording to Aristotle, a compound of matter and form, of the\nparticular and the universal. And when we say that matter is the\nparticular, we mean, not that it is such a compound, but that it is\nthe absolutely particular which has no universal in it. But the\nabsolutely particular and isolated does not exist. A piece of gold,\nfor instance, only exists by virtue of its properties, yellowness,\nheaviness, etc., and these qualities are just what it has in common\nwith other things. So that the particular, as such, has no existence,\nbut this is only the same as saying, what we have already said, that\nmatter has no existence apart from form.\n\nA very natural mistake would be to suppose that by matter Aristotle\nmeant the same as we do, namely, physical substance, such as wood or\niron, and that by form he meant simply shape. Now although there is a\nkinship in the ideas, these two pairs of ideas are far from identical.\nLet us begin with matter. Our ordinary idea of matter as physical\nsubstance is an absolute conception. That is to say, a thing which we\ncall material is absolutely, once and for all, matter. It is not\nmaterial from one point of view, and immaterial from another. In every\npossible relation it is, and {277} remains, matter. Nor does it in\nprocess of time cease to be matter. Brass never becomes anything but\nmatter. No doubt there are in nature changes of one sort of matter\ninto another, for example, radium into helium. And for all we know,\nbrass may become lead. But even so, it does not cease to be matter.\nBut Aristotle's conception of matter is a relative conception. Matter\nand form are fluid. They flow into one another. The same thing, from\none point of view, is matter, from another, form. In all change,\nmatter is that which becomes, that upon which the change is wrought.\nThat is form towards which the change operates. What becomes is\nmatter. What it becomes is form. Thus wood is matter if considered in\nrelation to the bed. For it is what becomes the bed. But wood is form\nif considered in relation to the growing plant. For it is what the\nplant becomes. The oak is the form of the acorn, but it is the matter\nof the oak furniture.\n\nThat matter and form are relative terms shows, too, that the form\ncannot be merely the shape. For what is form in one aspect is matter\nin another. But shape is never anything but shape. No doubt the shape\nis part of the form, for the form in fact includes all the qualities\nof the thing. But the shape is quite an unimportant part of the form.\nFor form includes organization, the relation of part to part, and the\nsubordination of all parts to the whole. The form is the sum of the\ninternal and external relations, the ideal framework, so to speak,\ninto which the thing is moulded. Form also includes function. For it\nincludes the final cause. Now the function of a thing is just what the\nthing is for. And what it is for is the same as its end, or final\ncause. {278} Therefore function is included in form. For example, the\nfunction of a hand, its power of gripping, is part of its form. And\ntherefore, if it loses its function by being cut off from the arm, it\nlikewise loses its form. Even the dead hand, of course, has some form,\nfor every individual object is a compound of matter and form. But it\nhas lost the highest part of its form, and relatively to the living\nhand it is mere matter, although, relatively to the flesh and bones of\nwhich it is composed, it is still form. Clearly, then, form is not\nmerely shape. For the hand cut off does not lose its shape.\n\nThe form includes all the qualities of the thing. The matter is what\nhas the qualities. For the qualities are all universals. A piece of\ngold is yellow, and this means simply that it has this in common with\nother pieces of gold, and other yellow objects. To say that anything\nhas a quality is immediately to place it in a class. And what the\nclass has in common is a universal. A thing without qualities cannot\nexist, nor qualities without a thing. And this is the same as saying\nthat form and matter cannot exist separately.\n\nThe matter, then, is the absolutely formless. It is the substratum\nwhich underlies everything. It has, in itself, no character. It is\nabsolutely featureless, indefinite, without any quality. Whatever\ngives a thing definiteness, character, quality, whatever makes it a\nthis or that, is its form. Consequently, there are no differences\nwithin matter. One thing can only differ from another by having\ndifferent qualities. And as matter has no qualities, it has no\ndifference. And this in itself shows that the Aristotelian notion of\nmatter is not the same as our notion of physical substance. For,\naccording {279} to our modern usage, one kind of matter differs from\nanother, as brass from iron. But this is a difference of quality, and\nfor Aristotle all quality is part of the form. So in his view the\ndifference of brass from iron is not a difference of matter, but a\ndifference of form. Consequently, matter may become anything,\naccording to the form impressed upon it. It is thus the possibility of\neverything, though it is actually nothing. It only becomes something\nby the acquisition of form. And this leads directly to a most\nimportant Aristotelian antithesis, that between potentiality and\nactuality. Potentiality is the same as matter, actuality as form. For\nmatter is potentially everything. It may become everything. It is not\nactually anything. It is a mere potentiality, or capacity of becoming\nsomething. But whatever gives it definiteness as a this or that,\nwhatever makes it an actual thing, is its form. Thus the actuality of\na thing is simply its form.\n\nAristotle claims, by means of the antithesis of potentiality and\nactuality, to have solved the ancient problem of becoming, a riddle,\npropounded by the Eleatics, which had never ceased to trouble Greek\nthinkers. How is becoming possible? For being to pass into being is\nnot becoming, for it involves no change, and for not-being to pass\ninto being is impossible, since something cannot come out of nothing.\nFor Aristotle, the sharp line drawn between not-being and being does\nnot exist. For these absolute terms he substitutes the relative terms\npotentiality and actuality, which shade off into each other.\nPotentiality in his philosophy takes the place of not-being in\nprevious systems. It solves the riddle because it is not an absolute\nnot-being. It is {280} not-being inasmuch as it is actually nothing,\nbut it is being because it is potential being. Becoming, therefore,\ndoes not involve the impossible leap from nothing to something. It\ninvolves the transition from potential to actual being. All change,\nall motion, is thus the passage of potentiality into actuality, of\nmatter into form.\n\nSince matter is in itself nothing, a bare unrealised capacity, while\nform is actuality, the completed and perfected being, it follows that\nform is something higher than matter. But matter is what becomes form.\nIn order of time, therefore, matter is earlier, form later. But in\norder of thought, and in reality, it is otherwise. For when we say\nthat matter is the potentiality of what it is to become, this implies\nthat what it is to become is already present in it ideally and\npotentially, though not actually. The end, therefore, is already\npresent in the beginning. The oak is in the acorn, ideally, otherwise\nthe oak could never come out of it. And since all becoming is towards\nthe end, and would not take place but for the end, the end is the\noperative principle and true cause of becoming. Motion is produced not\nby a mechanical propulsive force, pushing from behind, so to speak,\nbut by an ideal attractive force, drawing the thing towards its end,\nas a piece of iron is drawn to the magnet. It is the end itself which\nexerts this force. And, therefore, the end must be present at the\nbeginning, for if it were not present it could exert no force. Nay,\nmore. It is not only present in the beginning, it is anterior to it.\nFor the end is the cause of the motion, and the cause is logically\nprior to its consequence. The end, or the principle of form, is thus\nthe absolute first in thought and reality, though it may be the last\nin time. If, then, {281} we ask what, for Aristotle, is that ultimate\nreality, that first principle, from which the entire universe flows,\nthe answer is, the end, the principle of form. And as form is the\nuniversal, the Idea, we see that his fundamental thesis is the same as\nPlato's. It is the one thesis of all idealism, namely, that thought,\nthe universal, reason, is the absolute being, the foundation of the\nworld. Where he differs from Plato is in denying that form has any\nexistence apart from the matter in which it exhibits itself.\n\nNow all this may strike the unsophisticated as very strange. That the\nabsolute being whence the universe flows should be described as that\nwhich lies at the end of the development of the universe, and that\nphilosophy should proceed to justify this by asserting that the end is\nreally prior to the beginning, this is so far removed from the common\nman's mode of thought, that it may appear mere paradox. It is,\nhowever, neither strange nor paradoxical. It is essentially sound and\ntrue, and it seems strange to the ordinary man only because it\npenetrates so much deeper into things than he can. This thought is, in\nfact, essential to a developed idealism, and till it is grasped no\nadvance can be made in philosophy. Whether it is understood is,\nindeed, a good test of whether a man has any talent for philosophy or\nnot. The fact is that all philosophies of this sort regard time as\nunreal, as an appearance. This being so, the relation of the absolute\nbeing, or God, to the world cannot be a relation of time at all. The\ncommon man's idea is that, if there is a first principle or God at\nall, He must have existed before the world began, and then, somehow,\nperhaps billions of years ago, something happened as a {282} result of\nwhich the world came into being. The Absolute is thus conceived as the\ncause, the world as the effect, and the cause always precedes its\neffect in time. Or if, on the other hand, we think that the world\nnever had a beginning, the ordinary man's thought would lead him to\nbelieve that, in that case, it is no longer necessary to assume a\nfirst principle at all. But if time is a mere appearance, this whole\nway of looking at things must be wrong. God is not related to the\nworld as cause to effect. It is not a relation of time at all. It is a\n_logical_ relation. God is rather the logical premise, of which the\nworld is the conclusion, so that, God granted, the world follows\nnecessarily, just as, the premises granted, the conclusion follows.\nThis is the reason why, in discussing Plato, we said that it must be\npossible to _deduce_ the world from his first principle. If the\nAbsolute were merely the cause of the world in time, it would not\nexplain the world, for, as I have so often pointed out, causes explain\nnothing. But if the world be deducible from the Absolute, the world is\nexplained, a reason, not a cause, is given for it, just as the\npremises constitute the reason for the conclusion. Now the conclusion\nof a syllogism follows from the premises, that is, the premises come\nfirst, the conclusion second. But the premise only comes first in\nthought, not in time. It is a logical succession, not a\ntime-succession. Just in the same way, the Absolute, or in Aristotle's\nlanguage, the form, is logically first, but is not first in order of\ntime. And though it is the end, it is in thought the absolute\nbeginning, and is thus the foundation of the world, the first\nprinciple from which the world flows. The objection may be, taken that\nif the relation of the {283} Absolute to the world is not a\ntime-relation, then it can no more be the end than the beginning. This\nobjection is, as we shall see, a misunderstanding of Aristotle's\nphilosophy. Although things in time strive towards the end, yet the\nabsolute end is not in time at all, or, in other words, the end is\nnever reached. Its relation to the world as end is just as much a\nlogical, and not a time-relation, as its relation to the world as\nbeginning or absolute prius. As far as time is concerned, the universe\nis without beginning or end.\n\nAs the world-process is a continual elevation of matter into higher\nand higher forms, there results the conception that the universe\nexhibits a continuous scale of being. That is higher in the scale in\nwhich form predominates, that lower in which matter outweighs form. At\nthe bottom of the scale will be absolutely formless matter, at the\ntop, absolutely matterless form. Both these extremes, however, are\nabstractions. Neither of them exists, because matter and form cannot\nbe separated. Whatever exists comes somewhere between the two, and the\nuniverse thus exhibits a process of continuous gradations. Motion and\nchange are produced by the effort to pass from the lower to the higher\nunder the attractive force of the end.\n\nThat which comes at the top of the scale, absolute form, is called by\nAristotle, God. And the definitions of God's character follow from\nthis as a matter of course. First, since form is actuality, God alone\nis absolutely actual. He alone is real. All existent things are more\nor less unreal. The higher in the scale are the more real, as\npossessing more form. The scale of being is thus also a scale of\nreality, shading off through infinite gradations {284} from the\nabsolutely real, God, to the absolutely unreal, formless matter.\nSecondly, since the principle of form contains the formal, the final,\nand the efficient causes, God is all these. As formal cause, He is the\nIdea. He is essentially thought, reason. As final cause, He is the\nabsolute end. He is that to which all beings strive. Each being has no\ndoubt its own end in itself. But as absolute end, God includes all\nlower ends. And as the end of each thing is the completed perfection\nof the thing, so, as absolute end, God is absolute perfection. Lastly,\nas efficient cause, God is the ultimate cause of all motion and\nbecoming. He is the first mover. As such, He is Himself unmoved. That\nthe first mover should be itself unmoved is a necessary consequence of\nAristotle's conception of it as end and form. For motion is the\ntransition of a thing towards its end. The absolute end can have no\nend beyond it, and therefore cannot be moved. Likewise motion is the\npassage of matter into form. Absolute form cannot pass into any higher\nform, and is therefore unmoved. But the argument which Aristotle\nhimself more frequently uses to establish the immovability of the\nfirst mover is that, unless we so conceive it, no cause of motion\nappears. The moving object is moved perhaps by another moving object.\nThe motion of the latter demands a further cause. If this further\ncause is itself moving, we must again ask for the cause of its motion.\nIf this process goes on for ever, then motion is unexplained, and no\nreal cause of it has been shown. The real and ultimate cause must\ntherefore be unmoved.\n\nThis last argument sounds as if Aristotle is now thinking in terms of\nmechanism. It sounds as if he meant that {285} the first mover is\nsomething at the beginning of time, which, so to speak, gave things a\npush to start them off. This is not what Aristotle means. For the true\nefficient cause is the final cause. And God is the first mover only in\nHis character as absolute end. As far as time is concerned, neither\nthe universe, nor the motion in it, ever had any beginning. Every\nmechanical cause has its cause in turn, and so _ad infinitum_. God is\nnot a first cause, in our sense, that is, a first mechanical cause\nwhich existed before the world, and created it. He is a teleological\ncause working from the end. But as such, He is logically prior to all\nbeginning, and so is the first mover. And just as the universe has no\nbeginning in time, so it has no end in time. It will go on for ever.\nIts end is absolute form, but this can never be reached, because if it\nwere, this would mean that absolute form would exist, whereas we have\nseen that form cannot exist apart from matter.\n\nGod is thought. But the thought of what? As absolute form, he is not\nthe form of matter, but the form of form. His matter, so to speak, is\nform. Form, as the universal, is thought. And this gives us\nAristotle's famous definition of God as \"the thought of thought.\" He\nthinks only his own self. He is at once the subject and the object of\nhis thought. As mortal men think material things, as I now think the\npaper on which I write, so God thinks thought. In more modern terms,\nhe is self-consciousness, the absolute subject-object. That God should\nthink anything other than thought is inconceivable, because the end of\nall other thought is outside the thought itself. If I think this\npaper, the end of my thought, the paper, is outside me. But the\nthought of {286} God, as the absolute end, cannot have any end outside\nitself. Were God to think anything else than thought, he would be\ndetermined by that which is not himself. By way of further expression\nof the same idea, Aristotle passes into figurative language. God, he\nsays, lives in eternal blessedness, and his blessedness consists in\nthe everlasting contemplation of his own perfection.\n\nA modern will naturally ask whether Aristotle's God is personal. It\ndoes not do to be very dogmatic upon the point. Aristotle, like Plato,\nnever discusses the question. No Greek ever did. It is a modern\nquestion. What we have to do, then, is to take the evidence on both\nsides. The case for personality is that the language Aristotle uses\nimplies it. The very word God, used instead of the Absolute, or form,\nconveys the idea of personality. And when he goes on to speak of God\nliving in eternal blessedness, these words, if taken literally, can\nmean nothing except that God is a conscious person. If we say that\nthis language is merely figurative, it may be replied that Aristotle\non principle objects to figurative language, that he frequently\ncensures Plato for using it, that what he demands and sets out to\nsupply is exact, literal, scientific terminology, and that he is not\nlikely to have broken his own canons of philosophic expression by\nusing merely poetical phrases.\n\nTo see the other side of the case, we must first ask what personality\nmeans. Now without entering into an intricate discussion of this most\nelusive idea, we may answer that personality at any rate implies an\n_individual_ and _existent_ consciousness. But, in the first place, God is\nabsolute form, and form is the universal. What is universal, with no\nparticular in it, cannot be an individual. {287} God, therefore,\ncannot be individual. Secondly, form without matter cannot exist. And\nas God is form without matter, he cannot be called existent, though he\nis absolutely real. God, therefore, is neither existent nor\nindividual. And this means that he is not a person. To degrade the\nreal to the level of the existent, to convert the universal into the\nindividual, is exactly the fault for which Aristotle blames Plato. It\nis exactly the fault which it was the whole object of his philosophy\nto remedy. If he thought that God is a person, he committed the same\nfault himself in an aggravated form.\n\nWe have, then, two hypotheses, both of which involve that Aristotle\nwas guilty of some inconsistency. If God is not a person, then\nAristotle's language is figurative, and his use of such language is\ninconsistent with his rooted objection to its use. This, however, is,\nafter all, merely an inconsistency of language, and not of thought. It\ndoes not mean that Aristotle really contradicted himself. It merely\nmeans that, though he set himself to express his philosophy in\ntechnical scientific terms, and to exclude figurative language, yet he\nfound himself compelled in a few passages to make use of it. There are\nsome metaphysical ideas so abstract, so abstruse, that it is almost\nimpossible to express them at all without the use of figures of\nspeech. Language was made by common men for common purposes, and this\nfact often forces the philosopher to use terms which he knows only\nfigure forth his meaning without accurately expressing it. Perhaps\nevery philosophy in the world finds itself sometimes under this\nnecessity, and, if Aristotle did so, and was thereby technically\ninconsistent with himself, it is no wonder, and involves no serious\nblame upon him.\n\n{288}\n\nBut the other hypothesis, that God is a person, means that Aristotle\ncommitted a contradiction, not merely in words, but in thought, and\nnot merely as regards some unimportant detail, but as regards the\ncentral thesis of his system. It means that he stultified himself by\nmaking his conception of God absolutely contradict the essentials of\nhis system. For what is the whole of Aristotle's philosophy, put in a\nnutshell? It is that the Absolute is the universal, but that the\nuniversal does not exist apart from the particular. Plato supplied the\nthought of the first clause of the sentence. Aristotle added the last\nclause, and it is the essential of his philosophy. To assert that God,\nthe absolute form, exists as an individual, is flatly to contradict\nthis. It is not likely that Aristotle should have contradicted himself\nin so vital a matter, and in a manner which simply means that his\nsystem falls to the ground like a house of cards.\n\nMy conclusion, then, is that it was not Aristotle's intention that\nwhat he calls God should be regarded as a person. God is thought, but\nnot subjective thought. He is not thought existent in a mind, but\nobjective thought, real on its own account, apart from any mind which\nthinks it, like Plato's Ideas. But Plato's mistake was to suppose that\nbecause thought is real and objective, it must exist. Aristotle avoids\nthis error. The absolute thought is the absolutely real. But it does\nnot exist. With the concept of God the metaphysics of Aristotle\ncloses.\n\n\n\n4. Physics, or the Philosophy of Nature.\n\nThe existent universe is a scale of being lying between the two\nextremes of formless matter and matterless form. But this must not be\nmerely asserted, as a general {289} principle. It must be carried out\nin detail. The passage of matter into form must be shown in its\nvarious stages in the world of nature. To do this is the object of\nAristotle's Physics, or philosophy of nature.\n\nIf nature is to be understood, we must keep in mind certain general\npoints of view. In the first place, since form includes end, the\nentire world-process, as passage of matter into form, is essentially\nmovement towards ends. Everything in nature has its end and function.\nNothing is purposeless. Nature seeks everywhere to attain the best\npossible. Everywhere we find evidences of design and of rational plan.\nAristotle's philosophy of nature is essentially teleological. This\ndoes not, however, exclude the principle of mechanism, and to\ninvestigate mechanical causes is part of the duty of science. But\nmechanical causes turn out in the end to be teleological, because the\ntrue efficient cause is the final cause.\n\nBut if nothing in nature is aimless or useless, this is not to be\ninterpreted in a narrow anthropocentric spirit. It does not mean that\neverything exists for the use of man, that the sun was created to give\nhim light by day, the moon by night, and that plants and animals exist\nonly for his food. It is true that, in a certain sense, everything\nelse sublunary is _for_ man. For man is the highest in the scale of\nbeings in this terrestrial sphere, and therefore as the higher end, he\nincludes all lower ends. But this does not exclude the fact that lower\nbeings have each its own end. They exist for themselves and not for\nus.\n\nAnother mistake which we must avoid is to suppose that the design in\nnature means that nature is conscious of her designs, or, on the other\nhand, that there is any {290} existent consciousness outside the world\nwhich governs and controls it. The latter supposition is excluded by\nthe fact that God is not an existent conscious person, the former by\nits own inherent absurdity. The only being upon this earth who is\nconscious of his ends is man. Such animals as bees and ants appear to\nwork rationally, and their activities are clearly governed by design.\nBut it is not to be supposed that they are reasoning beings. They\nattain their ends instinctively. And when we come to inorganic matter,\nwe find that even here its movements are purposive, but no one could\nsuppose them deliberate and conscious. These manifold activities of\nlower nature are indeed the work of reason, but not of an existent or\nself-conscious reason. And this means that instinct, and even\nmechanical forces such as gravitation are, in their essence, reason.\nIt is not that they are created by reason, but that they are reason,\nexhibiting itself in lower forms. In commenting upon Plato's dualism\nof sense and reason, I remarked that any true philosophy, though\nrecognizing the distinction between sense and reason, must yet find\nroom for their identity, and must show that sense is but a lower form\nof reason. This idea Aristotle thoroughly understood, and sought to\nshow, not merely that sense is reason, but even that the activities of\ninorganic matter, such as gravitation, are so. In the result, nature,\nthough working through reason, is not conscious of the fact, does so\nblindly and instinctively, and is compared to a creative artist, who\nforms beautiful objects by instinct, or, as we should say, by\ninspiration, without setting before his mind the end to be attained or\nthe rules to be observed in order to attain it.\n\n{291}\n\nIn the process of nature, it is always form which impels, matter which\nretards and obstructs. The entire world-movement is the effort of form\nto mould matter, but, just because matter has in itself a power of\nresistance, this effort does not always succeed. This is the reason\nwhy form cannot exist without matter, because it can never wholly\novercome the clogging activity of matter, and therefore matter can\nnever be wholly moulded into form. And this explains, too, the\noccasional occurrence in nature of freaks, monstrosities, abortions,\nand unnatural births. In these the form has failed to mould the\nmatter. Nature has failed to attain her ends. Science, therefore,\nshould study the normal and natural rather than the abnormal and\nmonstrous. For it is in the normal that the ends of nature are to be\nseen, and through them alone nature can be understood. Aristotle is\nfond of using the words \"natural\" and \"unnatural,\" but he uses them\nalways with this special meaning. That is natural which attains its\nend, that in which the form successfully masters the matter.\n\nNo doctrine of physics can ignore the fundamental notions of motion,\nspace, and time. Aristotle, therefore, finds it necessary to consider\nthese. Motion is the passage of matter into form, and it is of four\nkinds. The first is motion which affects the substance of a thing,\norigination and decease. Secondly, change of quality. Thirdly, change\nof quantity, increase and decrease. Fourthly, locomotion, change of\nplace. Of these, the last is the most fundamental and important.\n\nAristotle rejects the definition of space as the void. Empty space is\nan impossibility. Hence, too, he disagrees with the view of Plato and\nthe Pythagoreans that {292} the elements are composed of geometrical\nfigures. And connected with this is his repudiation of the mechanical\nhypothesis that all quality is founded upon quantity, or upon\ncomposition and decomposition. Quality has a real existence of its\nown. He rejects, also, the view that space is a physical thing. If\nthis were true, there would be two bodies occupying the same place at\nthe same time, namely the object and the space it fills. Hence there\nis nothing for it but to conceive space as limit. Space is, therefore,\ndefined as the limit of the surrounding body towards what is\nsurrounded. As we shall see later, in another connexion, Aristotle did\nnot regard space as infinite.\n\nTime is defined as the measure of motion in regard to what is earlier\nand later. It thus depends for its existence upon motion. If there\nwere no change in the universe, there would be no time. And since it\nis the measuring or counting of motion, it also depends for its\nexistence upon a counting mind. If there were no mind to count, there\ncould be no time. This presents difficulties to us, if we conceive\nthat there was a time when conscious beings did not exist. But this\ndifficulty is non-existent for Aristotle, who believed that men and\nanimals have existed from all eternity. The essentials of time,\ntherefore, are two: change and consciousness. Time is the succession\nof thoughts. If we object that the definition is bad because\nsuccession already involves time, there is doubtless no answer\npossible.\n\nAs to the infinite divisibility of space and time, and the riddles\nproposed thereupon by Zeno, Aristotle is of opinion that space and\ntime are potentially divisible {293} _ad infinitum_, but are not\nactually so divided. There is nothing to prevent us from going on for\never with the process of division, but space and time are not given in\nexperience as infinitely divided.\n\nAfter these preliminaries, we can pass on to consider the main subject\nof physics, the scale of being. We should notice, in the first place,\nthat it is also a scale of values. What is higher in the scale of\nbeing is of more worth, because the principle of form is more advanced\nin it. It constitutes also a theory of development, a philosophy of\nevolution. The lower develops into the higher. It does not, however,\nso develop in time. That the lower form passes in due time into a\nhigher form is a discovery of modern times. Such a conception was\nimpossible for Aristotle. For him, genus and species are eternal. They\nhave neither beginning nor end. Individual men are born and die, but\nthe species man never dies, and has always existed upon the earth. The\nsame is true of plants and animals. And since man has always existed,\nhe cannot have evolved in time from a lower being. There is no room\nhere for Darwinism. In what sense, then, is this a theory of\ndevelopment or evolution? The process involved is not a time-process,\nit is a logical process, and the development is a logical development.\nThe lower always contains the higher potentially. The man is in the\nape ideally. The higher, again, contains the lower actually. The man\nis all that the ape is, and more also. What is merely implicit in the\nlower form is explicit in the higher. The form which is dimly seen\nstruggling to light in the lower, has realized itself in the higher.\nThe higher is the same thing as the lower, but it is the same thing in\na more {294} evolved state. The higher presupposes the lower and rests\nupon it as foundation. The higher is the form of which the lower is\nthe matter. It actually is what the lower is struggling to become.\nHence the entire universe is one continuous chain. It is a process;\nnot a time-process, but an eternal process. The one ultimate reality,\nGod, reason, absolute form, eternally exhibits itself in every stage\nof its development. All the stages, therefore, must exist for ever\nside by side.\n\nNow the form of a thing is its organization. Hence to be higher in the\nscale means to be more organized. The first distinction, therefore,\nwith which nature presents us is between the organic and the\ninorganic. Aristotle was the discoverer of the idea of organism, as he\nwas also the inventor of the word. At the bottom of the scale of\nbeing, therefore, is inorganic matter. Inorganic matter is the nearest\nexistent thing to absolutely formless matter, which, of course, does\nnot exist. In the inorganic world matter preponderates to such an\nextent as almost to overwhelm form, and we can only expect to see the\nuniversal exhibiting itself in it in a vague and dim way. What, then,\nis its form? And this is the same as asking what its function, end, or\nessential activity is. The end of inorganic matter is merely external\nto it. Form has not truly entered into it at all, and remains outside\nit. Hence the activity of inorganic matter can only be to move in\nspace towards its external end. This is the explanation of what we, in\nmodern times, call gravitation. But, according to Aristotle, every\nelement has its peculiar and natural motion; its end is conceived\nmerely spatially, and its activity is to move towards its \"proper\nplace,\" and, having thus reached its end, it rests. The natural {295}\nmovement of fire is up. We may call this a principle of levitation, as\nopposed to gravitation. Aristotle has been the subject of cheap\ncriticism on account of his frequent use of the words \"natural\" and\n\"unnatural.\" [Footnote 15] It is said that he was satisfied to explain\nthe operations of nature by simply labelling them \"natural.\" If you\nask a quite uneducated person why heavy bodies fall, he may quite\npossibly reply, \"Oh! _naturally_ they fall.\" This simply means that\nthe man has never thought about the matter at all, and thinks whatever\nis absolutely familiar to him is \"natural\" and needs no explanation.\nIt is like the feminine argument that a thing is so, \"because it is.\"\nIt is assumed that Aristotle was guilty of a like futility. This is\nnot the case. His use of the word \"natural\" does not indicate lack of\nthought. There is a thought, an idea, here. No doubt he was quite\nwrong in many of his facts. Thus there is no such principle as\nlevitation in the universe. But there is a principle of gravitation,\nand when he explains this by saying it is \"natural\" for earth to move\ndownwards, he means, not that the fact is familiar, but that the\nprinciple of form, or the world-reason, can only exhibit itself here\nso dimly as to give rise to a comparatively aimless and purposeless\nmovement in a straight line. Not absolutely purposeless, however,\nbecause nothing in the world is such, and the purpose here is simply\nthe movement of matter towards its end. This may or may not be a true\nexplanation of gravity. But has anybody since ever explained it\nbetter?\n\n[Footnote 15: See, _e.g._ Sir Alexander Grant's _Aristotle_ in the\nAncient Classics for English Readers Series (Blackwood), pages\n119-121.]\n\nThis gives us, too, the clue to the distinction between {296} the\ninorganic and the organic. If inorganic matter is what has its end\noutside itself, organic matter will be what has its end within itself.\nThis is the essential character of an organism, that its end is\ninternal to it. It is an inward self-developing principle. Its\nfunction, therefore, can only be the actualisation, the\nself-realization of this inward end. Whereas, therefore, inorganic\nmatter has no activity except spatial movement, organic matter has for\nits activity growth, and this growth is not the mere mechanical\naddition of extraneous matter, as we add a pound of tea to a pound of\ntea. It is true growth from within. It is the making outward of what\nis inward. It is the making explicit of what is implicit. It is the\nmaking actual of what is potential in the embryo organism.\n\nThe lowest in the scale of being is thus inorganic matter, and above\nit comes organic matter, in which the principle of form becomes real\nand definite as the inward organization of the thing. This inward\norganization is the life, or what we call the soul, of the organism.\nEven the human soul is nothing but the organization of the body. It\nstands to the body in the relation of form to matter. With organism,\nthen, we reach the idea of living soul. But this living soul will\nitself have lower and higher grades of being, the higher being a\nhigher realization of the principle of form. As the essential of\norganism is self-realization, this will express itself first as\nself-preservation. Self-preservation means first the preservation of\nthe individual, and this gives the function of nutrition. Secondly, it\nmeans preservation of the species, and this gives the function of\npropagation. The lowest grade in the organic kingdom will, therefore,\nbe {297} those organisms whose sole functions are to nourish\nthemselves, grow, and propagate their kind. These are plants. And we\nmay sum up this by saying that plants possess the nutritive soul.\nAristotle intended to write a treatise upon plants, which intention,\nhowever, he never carried out. All that we have from him on plants is\nscattered references in his other books. Had the promised treatise\nbeen forthcoming, we cannot doubt what its plan would have been.\nAristotle would have shown, as he did in the case of animals, that\nthere are higher and lower grades of organism within the plant\nkingdom, and he would have attempted to trace the development in\ndetail through all the then known species of plants.\n\nNext above plants in the scale of being come animals. Since the higher\nalways contains the lower, but exhibits a further realization of form\npeculiar to itself, animals share with plants the functions of\nnutrition and propagation. What is peculiar to them, the point in\nwhich they rise above plants, is the possession of sensation.\nSense-perception is therefore the special function of animals, and\nthey possess, therefore, the nutritive and the sensitive souls. With\nsensation come pleasure and pain, for pleasure is a pleasant\nsensation, and pain the opposite. Hence arises the impulse to seek the\npleasant and avoid the painful. This can only be achieved by the power\nof movement. Most animals, accordingly, have the power of locomotion,\nwhich is not possessed by plants, because they do not require it,\nsince they are not sensitive to pleasure and pain. In his books upon\nanimals Aristotle attempts to carry out the principle of development\nin detail, showing what are the higher, and what the lower, animal\norganisms. This he connects with the {298} methods of propagation\nemployed by different animals. Sex-generation is the mark of a higher\norganism than parthenogenesis.\n\nThe scale of being proceeds from animals to man. The human organism,\nof course, contains the principles of all lower organisms. Man\nnourishes himself, grows, propagates his kind, moves about, and is\nendowed with sense-perception. But he must have in addition his own\nspecial function, which constitutes his advance beyond the animals.\nThis is reason. Reason is the essential, the proper end and activity\nof man. His soul is nutritive, sensitive, and rational. In man,\ntherefore, the world-reason which could only appear in inorganic\nmatter as gravitation and levitation, in plants as nutrition, in\nanimals as sensation, appears at last in its own proper form, as what\nit essentially is, reason. The world-reason, so long struggling\ntowards the light, has reached it, has become actual, has become\nexistent, in man. The world-process has attained its proximate end.\n\nWithin human consciousness there are lower and higher grades, and\nAristotle has taken great pains to trace these from the bottom to the\ntop. These stages of consciousness are what are ordinarily called\n\"faculties.\" But Aristotle notes that it is nonsense to talk, as Plato\ndid, of the \"parts\" of the soul. The soul, being a single indivisible\nbeing, has no parts. They are different aspects of the activity of one\nand the same being; different stages of its development. They can no\nmore be separated than the convex and concave aspects of a curve. The\nlowest faculty, if we must use that word, is sense-perception. Now\nwhat we perceive in a thing is its qualities. Perception tells us that\na piece of gold is {299} heavy, yellow, etc. The underlying substratum\nwhich supports the qualities cannot be perceived. This means that the\nmatter is unknowable, the form knowable, for the qualities are part of\nthe form. Sense-perception, therefore, takes place when the object\nstamps its form upon the soul. This is important for what it implies\nrather than what it states. It shows the thoroughly idealistic trend\nof Aristotle's thought. For if the form is what is knowable in a\nthing, the more form there is, the more knowable it will be. Absolute\nform, God, will be the absolutely knowable. That the Absolute is what\nalone is completely knowable, intelligible, and comprehensible, and\nthe finite and material comparatively unknowable, is a point of view\nessential to idealism, and stands in marked contrast to the popular\nidea of rationalism that the Absolute is unknowable, and matter\nknowable. For idealism, the Absolute is reason, thought. What can be\nmore thoroughly intelligible than reason? What can thought\nunderstand, if not thought? This, of course, is not stated by\nAristotle. But it is implied in his theory of sense-perception.\n\nNext in the scale above the senses comes the common sense. This has\nnothing to do with what we understand by that phrase in every-day\nlanguage. It means the central sensation-ganglion in which isolated\nsensations meet, are combined, and form a unity of experience. We saw,\nin considering Plato, that the simplest kind of knowledge, such as,\n\"this paper is white,\" involves, not only isolated sensations, but\ntheir comparison and contrast. Bare sensations would not even make\nobjects. For every object is a combined bundle of sensations. What\nthus combines the various sensations, and in {300} particular those\nreceived from different sense-organs, what compares and contrasts\nthem, and turns them from a blind medley of phantasms into a definite\nexperience, a single cosmos, is the common sense. Its organ is the\nheart.\n\nAbove the common sense is the faculty of imagination. By this\nAristotle means, not the creative imagination of the artist, but the\npower, which everyone possesses, of forming mental images and\npictures. This is due to the excitation in the sense-organ continuing\nafter the object has ceased to affect it.\n\nThe next faculty is memory. This is the same as imagination, except\nthat there is combined with the image a recognition of it as a copy of\na past sense-impression.\n\nRecollection, again, is higher than memory. Memory images drift\npurposelessly through the mind. Recollection is the deliberate evoking\nof memory-images.\n\nFrom recollection we pass to the specifically human faculty of reason.\nBut reason itself has two grades. The lower is called passive reason,\nthe higher active reason. The mind has the power of thought before it\nactually thinks. This latent capacity is passive reason. The mind is\nhere like a smooth piece of wax which has the power to receive\nwriting, but has not received it. The positive activity of thought\nitself is active reason. The comparison with wax must not mislead us\ninto supposing that the soul only receives its impressions from\nsensation. It is pure thought which writes upon the wax.\n\nNow the sum of the faculties in general we call the soul. And the\nsoul, we saw, is simply the organization {301} or form, of the body.\nAs form is inseparable from matter, the soul cannot exist without the\nbody. It is the function of the body. It is to the body what sight is\nto the eye. And in the same sense Aristotle denies the doctrine of\nPythagoras and Plato that the soul reincarnates itself in new bodies,\nparticularly in the bodies of animals. What is the function of one\nthing cannot become the function of another. Exactly what the soul is\nto the body the music of the flute is to the flute itself. It is the\nform of which the flute is the matter. It is, to speak metaphorically,\nthe soul of the flute. And you might as well talk, says Aristotle, of\nthe art of flute-playing becoming reincarnate in the blacksmith's\nanvil, as of the soul passing into another body. This would seem also\nto preclude any doctrine of immortality. For the function perishes\nwith the thing. We shall return to that point in a moment. But we may\nnote, meanwhile, that Aristotle's theory of the soul is not only a\ngreat advance upon Plato's, but is a great advance upon popular\nthinking of the present day. The ordinary view of the soul, which was\nPlato's view, is that the soul is a sort of thing. No doubt it is\nnon-material and supersensuous. But still it is a thing; it can be put\ninto a body and taken out of it, as wine can be put into or taken out\nof a bottle. The connection between body and soul is thus purely\nmechanical. They are attached to each other by no necessary bond, but\nrather by force. They have, in their own natures, no connexion with\neach other, and it is difficult to see why the soul ever entered a\nbody, if it is in its nature something quite separate. But Aristotle's\nview is that the soul, as form of the body, is not separable from it.\nYou cannot have {302} a soul without a body. The connection between\nthem is not mechanical, but organic. The soul is not a thing which\ncomes into the body and goes out of it. It is not a thing at all. It\nis a function.\n\nBut to this doctrine Aristotle makes an exception in favour of the\nactive reason. All the lower faculties perish with the body, including\nthe passive reason. Active reason is imperishable and eternal. It has\nneither beginning nor end. It comes into the body from without, and\ndeparts from it at death. God being absolute reason, man's reason\ncomes from God, and returns to him, after the body ceases to function.\nBut before we hail this as a doctrine of personal immortality, we had\nbest reflect. All the lower faculties perish at death, and this\nincludes memory. Now memory is an essential of personality. Without\nmemory our experiences would be a succession of isolated sensations,\nwith no connecting link. What connects my last with my present\nexperience is that my last experience was \"mine.\" To be mine it must\nbe remembered. Memory is the string upon which isolated experiences\nare strung together, and which makes them into that unity I call\nmyself, my personality. If memory perishes, there can be no personal\nlife. And it must be remembered that Aristotle does not mean merely\nthat, in that future life--if we persist in calling it such--the\nmemory of this life is obliterated. He means that in the future life\nitself reason has no memory of itself from moment to moment. We cannot\nbe dogmatic about what Aristotle himself thought. He seems to avoid\nthe question. He probably shrank from disturbing popular beliefs on\nthe subject. We have, at any rate, no definite pronouncement from\n{303} him. All we can say is that his doctrine does not provide the\nmaterial for belief in personal immortality. It expressly removes the\nmaterial in that it denies the persistence of memory. Moreover, if\nAristotle really thought that reason is a thing, which goes in and out\nof the body, an exception, in the literal sense, to his general\ndoctrine of soul, all we can say is that he undergoes a sudden drop in\nthe philosophic scale. Having propounded so advanced a theory, he\nsinks back to the crude view of Plato. And as this is not likely, the\nmost probable explanation is that he is here speaking figuratively,\nperhaps with the intention of propitiating the religious and avoiding\nany rude disturbance of popular belief. If so, the statements that\nactive reason is immortal, comes from God, and returns to God, mean\nsimply that the world-reason is eternal, and that man's reason is the\nactualization of this eternal reason, and in that sense \"comes from\nGod\" and returns to Him. We may add, too, that since God, though real,\nis not to be regarded as an existent individual, our return to Him\ncannot be thought as a continuation of individual existence. Personal\nimmortality is inconsistent with the fundamentals of Aristotle's\nsystem. We ought not to suppose that he contradicted himself in this\nway. Yet if Aristotle used language which seems to imply personal\nimmortality, this is neither meaningless nor dishonest. It is as true\nfor him as for others that the soul is eternal. But eternal does not\nmean everlasting in time. It means timeless. And reason, even our\nreason, is timeless. The soul has eternity in it. It is \"eternity in\nan hour.\" And it is this which puts the difference between man and the\nbrutes.\n\n{304}\n\nWe have traced the scale of being from inorganic matter, through\nplants and animals, to man. What then? What is the next step? Or does\nthe scale stop there? Now there is a sort of break in Aristotle's\nsystem at this point, which has led many to say that man is the top of\nthe scale. The rest of Aristotle's physics deal with what is outside\nour earth, such as the stars and planets. And they deal with them\nquite as if they were a different subject, having little or nothing to\ndo with the terrestrial scale of being which we have been considering.\nBut here we must not forget two facts. The first is that Aristotle's\nwritings have come down to us mutilated, and in many cases unfinished.\nThe second is that Aristotle had a curious habit of writing separate\nmonographs on different parts of his system, and omitting to point out\nany connexion between them, although such a connexion undoubtedly\nexists.\n\nNow although Aristotle himself does not say it, there are several good\nreasons for thinking that the true interpretation of his meaning is\nthat the scale of being does not stop at man, that there is no gap in\nthe chain here, but that it proceeds from man through planets and\nstars--which Aristotle, like Plato, regarded as divine beings--right\nup to God himself. In the first place, this is required by the logic\nof his system. The scale has formless matter at the bottom and\nmatterless form at the top. It should proceed direct from one to the\nother. It is essential to his philosophy that the universe is a single\ncontinuous chain. There is no place for such a hiatus between man and\nthe higher beings. Secondly, it is not as if terrestrial life formed a\nscale, and celestial beings were all on a par, having among themselves\nno {305} scale of higher and lower. This is not the case. The heavenly\nbodies have grades among themselves. The higher are related to the\nlower as form to matter. Thus stars are higher than planets. So that\nif we suppose that evolution stops at man, what we have is a gap in\nthe middle, a scale below it, and a scale above it. It is like a\nbridge over a sheet of water, the two ends of which are intact, but\nwhich is broken down in the middle. The natural completion of this\nscheme involves the filling up of the gap. Thirdly, we have another\nvery important piece of evidence. With his valuable idea of evolution\nAristotle combined another very curious, and no doubt, absurd, theory.\nThis was that in the scale of the universe the lowest existence is to\nbe found in the middle, the highest at the periphery, and that in\ngeneral the higher is always outside the lower, so that the spatial\nuniverse is a system of concentric spheres, the outer sphere being\nrelated to the inner sphere as higher to lower, as form to matter. At\nthe centre of the spherical universe is our earth. Earth, as the\nlowest element, is in the middle. Then comes a layer of water, then of\nair, then of fire. Among the heavenly bodies there are fifty-six\nspheres. The stars are outside the planets and are therefore higher\nbeings. And in conformity with this scheme, the supreme being, God, is\noutside the outermost sphere. Now it is obvious that, in this scheme,\nthe passage from the centre of the earth to the stars forms a spatial\ncontinuity, and it is impossible to resist the conclusion that it also\nforms a logical continuity, that is, that there is no break in the\nchain of evolution.\n\nNoting that this is not what Aristotle in so many words says, but that\nit is our interpretation of his {306} intention, which is almost\ncertainly correct, we conclude that man is not the top of the scale.\nNext to him come the heavenly bodies. The planets include the sun and\nthe moon, which, revolve round the earth in a direction opposite to\nthat of the stars. Next in the scale come the stars. We need not go\ninto details of the fifty-six spheres. The stars and planets are\ndivine beings. But this is only a comparative term. Man, as the\npossessor of reason, is also divine, but the heavenly bodies\ninfinitely more so. And this means that they are more rational than\nman, and so higher in the scale. They live an absolutely blessed and\nperfect life. They are immortal and eternal, because they are the\nsupreme self-realization of the eternal reason. It is only upon this\nearth that death and corruption occur, a circumstance which has no\ndoubt emphasized that view of Aristotle's philosophy which holds the\ngap between man and the stars to be a real one. The heavenly bodies\nare not composed of the four elements, but of a fifth, a quintessence,\nwhich is called ether. Like all elements it must have its natural\nmotion. And as it is the finest and most perfect, its motion must be\nperfect. And it must be an eternal motion, because the stars are\neternal beings. It cannot be motion in a straight line, because that\nnever comes to an end, and so is never perfect. Circular motion alone\nis perfect. And it is eternal because its end and its beginning are\none. Hence the natural motion of ether is circular, and the stars move\nin perfect circles.\n\nLeaving the stars behind, we reach the summit of the long ladder from\nmatter to form. This is the absolute form, God. As formless matter is\nnot an existent thing, nor is matterless form. God, therefore, is not\nin the {307} world of space and time at all. But it is one of the\ncuriosities of thought that Aristotle nevertheless gives him a place\noutside the outermost sphere. What is outside the sphere is,\ntherefore, not space. All space and time are inside this globular\nuniverse. Space is therefore finite. And God must be outside the\noutermost sphere because he is the highest being, and the higher\nalways comes outside the lower.\n\nWe have now described the entire scale of evolution. Looking back upon\nit, we can see its inner significance. The Absolute is reason,\nmatterless form. Everything in the world, therefore, is, in its\nessence, reason. If we wish to know the essential nature even of this\nclod of earth, the answer is that it is reason, although this view is\nnot consistently developed by Aristotle, since he allows that matter\nis a separate principle which cannot be reduced to form. The whole\nuniversal process of things is nothing but the struggle of reason to\nexpress itself, to actualize itself, to become existent in the world.\nThis it definitely does, for the first time proximately in man, and\ncompletely in the stars. It can only express itself in lower beings as\nsensation (animals), as nutrition (plants), or as gravitation and its\nopposite (inorganic matter).\n\nThe value of Aristotle's theory of evolution is immense. It is not the\ndetails that signify. The application of the principle in the world of\nmatter and life could not be carried out satisfactorily in the then\nstate of physical science. It could not be carried out with perfection\neven now. Omniscience alone could give finality to such a scheme. But\nit is the principle itself which matters. And that it is one of the\nmost valuable conceptions in {308} philosophy will perhaps be more\nevident if we compare it, firstly, with modern scientific theories of\nevolution and secondly, with certain aspects of Hindu pantheism.\n\nWhat has Aristotle in common with such a writer a Herbert Spencer?\nAccording to Spencer, evolution is a movement from the indefinite,\nincoherent, and homogeneous, to the definite, coherent, and\nheterogeneous. Aristotle has all this, though his words are different.\nHe calls it a movement from matter to form. Form he describes as\nwhatever gives definiteness to a thing. Matter is the indefinite\nsubstrate, form gives it definiteness. Hence for him too the higher\nbeing is more definite because it has more form. That matter is the\nhomogeneous, form the heterogeneous, follows from this. We saw that\nthere are in matter itself no differences, because there are no\nqualities. And this is the same as saying it is homogeneous.\nHeterogeneity, that is, differentiation, is introduced by form.\nCoherence is the same thing as organization. Aristotle has himself\ndefined the form of a thing as its organization. For him, as for\nSpencer, the higher being is simply that which is more organized.\nEvery theory of evolution depends fundamentally upon the idea of\norganism. Aristotle invented the idea and the word. Spencer carried it\nno further, though the more advanced physical knowledge of his day\nenabled him to illustrate it more copiously.\n\nBut of course the great difference between Aristotle and the moderns,\nis that the former did not guess, what the latter have discovered,\nnamely that evolution is not only a logical development, but is a fact\nin time. Aristotle knew what was meant by the higher and lower\norganism as well as Darwin, but he did not know, that the latter {309}\nactually turns into the former in the course of years. But this,\nthough the most obvious, is not really the most important difference\nbetween Spencer and Aristotle. The real difference is that Aristotle\npenetrated far more deeply into the philosophy of evolution than\nmodern science does; that, in fact, modern science has no philosophy\nof evolution at all. For the fundamental problem here is, if we speak\nof higher and lower beings, what rational ground have we for calling\nthem higher and lower? That the lower passes in time into the higher\nis no doubt a very interesting fact to discover, but it dwindles into\ninsignificance beside the problem just indicated, because, on the\nsolution of that problem it depends whether the universe is to be\nregarded as futile, meaningless, and irrational, or whether we are to\nsee in it order, plan, and purpose. Is Spencer's doctrine a theory of\ndevelopment at all? Or is it not rather simply a theory of change?\nSomething resembling an ape becomes a man. Is there development here,\nthat is, is it a movement from something really lower to something\nreally higher? Or is it merely change from one indifferent thing to\nanother? Is there improvement, or only difference? In the latter case,\nit makes not the slightest difference whether the ape becomes man, or\nman becomes an ape. The one is as good as the other. In either case,\nit is merely a change from Tweedledum to Tweedledee. The change is\nmeaningless, and has no significance.\n\nThe modern doctrine of evolution can only render the world more\nintelligible, can only develop into a philosophy of evolution, by\nshowing that there is evolution and not merely change, and this it can\nonly do by {310} giving a rational basis for the belief that some\nforms of existence are higher than others. To put the matter bluntly,\nwhy is a man higher than a horse, or a horse than a sponge? Answer\nthat, and you have a philosophy of evolution. Fail to answer it, and\nyou have none. Now the man in the street will say that man is higher\nthan the horse, because he not merely eats grass, but thinks,\ndeliberates, possesses art, science, religion, morality. Ask him why\nthese things are higher than eating grass, and he has no answer. From\nhim, then, we turn to Spencer, and there we find a sort of answer. Man\nis higher because he is more organized. But why is it better to be\nmore organized? Science, as such, has no answer. If pressed in this\nway, science may of course turn round and say: \"there is in the\nreality of things no higher and no lower; what I mean by higher and\nlower is simply more and less organized; higher and lower are mere\nmetaphors; they are the human way of looking at things; we naturally\ncall higher what is nearest ourselves; but from the absolute point of\nview there is no higher and lower.\" But this is to reduce the universe\nto a madhouse. It means that there is no purpose, no reason, in\nanything that happens. The universe, in this case, is irrational. No\nexplanation of it is possible. Philosophy is futile, and not only\nphilosophy, but morality and everything else. If there is really no\nhigher and lower, there is no better and no worse. It is just as good\nto be a murderer as to be a saint. Evil is the same as good. Instead\nof striving to be saints, statesmen, philosophers, we may as well go\nand play marbles, because all these values of higher and lower are\nmere delusions, \"the human way of looking at things.\"\n\n{311}\n\nSpencer then has no answer to the question why it is better to be more\norganized. So we turn at last to Aristotle. He has an answer. He sees\nthat it is meaningless to talk of development, advance, higher and\nlower, except in relation to an end. There is no such thing as advance\nunless it is an advance towards something. A body moving purposelessly\nin a straight line through infinite space does not advance. It might\nas well be here as a mile hence. In either case it is no nearer to\nanything. But if it is moving towards a definite point, we can call\nthis advance. Every mile it moves it gets nearer to its end. So, if we\nare to have a philosophy of evolution, it must be teleological. If\nnature is not advancing towards an end, there is no nearer and\nfurther, no higher and lower, no development. What then is the end? It\nis the actualization of reason, says Aristotle. The primal being is\neternal reason, but this is not existent. It must come to exist. It\nfirst enunciates itself vaguely as gravitation. But this is far off\nfrom its end, which is the existence of reason, as such, in the world.\nIt comes nearer in plants and animals. It is proximately reached in\nman, for man is the existent reason. But there is no question of the\nuniverse coming to a stop, when it reaches its end--(the usual\nobjection to teleology). For the absolute end, absolute form, can\nnever be reached. The higher is thus the more rational, the lower the\nless rational. Now if we try to go on asking, \"why is it better to be\nmore rational?\" we find we cannot ask such a question. The word \"why\"\nmeans that we want a reason. And our question is absurd because we are\nasking a reason for reason. Why is it better to be rational means\nsimply, \"how is reason rational.\" To {312} doubt it is a\nself-contradiction. Or, to put the same thing in another way, reason\nis the Absolute. And to ask why it is better to be rational is to\ndemand that the ultimate should be expressed in terms of something\nbeyond it. Hence modern science has no philosophy of evolution,\nwhereas Aristotle has. [Footnote 16]\n\n[Footnote 16: See H. S. Macran's _Hegel's Doctrine of Formal Logic_\n(Clarendon Press), Introduction, section on the Conception of\nEvolution, to which I am much indebted in the above paragraphs.]\n\nThe main idea of pantheism is that everything is God. The clod of\nearth is divine because it is a manifestation of Deity. Now this idea\nis all very well, and is in fact essential to philosophy. We find it\nin Aristotle himself, since the entire world is, for him, the\nactualization of reason, and reason is God. But this is also a very\ndangerous idea, if not supplemented by a rationally grounded scale of\nvalues. No doubt everything is, in a sense, God. But if we leave it at\nthis, it would follow that, since everything is equally divine, there\nis no higher and lower. If the clod of earth, like the saintliest man,\nis God, and there is no more to say of the matter, then how is the\nsaint higher than the clod of earth? Why should one ever struggle\ntowards higher things, when in reality all are equally high? Why avoid\nevil, when evil is as much a manifestation of God as good? Mere\npantheism must necessarily end in this calamitous view. And these\ndeplorable effects explain the fact that Hinduism, with all its high\nthinking, finds room for the worship of cows and snakes, and, with all\nits undoubted moral elevation, yet allows into its fold the grossest\nabominations. Both these features are due to the pantheistic placing\nof all things on a par as equally {313} divine. Not of course that\nHinduism has not a sort of doctrine of evolution, a belief in a higher\nand lower. As everyone knows, it admits the belief that in successive\nincarnations the soul may mount higher and higher till it perhaps\nrejoins the common source of all things. There is probably no race of\nman so savage that it does not instinctively feel that there is a\nhigher and lower, a better and worse, in things. But the point is\nthat, although Hinduism has its scale of values, and its doctrine of\ndevelopment, it has no rational foundation for these, and though it\nhas the idea of higher and lower, yet, because this is without\nfoundation, it lets it slip, it never grips the idea, and so easily\nslides into the view that all is equally divine. The thought that all\nis God, and the thought that there are higher and lower beings, are,\non the surface, opposed and inconsistent theories. Yet both are\nnecessary, and it is the business of philosophy to find a\nreconciliation. This Aristotle does, but Hinduism fails to do. It\nasserts both, but fails to bring them to unity. Now it asserts one\nview, and again at another time it asserts the other. And this, of\ncourse, is connected with the general defect of oriental thinking, its\nvagueness. Everything is seen, but seen in a haze, in which all things\nappear one, in which shapes flow into another, in which nothing has an\noutline, in which even vital distinctions are obliterated. Hence it is\nthat, though oriental thought contains, in one way or another,\npractically all philosophical ideas, it grips none, and can hold\nnothing fast. It seizes its object, but its flabby grasp relaxes and\nslips off. Hinduism, like modern science, has its doctrine of\nevolution. But it has no philosophy of evolution.\n\n\n\n{314}\n\n5. Ethics.\n\n_(a) The Individual_.\n\nA strong note of practical moderation pervades the ethics of\nAristotle. While Plato's ethical teaching transcended the ordinary\nlimits of human life, and so lost itself in ideal Utopias, Aristotle,\non the other hand, sits down to make practical suggestions: He wishes\nto enquire what the good is, but by this he means, not some ideal good\nimpossible of attainment upon this earth, but rather that good which,\nin all the circumstances in which men find themselves, ought to be\nrealizable. The ethical theories of Plato and Aristotle are thus\ncharacteristic of the two men. Plato despised the world of sense, and\nsought to soar altogether beyond the common life of the senses.\nAristotle, with his love of facts and of the concrete, keeps close\nwithin the bounds of actual human experience.\n\nThe first question for ethics is the nature of the _summum bonum_. We\ndesire one thing for the sake of a second, we desire that for the sake\nof a third. But if this series of means and ends goes on _ad\ninfinitum_, then all desire and all action are futile and purposeless.\nThere must be some one thing which we desire, not for the sake of\nanything else, but on its own account. What is this end in itself,\nthis _summum bonum_, at which all human activity ultimately aims.\nEverybody, says Aristotle, is agreed about the name of this end. It is\nhappiness. What all men seek, what is the motive of all their actions,\nthat which they desire for the sake of itself and nothing beyond, is\nhappiness. But though all agree as to the name, beyond that there is\nno agreement. Philosophers, {315} no less than the vulgar, differ as\nto what this word happiness means. Some say it is a life of pleasure.\nOthers say it consists in the renunciation of pleasures. Some\nrecommend one life, some another.\n\nWe must repeat here the warning which was found necessary in the case\nof Plato, who also called the _summum bonum_ happiness. Aristotle's\ndoctrine is no more to be confused with modern utilitarianism than is\nPlato's. Moral activity is usually accompanied by a subjective feeling\nof enjoyment. In modern times the word happiness connotes the feeling\nof enjoyment. But for the Greeks it was the moral activity which the\nword signified. For Aristotle an action is not good because it yields\nenjoyment. On the contrary, it yields enjoyment because it is good.\nThe utilitarian doctrine is that the enjoyment is the ground of the\nmoral value. But, for Aristotle, the enjoyment is the consequence of\nthe moral value. Hence when he tells us that the highest good is\nhappiness, he is giving us no information regarding its nature, but\nmerely applying a new name to it. We have still to enquire what the\nnature of the good is. As he himself says, everyone agrees upon the\nname, but the real question is what this name connotes.\n\nAristotle's solution of this problem follows from the general\nprinciples of his philosophy. We have seen that, throughout nature,\nevery being has its proper end, and the attainment of this end is its\nspecial function. Hence the good for each being must be the adequate\nperformance of its special function. The good for man will not consist\nin the pleasure of the senses. Sensation is the special function of\nanimals, but not of man. Man's special function is reason. Hence the\nproper {316} activity of reason is the _summum bonum_, the good for\nman. Morality consists in the life of reason. But what precisely that\nmeans we have still to see.\n\nMan is not only a reasoning animal. As the higher being, he contains\nwithin himself the faculties of the lower beings also. Like plants he\nis appetitive, like animals, sensitive. The passions and appetites are\nan organic part of his nature. Hence virtue will be of two kinds. The\nhighest virtues will be found in the life of reason, and the life of\nthought, philosophy. These intellectual virtues are called by\nAristotle dianoetic. Secondly, the ethical virtues proper will consist\nin the submission of the passions and appetites to the control of\nreason. The dianoetic virtues are the higher, because in them man's\nspecial function alone is in operation, and also because the thinking\nman most resembles God, whose life is a life of pure thought.\n\nHappiness, therefore, consists in the combination of dianoetic and\nethical virtues. They alone are of absolute value to man. Yet, though\nhe places happiness in virtue, Aristotle, in his broad and practical\nway, does not overlook the fact that external goods and circumstances\nhave a profound influence upon happiness, and cannot be ignored, as\nthe Cynics attempted to ignore them. Not that Aristotle regards\nexternals as having any value in themselves. What alone is good in\nitself, is an end in itself, is virtue. But external goods help a man\nin his quest of virtue. Poverty, sickness, and misfortune, on the\nother hand, hinder his efforts. Therefore, though externals are not\ngoods in themselves, they may be a means towards the good. Hence they\nare not to be despised and rejected. Riches, friends, health, {317}\ngood fortune, are not happiness. But they are negative conditions of\nit. With them happiness is within our grasp. Without them its\nattainment is difficult. They will be valued accordingly.\n\nAristotle says little in detail of the dianoetic virtues. And we may\nturn at once to the main subject of his moral system, the ethical\nvirtues. These consist in the governance of the passions by reason.\nSocrates was wrong in supposing that virtue is purely intellectual,\nthat nothing save knowledge is needed for it, and that if a man thinks\nright he must needs do right. He forgot the existence of the passions,\nwhich are not easily controlled. A man may reason perfectly, his\nreason may point him to the right path, but his passions may get the\nupper hand and lead him out of it. How then is reason to gain control\nover the appetites? Only by practice. It is only by continual effort,\nby the constant exercise of self-control, that the unruly passions can\nbe tamed. Once brought under the yoke, their control becomes habit.\nAristotle lays the utmost emphasis on the importance of habit in\nmorality. It is only by cultivating good habits that a man becomes\ngood.\n\nNow if virtue consists in the control of the appetites by reason, it\nthus contains two constituents, reason and appetite. Both must be\npresent. There must be passions, if they are to be controlled. Hence\nthe ascetic ideal of rooting out the passions altogether is\nfundamentally wrong. It overlooks the fact that the higher form does\nnot exclude the lower--that were contrary to the conception of\nevolution--it includes and transcends it. It forgets that the passions\nare an organic part of man, and that to destroy them is to do injury\nto his {318} nature by destroying one of its essential members. The\npassions and appetites are, in fact, the matter of virtue, reason its\nform, and the mistake of asceticism is that it destroys the matter of\nvirtue, and supposes that the form can subsist by itself. Virtue means\nthat the appetites must be brought under control, not that they must\nbe eradicated. Hence there are two extremes to be avoided. It is\nextreme, on the one hand, to attempt to uproot the passions; and it is\nextreme, on the other, to allow them to run riot. Virtue means\nmoderation. It consists in hitting the happy mean as regards the\npassions, in not allowing them to get the upper hand of reason, and\nyet in not being quite passionless and apathetic. From this follows\nthe famous Aristotelian doctrine of virtue as the mean between two\nextremes. Every virtue lies between two vices, which are the excess\nand defect of appetite respectively.\n\nWhat is the criterion here? Who is to judge? How are we to know what\nis the proper mean in any matter? Mathematical analogies will not help\nus. It is not a case of drawing a straight line from one extreme to\nthe other, and finding the middle point by bisection. And Aristotle\nrefuses to lay down any rule of thumb in the matter. There is no\ngolden rule by virtue of which we can tell where the proper mean is.\nIt all depends on circumstances, and on the person involved. What is\nthe proper mean in one case is not the proper mean in another. What is\nmoderate for one man is immoderate for his neighbour. Hence the matter\nmust be left to the good judgment of the individual. A sort of fine\ntact, good sense, is required to know the mean, which Aristotle calls\n\"insight.\" This insight is both the cause and the {319} effect of\nvirtue. It is the cause, because he who has it knows what he ought to\ndo. It is the effect, because it is only developed by practice. Virtue\nrenders virtue easy. Each time a man, by use of his insight, rightly\ndecides upon the mean, it becomes easier for him to discriminate next\ntime.\n\nAristotle attempts no systematic classification of the virtues, as\nPlato had done. This sort of schematism is contrary to the practical\ncharacter of his thought. He sees that life is far too complex to be\ntreated in this way. The proper mean is different in every different\ncase, and therefore there are as many virtues as there are\ncircumstances in life. His list of virtues, therefore, is not intended\nto be exhaustive. It is merely illustrative. Though the number of\nvirtues is infinite, there are certain well-recognized kinds of good\naction, which are of such constant importance in life that they have\nreceived names. By the example of some of these virtues Aristotle\nillustrates his doctrine of the mean. For instance, courage is the\nmean between cowardice and rashness. That is to say, cowardice is the\ndefect of boldness, rashness the excess, courage the reasonable\nmedium. Munificence is the mean between pettiness and vulgar\nprofusion, good temper between spiritlessness and irascibility,\npoliteness between rudeness and obsequiousness, modesty between\nshamelessness and bashfulness, temperance between insensibility and\nintemperance.\n\nJustice hardly comes into the scheme; it is rather a virtue of the\nState than of the individual, and it has been thought by some that the\nbook devoted to it in the \"Ethics\" has been misplaced. Justice is of\ntwo kinds, distributive and corrective. Its fundamental idea {320} is\nthe assignment of advantages and disadvantages according to merit.\nDistributive justice assigns honours and rewards according to the\nworth of the individuals involved. Corrective justice has to do with\npunishment. If a man improperly obtains an advantage, things must be\nequalized by the imposition on him of a corresponding disadvantage.\nJustice, however, is a general principle, and no general principle is\nequal to the complexity of life. Special cases cannot be foreseen, The\nnecessary adjustment of human relations arising from this cause is\nequity.\n\nAristotle is a pronounced supporter of the freedom of the will. He\ncensures Socrates because the latter's theory of virtue practically\namounts to a denial of freedom. According to Socrates, whoever thinks\nright must necessarily do right. But this is equivalent to denying a\nman's power to choose evil. And if he cannot choose evil, he cannot\nchoose good. For the right-thinking man does not do right voluntarily,\nbut necessarily. Aristotle believed, on the contrary, that man has the\nchoice of good and evil. The doctrine of Socrates makes all actions\ninvoluntary. But in Aristotle's opinion only actions performed under\nforcible compulsion are involuntary. Aristotle did not, however,\nconsider the special difficulties in the theory of free will which in\nmodern times have made it one of the most thorny of all philosophical\nproblems. Hence his treatment of the subject is not of great value to\nus.\n\n\n\n_(b) The State_.\n\nPolitics is not a separate subject from Ethics. It is merely another\ndivision of the same subject. And {321} this, not merely because\npolitics is the ethics of the State as against the individual, but\nbecause the morality of the individual really finds its end in the\nState, and is impossible without it. Aristotle agrees with Plato that\nthe object of the State is the virtue and happiness of the citizens,\nwhich are impossible except in the State. For man is a political\nanimal by nature, as is proved by his possession of speech, which\nwould be useless to any save a social being. And the phrase \"by\nnature\" means the same here as elsewhere in Aristotle. It means that\nthe State is the end of the individual, and that activity in the State\nis part of man's essential function. The State, in fact, is the form,\nthe individual, the matter. The State provides both an education in\nvirtue and the necessary opportunities for its exercise. Without it\nman would not be man at all. He would be a savage animal.\n\nThe historical origin of the State Aristotle finds in the family. At\nfirst there is the individual. The individual gets himself a mate, and\nthe family arises. The family, in Aristotle's opinion, includes the\nslaves: for, like Plato, he sees no wrong in the institution of\nslavery. A number of families, joining together, develop into a\nvillage community, and a number of village communities into a _polis_\n(city), or State. Beyond the city, of course, the Greek idea of the\nState did not extend.\n\nSuch then is the historical origin of the State. But it is of capital\nimportance to understand that, in Aristotle's opinion, this question\nof historical origin has nothing on earth to do with the far more\nimportant question what the State essentially is. It is no mere\nmechanical aggregate of families and village communities, {322} The\n_nature_ of the State is not explained in this way. For though the\nfamily is prior to the State in order of time, the State is prior to\nthe family and to the individual in order of thought, and in reality.\nFor the State is the end, and the end is always prior to that of which\nit is the end. The state as form is prior to the family as matter, and\nin the same way the family is prior to the individual. And as the\nexplanation of things is only possible by teleology, it is the end\nwhich explains the beginning, it is the State which explains the\nfamily, and not vice versa.\n\nThe true nature of the State, therefore, is not that it is a\nmechanical sum of individuals, as a heap of sand is the sum of its\ngrains. The State is a real organism, and the connexion of part to\npart is not mechanical, but organic. The State has a life of its own.\nAnd its members also have their own lives, which are included in the\nhigher life of the State. All the parts of an organism are themselves\norganisms. And as the distinction between organic and inorganic is\nthat the former has its end in itself, while the latter has its end\nexternal to it, this means that the State is an end in itself, that\nthe individual is an end in himself, and that the former end includes\nthe latter. Or we may express the same thought otherwise by saying\nthat, in the State, both the whole and the parts are to be regarded as\nreal, both having their own lives and, in their character as ends,\ntheir own rights. Consequently, there are two kinds of views of the\nnature of the State, which are, according to Aristotle, fundamentally\nerroneous. The first is the kind of view which depends upon asserting\nthe reality of the parts, but denying the reality of the whole, or,\nwhat is the same {323} thing, allowing that the individual is an end\nin himself, but denying that the State as a whole is such an end or\nhas a separate life of its own. The second kind of false view is of\nthe opposite kind, and consists in allowing reality only to the whole\nState, and denying the reality of its parts, the individuals. The\nopinions that the State is merely a mechanical aggregate of\nindividuals, that it is formed by the combination of individuals or\nfamilies for the sake of mutual protection and benefit, and that it\nexists only for these purposes, are examples of the first kind. Such\nviews subordinate the State to the individual. The State is treated as\nan external contrivance for securing the life, the property, or the\nconvenience of the individual. The State exists solely for the sake of\nthe individual, and is not in itself an end. The individual alone is\nreal, the State unreal, because it is only a collection of\nindividuals. These views forget that the State is an organism, and\nthey forget all that this implies. Aristotle would have condemned, on\nthese grounds, the social contract theory so popular in the eighteenth\ncentury, and likewise the view of modern individualism that the State\nexists solely to ensure that the liberty of the individual is\ncurtailed only by the right of other individuals to the same liberty.\nThe opposite kind of false view is illustrated by the ideal State of\nPlato. As the views we have just discussed deny the reality of the\nwhole, Plato's view, on the contrary, denies the reality of the parts.\nFor him the individual is nothing, the State everything. The\nindividual is absolutely sacrificed to the State. He exists only _for_\nthe State, and thus Plato makes the mistake of setting up the State as\nsole end and denying that the {324} individual is an end in himself.\nPlato imagined that the State is a homogeneous unity, in which its\nparts totally disappear. But the true view is that the State, as an\norganism, is a unity which contains heterogeneity. It is coherent, yet\nheterogeneous. And Plato makes the same mistake in his view of the\nfamily as in his view of the individual. The family, Aristotle thinks,\nis, like the individual, a real part of the social whole. It is an\norganism within an organism. As such, it is an end in itself, has\nabsolute rights, and cannot be obliterated. But Plato expressly\nproposed to abolish the family in favour of the State, and by\nsuggesting community of wives and the education of children in State\nnurseries from the year of their birth, struck a deadly blow at an\nessential part of the State organization. Aristotle thus supports the\ninstitution of family, not on sentimental, but upon philosophic\ngrounds.\n\nAristotle gives no exhaustive classification of different kinds of\nState, because forms of government may be as various as the\ncircumstances which give rise to them. His classification is intended\nto include only outstanding types. He finds that there are six such\ntypes, of which three are good. The other three are bad, because they\nare corruptions of the good types. These are (1) Monarchy, the rule of\none man by virtue of his being so superior in wisdom to all his\nfellows that he naturally rules them. The corruption of Monarchy is\n(2) Tyranny, the rule of one man founded not on wisdom and capacity,\nbut upon force. The second good form is (3) Aristocracy, the rule of\nthe wiser and better few, of which the corrupt form is (4) Oligarchy,\nthe rule of the rich and powerful few. (5) Constitutional Republic or\nTimocracy arises {325} where all the citizens are of fairly equal\ncapacity, i.e., where no stand-out individual or class exists, so that\nall or most take a share in the government. The corresponding corrupt\nform is (6) Democracy, which, though it is the rule of the many, is\nmore especially characterized as being the rule of the poor.\n\nUnlike Plato, Aristotle depicts no ideal State. No single State, he\nthinks, is in itself the best. Everything must depend upon the\ncircumstances. What is the best State in one age and county will not\nbe the best in another. Moreover, it is useless to discuss Utopian\nconstitutions. What alone interests the sane and balanced mind of\nAristotle is the kind of constitution which we may hope actually to\nrealize. Of the three good forms of government he considers that\nmonarchy is theoretically the best. The rule of a single perfectly\nwise and just man would be better than any other. But it has to be\ngiven up as impracticable, because such perfect individuals do not\nexist. And it is only among primitive peoples that we find the hero,\nthe man whose moral stature so completely exalts him above his fellows\nthat he rules as a matter of course. The next best State is\naristocracy. And last, in Aristotle's opinion, comes constitutional\nrepublic, which is, however, perhaps the State best suited to the\nspecial needs and level of development of the Greek city-states.\n\n\n\n6. Aesthetics, or the Theory of Art.\n\nPlato had no systematic philosophy of Art, and his views had to be\ncollected from scattered references. Aristotle likewise has scarcely a\nsystem, though his opinions are more connected, and though he devoted\na special tretise, the \"Poetics\", to the subject. And this {326} book,\nwhich has come down to us in a fragmentary condition, deals exclusively\nwith poetry, and even in poetry only the drama is considered in detail.\nWhat we have from Aristotle on the subject of aesthetics may be divided\nroughly into two classes, firstly, reflections on the nature and\nsignificance of art in general, and, secondly, a more detailed\napplication of these principles to the art of poetry. We shall deal\nwith these two classes of opinions in that order.\n\nIn order to know what art is, we must first know what it is not. It\nmust be distinguished from kindred activities. And firstly, it is\ndistinguished from morality in that morality is concerned with action,\nart with production. Morality consists in the activity itself, art in\nthat which the activity produces. Hence the state of mind of the\nactor, his motives, feelings, etc., are important in morality, for\nthey are part of the act itself. But they are not important in art,\nthe only essential being that the work of art should turn out well,\nhowever it has been produced. Secondly, art is distinguished from the\nactivity of nature, which it in many respects resembles. Organic\nbeings reproduce their own kind, and, in the fact that it is concerned\nwith production, generation resembles art. But in generation, the\nliving being produces only itself. The plant produces a plant, man\nbegets man. But the artist produces something quite other than\nhimself, a poem, a picture, a statue.\n\nArt is of two kinds, according as it aims at completing the work of\nnature, or at creating something new, an imaginary world of its own\nwhich is a copy of the real world. In the former case, we get such\narts as that of {327} medicine. Where nature has failed to produce a\nhealthy body, the physician helps nature out, and completes the work\nthat she has begun. In the latter case, we get what are, in modern\ntimes, called the fine arts. These Aristotle calls the imitative arts.\nWe saw that Plato regarded all art as imitative, and that such a view\nis essentially unsatisfactory. Now Aristotle uses the same word, which\nhe perhaps borrowed from Plato, but his meaning is not the same as\nPlato's, nor does he fall into the same mistakes. That in calling art\nimitative he has not in mind the thought that it has for its aim\nmerely the faithful copying of natural objects is proved by the fact\nthat he mentions music as the most imitative of the arts, whereas\nmusic is, in fact, in this sense, the least imitative of all. The\npainter may conceivably be regarded as imitating trees, rivers, or\nmen, but the musician for the most part produces what is unlike\nanything in nature. What Aristotle means is that the artist copies,\nnot the sensuous object, but what Plato would call the Idea. Art is\nthus not, in Plato's contemptuous phrase, a copy of a copy. It is a\ncopy of the original. Its object is not this or that particular thing,\nbut the universal which manifests itself in the particular. Art\nidealizes nature, that is, sees the Idea in it. It regards the\nindividual thing, not as an individual, but in its universal aspects,\nas the fleeting embodiment of an eternal thought. Hence it is that the\nsculptor depicts not the individual man, but rather the type-man, the\nperfection of his kind. Hence too, in modern times, the portrait\npainter is not concerned to paint a faithful image of his model, but\ntakes the model merely as a suggestion, and seizes upon that essential\nand eternal {328} essence, that ideal thought, or universal, which he\nsees shining through the sensuous materials in which it is imprisoned.\nHis task is to free it from this imprisonment. The common man sees\nonly the particular object. The artist sees the universal in the\nparticular. Every individual thing is a compound of matter and form,\nof particular and universal. The function of art is to exhibit the\nuniversal in it.\n\nHence poetry is truer, more philosophical, than history. For history\ndeals only with the particular as the particular. It tells us only of\nthe _fact_, of what has happened. Its truth is mere correctness,\naccuracy. It has not in it, as art has, the living and eternal truth.\nIt does not deal with the Idea. It yields us only the knowledge of\nsomething that, having happened, having gone by, is finished. Its\nobject is transient and perishable. It concerns only the endless\niteration of meaningless events. But the object of art is that inner\nessence of objects and events, which perishes not, and of which the\nobjects and events are the mere external drapery. If therefore we\nwould arrange philosophy, art, and history, in order of their\nessential nobility and truth, we should place philosophy first,\nbecause its object is the universal as it is in itself, the pure\nuniversal. We should place art second, because its object is the\nuniversal in the particular, and history last, because it deals only\nwith the particular as such. Yet because each thing in the world has\nits own proper function, and errs if it seeks to perform the functions\nof something else, hence, in Aristotle's opinion, art must not attempt\nto emulate philosophy. It must not deal with the abstract universal.\nThe poet must not use his verses as a vehicle of abstract thought. His\nproper {329} sphere is the universal as it manifests itself in the\nparticular, not the universal as it is in itself. Aristotle, for this\nreason, censures didactic poetry. Such a poem as that of Empedocles,\nwho unfolded his philosophical system in metre, is not, in fact,\npoetry at all. It is versified philosophy. Art is thus lower than\nphilosophy. The absolute reality, the inner essence of the world, is\nthought, reason, the universal. To contemplate this reality is the\nobject alike of philosophy and of art. But art sees the Absolute not\nin its final truth, but wrapped up in a sensuous drapery. Philosophy\nsees the Absolute as it is in itself, in its own nature, in its full\ntruth; it sees it as what it essentially is, thought. Philosophy,\ntherefore, is the perfect truth. But this does not mean that art is to\nbe superseded and done away with. Because philosophy is higher than\nart, it does not follow that a man should suppress the artist in\nhimself in order to rise to philosophy. For an essential thought of\nthe Aristotelian philosophy is that, in the scale of beings, even the\nlower form is an end in itself, and has absolute rights. The higher\nactivities presuppose the lower, and rest upon them. The higher\nincludes the lower, and the lower, as an organic part of its being,\ncannot be eradicated without injury to the whole. To suppress art in\nfavour of philosophy would be a mistake precisely parallel to the\nmoral error of asceticism. In treating of Aristotle's ethics we saw\nthat, although the activity of reason is held in highest esteem, the\nattempt to uproot the passions was censured as erroneous. So here,\nthough philosophy is the crown of man's spiritual activity, art has\nits rights, and is an absolute end in itself, a point which Plato\nfailed to see. In the human organism, the head is the {330} chief of\nthe members. But one does not cut off the hand because it is not the\nhead.\n\nComing now to Aristotle's special treatment of the art of poetry, we\nmay note that he concentrates his attention almost exclusively upon\nthe drama. It does not matter whether the plot of a drama is\nhistorical or fictitious. For the object of art, the exhibition of the\nuniversal, is just as well attained in an imaginary as in a real\nseries of events. Its aim is not correctness, but truth, not facts,\nbut the Idea. Drama is of two kinds, tragedy and comedy. Tragedy\nexhibits the nobler specimens of humanity, comedy the worse. This\nremark should be carefully understood. It does not mean that the hero\nof a tragedy is necessarily a good man in the ordinary sense. He may\neven be a wicked man. But the point is that, in some sense, he must be\na great personality. He cannot be an insignificant person. He cannot\nbe a nonentity. Be he good or bad, he must be conceived in the grand\nmanner. Milton's Satan is not good, but he is great, and would be a\nfit subject for a tragedy. The soundness of Aristotle's thought here\nis very noteworthy. What is mean and sordid can never form the basis\nof tragedy. Modern newspapers have done their best to debauch this\nword tragedy. Some wretched noteless human being is crushed to death\nby a train, and the newspapers head their paragraph \"Fearful Tragedy\nat Peckham Rye.\" Now such an incident may be sad, it may be dreadful,\nit may be horrible, but it is not tragic. Tragedy no doubt deals with\nsuffering. But there is nothing great and ennobling about this\nsuffering, and tragedy is concerned with the sufferings of greatness.\nIn the same way, Aristotle does not mean that the comic {331} hero is\nnecessarily a wicked man, but that he is, on the whole, a poor\ncreature, an insignificant being. He may be very worthy, but there is\nsomething low and ignoble about him which makes us laugh.\n\nTragedy brings about a purification of the soul through pity and\nterror. Mean, sordid, or dreadful things do not ennoble us. But the\nrepresentation of truly great and tragic sufferings arouses in the\nbeholder pity and terror which purge his spirit, and render it serene\nand pure. This is the thought of a great and penetrating critic. The\ntheory of certain scholars, based upon etymological grounds, that it\nmeans that the soul is purged, not _through_, but _of_ pity and\nterror, that by means of a diarrhoea of these unpleasant emotions we\nget rid of them and are left happy, is the thought of men whose\nscholarship may be great, but whose understanding of art is limited.\nSuch a theory would reduce Aristotle's great and illuminating\ncriticism to the meaningless babble of a philistine.\n\n\n\n7. Critical Estimate of Aristotle's Philosophy.\n\nIt is not necessary to spend so much time upon criticising Aristotle\nas we spent upon doing the same for Plato, and that for two reasons.\nIn the first place, Plato with his obvious greatness abounded in\ndefects which had to be pointed out, whereas we have but little\nadverse criticism for Aristotle. Secondly, Aristotle's main defect is\na dualism almost identical with that of Plato, and what has been said\nof the one need only be shortly applied to the other.\n\nAt bottom Aristotle's philosophy is the same as Plato's, with some of\nthe main defects and crudities removed. Plato was the founder of the\nphilosophy of the Idea. {332} But in his hands, idealism was clogged\nwith unessentials, and overgrown with excrescences. His crude theory\nof the soul as a thing mechanically forced in and out of the body, his\ndoctrines of reincarnation and recollection, the belief that this\n_thing_ the soul can travel to some place far away where it will see\nthose _things_ the Ideas, and above all, what is the root of all\nthese, the confusion between reality and existence, with its\nconsequent degradation of the universal to a mere particular--these\nwere the unessentials with which Plato connected his essential\nidealism. To take the pure theory of Ideas--albeit not under that\nname--to purge it of these encumbrances and to cast them upon the\nrubbish heap, to cleanse Plato's gold of its dross, this was the task\nof Aristotle. Thought, the universal, the Idea, form--call it what\nyou will--this is the ultimate reality, the foundation of the world,\nthe absolute prius of all things. So thought both Plato and Aristotle.\nBut whereas Plato began to draw mental pictures of the universal, to\nimagine that it existed apart in a world of its own, and so might be\nexperienced by the vision of the wandering soul, Aristotle saw that\nthis was to treat thought as if it were a thing, to turn it into a\nmere particular again. He saw that the universal, though it is the\nreal, has no existence in a world of its own, but only in this world,\nonly as a formative principle of particular things. This is the\nkey-note of his philosophy. Aristotle registers, therefore, an\nenormous advance upon Plato. His system is the perfected and completed\nGreek idealism. It is the highest point reached in the philosophy of\nGreece. The flower of all previous thought, the essence and pure\ndistillation of the Greek philosophic spirit, the gathering {333} up\nof all that is good in his predecessors and the rejection of all that\nis faulty and worthless--such is the philosophy of Aristotle. It was\nnot possible for the Greek spirit to advance further. Further\ndevelopment could be only decay. And so, in fact, it turned out to be.\n\n\nAristotle deserves, too, the credit of having produced the only\nphilosophy of evolution which the world has ever seen, with the\nexception of that of Hegel; and Hegel was enabled to found a newer\ntheory of evolution only by following largely in the footsteps of\nAristotle. This was perhaps Aristotle's most original contribution to\nthought. Yet the factors of the problem, though not its solution, he\ntook from his predecessors. The problem of becoming had tortured Greek\nthought from the earliest ages. The philosophy of Heracleitus, in\nwhich it was most prominent, had failed to solve it. Heracleitus and\nhis successors racked their brains to discover how becoming could be\npossible. But even if they had solved this minor problem, the greater\nquestion still remained in the background, what does this becoming\nmean? Becoming for them was only meaningless change. It was not\ndevelopment. The world-process was an endless stream of futile and\npurposeless events, \"a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,\nsignifying nothing.\" Aristotle not merely asked himself how becoming\nis possible. He showed that becoming has a meaning, that it signifies\nsomething, that the world-process is a rationally ordered development\ntowards a rational end.\n\nBut, though Aristotle's philosophy is the highest presentation of the\ntruth in ancient times, it cannot be accepted as anything final and\nfaultless. Doubtless no philosophy can ever attain to finality. Let us\napply our {334} two-fold test. Does his principle explain the world,\nand does it explain itself? First, does it explain the world? The\ncause of Plato's failure here was the dualism in his system between\nsense and thought, between matter and the Ideas. It was impossible to\nderive the world from the Ideas, because they were absolutely\nseparated from the world. The gulf was so great that it could never be\nbridged. Matter and Idea lay apart, and could never be brought\ntogether. Now Aristotle saw this dualism in Plato, and attempted to\nsurmount it. The universal and the particular, he said, do not thus\nlie apart, in different worlds. The Idea is not a thing here, and\nmatter a thing there, so that these two incommensurables have to be\nsomehow mechanically and violently forced together to form a world.\nUniversal and particular, matter and form, are inseparable. The\nconnexion between them is not mechanical, but organic. The dualism of\nPlato is thus admitted and refuted. But is it really surmounted? The\nanswer must be in the negative. It is not enough by a _tour de force_ to\nbring matter and form together, to assert that they are inseparable,\nwhile they remain all the time, in principle, separate entities. If\nthe Absolute is form, matter ought to be deduced from form, shown to\nbe merely a projection and manifestation of it. It must be shown that\nform not only moulds matter but produces it. If we assert that the one\nprimal reality is form, then clearly we must prove that all else in\nthe world, including matter, arises out of that prime being. Either\nmatter arises out of form or it does not. If it does, this arising\nmust be exhibited. If it does not, then form is not the sole ultimate\nreality, for matter is equally an ultimate, underivative, {335}\nprimordial substance. In that case, we thus have two equally real\nultimate beings, each underived from the other, existing side by side\nfrom all eternity. This is dualism, and this is the defect of\nAristotle. Not only does he not derive matter from form, but he\nobviously sees no necessity for doing so. He would probably have\nprotested against any attempt to do so, for, when he identifies the\nformal, final, and efficient causes with each other, leaving out the\nmaterial cause, this is equivalent to an assertion that matter cannot\nbe reduced to form. Thus his dualism is deliberate and persistent. The\nworld, says Aristotle, is composed of matter and form. Where does this\nmatter come from? As it does not, in his system, arise out of form, we\ncan only conclude that its being is wholly in itself, i.e., that it is\na substance, an absolute reality. And this is utterly inconsistent\nwith Aristotle's assertion that it is in itself nothing but a mere\npotentiality. Thus, in the last resort, this dualism of sense and\nthought, of matter and Idea, of unlimited and limiting, which runs,\n\"the little rift within the lute,\" through all Greek philosophy, is\nnot resolved. The world is not explained, because it is not derived\nfrom a single principle. If form be the Absolute, the whole world must\nflow out of it. In Aristotle's system, it does not.\n\nSecondly, is the principle of form self-explanatory? Here, again, we\nmust answer negatively. Most of what was said of Plato under this head\napplies equally to Aristotle. Plato asserted that the Absolute is\nreason, and it was therefore incumbent on him to show that his account\nof reason was truly rational. He failed to do so. Aristotle asserts\nthe same thing, for form is only {336} another word for reason. Hence\nhe must show us that this form is a rational principle, and this means\nthat he must show us that it is necessary. But he fails to do so. How\nis form a necessary and self-determining principle? Why should there\nbe such a principle as form? We cannot see any necessity. It is a mere\nfact. It is nothing but an ultimate mystery. It is so, and that is an\nend of it. But why it should be so, we cannot see. Nor can we see why\nthere should be any of the particular kinds of form that there are. To\nexplain this, Aristotle ought to have shown that the forms constitute\na systematic unity, that they can be deduced one from another, just as\nwe saw that Plato ought to have deduced all the Ideas from one\nanother. Thus Aristotle asserts that the form of plants is nutrition,\nof animals sensation, and that the one passes into the other. But even\nif this assertion be true, it is a mere fact. He ought not merely to\nhave asserted this, but to have deduced sensation from nutrition.\nInstead of being content to allege that, as a fact, nutrition passes\ninto sensation, he ought to have shown that it must pass into\nsensation, that the passage from one to the other is a logical\nnecessity. Otherwise, we cannot see the reason why this change occurs.\nThat is to say, the change is not _explained_.\n\nConsider the effects of this omission upon the theory of evolution. We\nare told that the world-process moves towards an end, and that this\nend is the self-realization of reason, and that it is proximately\nattained in man, because man is a reasoning being. So far this is\nquite intelligible. But this implies that each step in evolution is\nhigher than the last because it approaches nearer to {337} the end of\nthe world-process. And as that end is the realization of reason, this\nis equivalent to saying that each step is higher than the last because\nit is more rational. But how is sensation more rational than\nnutrition? Why should it not be the other way about? Nutrition passes\nthrough sensation into human reason. But why should not sensation pass\nthrough nutrition into human reason? Why should not the order be\nreversed? We cannot explain. And such an admission is absolutely fatal\nto any philosophy of evolution. The whole object of such a philosophy\nis to make it clear to us why the higher form is higher, and why the\nlower is lower: why, for example, nutrition must, as lower, come\nfirst, and sensation second, and not _vice versa_. If we can see no\nreason why the order should not be reversed, this simply means that\nour philosophy of evolution has failed in its main point. It means\nthat we cannot see any real difference between lower and higher, and\nthat therefore we have merely change without development, since it is\nindifferent whether A passes into B, or B into A. The only way in\nwhich Aristotle could have surmounted these difficulties would have\nbeen to prove that sensation is a development of reason which goes\nbeyond nutrition. And he could only do this by showing that sensation\nlogically arises out of nutrition. For a logical development is the\nsame as a rational development. He ought to have logically deduced\nsensation from nutrition, and so with all the other forms. As it is,\nall that can be said is that Aristotle was the founder of a philosophy\nof evolution because he saw that evolution implies movement towards an\nend, and because he attempted to point out the different stages in the\nattainment of that end, {338} but that he failed rationally to develop\nthe doctrine stage by stage.\n\nAs neither the principle of form in general was shown to be necessary,\nnor were the particular forms deduced from each other, we have to\nconclude that Aristotle like Plato, _named_ a self-explanatory\nprinciple, reason or form, as ultimate principle of things, but failed\nto show in detail that it is self-explanatory. Yet, in spite these\ndefects, the philosophy of Aristotle is one of the greatest\nphilosophies that the world has ever seen, or is ever likely to see.\nIf it does not solve all problems, it does render the world more\nintelligible to us than it was before.\n\n\n\n{339}\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE GENERAL CHARACTER OF POST-ARISTOTELIAN PHILOSOPHY\n\nThe rest of the story of Greek philosophy is soon told, for it is the\nstory of decay. The post-Aristotelian is the least instructive of the\nthree periods of Greek thought, and I shall delineate only its main\noutlines.\n\nThe general characteristics of the decay of thought which set in after\nAristotle are intimately connected with the political, social, and\nmoral events of the time. Although the huge empire of Alexander had\nbroken up at the conqueror's death, this fact had in no way helped the\nGreek States to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. With the\nsingle exception of Sparta, which stubbornly held out, they had\nbecome, for all intents and purposes, subject to the dominion of\nMacedonia. And the death of Alexander did not alter this fact. It was\nnot merely that rude might had overwhelmed a beautiful and delicate\ncivilization. That civilization itself was decaying. The Greeks had\nceased to be a great and free people. Their vitality was ebbing. Had\nit not been one conqueror it would have been another. They were\ngrowing old. They had to give way before younger and sturdier races.\nIt was not so many years now before Greece, passing from one alien\nyoke to another, was to become no more than a Roman province.\n\n{340}\n\nPhilosophy is not something that subsists independently of the growth\nand decay of the spirit of man. It goes hand in hand with political,\nsocial, religious, and artistic development. Political organization,\nart, religion, science, and philosophy, are but different forms in\nwhich the life of a people expresses itself. The innermost substance\nof the national life is found in the national philosophy, and the\nhistory of philosophy is the kernel of the history of nations. It was\nbut natural, then, that from the time of Alexander onwards Greek\nphilosophy should exhibit symptoms of decay.\n\nThe essential mark of the decay of Greek thought was the intense\nsubjectivism which is a feature of all the post-Aristotelian schools.\nNot one of them is interested in the solution of the world-problem for\nits own sake. The pure scientific spirit, the desire for knowledge for\nits own sake, is gone. That curiosity, that wonder, of which Aristotle\nspeaks as the inspiring spirit of philosophy, is dead. The motive\npower of philosophy is no longer the disinterested pursuit of truth,\nbut only the desire of the individual to escape from the ills of life.\nPhilosophy only interests men in so far as it affects their lives. It\nbecomes anthropocentric and egocentric. Everything pivots on the\nindividual subject, his destiny, his fate, the welfare of his soul.\nReligion has long since become corrupted and worthless, and philosophy\nis now expected to do the work of religion, and to be a haven of\nrefuge from the storms of life. Hence it becomes essentially\npractical. Before everything else it is ethical. All other departments\nof thought are now subordinated to ethics. It is not as in the days of\nthe strength and youth of the Greek spirit, when Xenophanes or {341}\nAnaxagoras looked out into the heavens, and naively wondered what the\nsun and the stars were, and how the world arose. Men's thought no\nlonger turns outward toward the stars, but only inward upon\nthemselves. It is not the riddle of the universe, but the riddle of\nhuman life, which makes them ponder.\n\nThis subjectivism has as its necessary consequences, one-sidedness,\nabsence of originality, and finally complete scepticism. Since men are\nno longer interested in the wider problems of the universe, but only\nin the comparatively petty problems of human life, their outlook\nbecomes exclusively ethical, narrow, and one-sided. He who cannot\nforget his own self, cannot merge and lose himself in the universe,\nbut looks at all things only as they affect himself, does not give\nbirth to great and universal thoughts. He becomes self-centred, and\nmakes the universe revolve round him. Hence we no longer have now\ngreat, universal, all-embracing systems, like those of Plato and\nAristotle. Metaphysics, physics, logic, are not studied for their own\nsakes, but only as preparations for ethics. Narrowness, however, is\nalways compensated by intensity, which in the end becomes fanaticism.\nHence the intense earnestness and almost miraculous heights of\nfanatical asceticism, to which the Stoics attained. And an unbalanced\nand one-sided philosophy leads to extremes. Such a philosophy,\nobsessed by a single idea, unrestrained by any consideration for other\nand equally important factors of truth, regardless of all other\nclaims, pushes its idea pig-headedly to its logical extreme. Such a\nprocedure results in paradoxes and extravagances. Hence the Stoics, if\nthey made duty their watchword, must needs conceive it in {342} the\nmost extreme opposition to all natural impulses, with a sternness\nunheard of in any previous ethical doctrine save that of the Cynics.\nHence the Sceptics, if they lighted on the thought that knowledge is\ndifficult of attainment, must needs rush to the extreme conclusion\nthat any knowledge is utterly impossible. Hence the Neo-Platonists\nmust needs cap all these tendencies by making out a drunken frenzy of\nthe soul to be the true organ of philosophy, and by introducing into\nspeculation all the fantastic paraphernalia of sorcery, demons, and\ndemi-gods. Absence of sanity and balance, then, are characteristics of\nthe last period of Greek philosophy. The serenity and calm of Plato\nand Aristotle are gone, and in their place we have turgidity and\nextravagance.\n\nLack of originality is a second consequence of the subjectivism of the\nage. Since metaphysics, physics, and logic are not cultivated, except\nin a purely practical interest, they do not flourish. Instead of\nadvancing in these arenas of thought, the philosophies of the age go\nbackwards. Older systems, long discredited, are revived, and their\ndead bones triumphantly paraded abroad. The Stoics return to\nHeracleitus for their physics, Epicurus resurrects the atomism of\nDemocritus. Even in ethics, on which they concentrate all their\nthought, these post-Aristotelian systems have nothing essentially new\nto say. Stoicism borrows its principal ideas from the Cynics,\nEpicureanism from the Cyrenaics. The post-Aristotelians rearrange old\nthoughts in a new order. They take up the ideas of the past and\nexaggerate this or that aspect of them. They twist and turn them in\nall directions, and squeeze them dry for a drop of new life. {343} But\nin the end nothing new eventuates. Greek thought is finished, and\nthere is nothing new to be got out of it, torture it how they will.\nFrom the first Stoic to the last Neo-Platonist, there is no\nessentially new principle added to philosophy, unless we count as such\nthe sad and jaded ideas which the Neo-Platonists introduced from the\nEast.\n\nLastly, subjectivism ends naturally in scepticism, the denial of all\nknowledge, the rejection of all philosophy. We have already seen, in\nthe Sophists, the phenomenon of subjectivism leading to scepticism.\nThe Sophists made the individual subject the measure of truth and\nmorals, and in the end this meant the denial of truth and morality\naltogether. So it is now. The subjectivism of the Stoics and\nEpicureans is followed by the scepticism of Pyrrho and his successors.\nWith them, as with the Sophists, nothing is true or good in itself,\nbut only opinion makes it so.\n\n\n\n{344}\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE STOICS\n\nZeno of Cyprus, the founder of the Stoic School, a Greek of Phoenician\ndescent, was born about 342 B.C., and died in 270. He is said to have\nfollowed philosophy; because he lost all his property in a\nship-wreck--a motive characteristic of the age. He came to Athens, and\nlearned philosophy under Crates the Cynic, Stilpo the Megaric, and\nPolemo the Academic. About 300 B.C. he founded his school at the Stoa\nPoecile (many-coloured portico) whence the name Stoic. He died by his\nown hand. He was followed by Cleanthes, and then by Chrysippus, as\nleaders of the school. Chrysippus was a man of immense productivity\nand laborious scholarship. He composed over seven hundred books, but\nall are lost. Though not the founder, he was the chief pillar of\nStoicism. The school attracted many adherents, and flourished for many\ncenturies, not only in Greece, but later in Rome, where the most\nthoughtful writers, such as Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus,\ncounted themselves among its followers.\n\nWe know little for certain as to what share particular Stoics, Zeno,\nCleanthes, or Chrysippus, had in the formation of the doctrines of the\nschool. But after Chrysippus the main lines of the doctrine were\ncomplete. {345} We shall deal, therefore, with Stoicism as a whole,\nand not with the special teaching of particular Stoics. The system is\ndivided into three parts, Logic, Physics, and Ethics, of which the\nfirst two are entirely subservient to the last. Stoicism is\nessentially a system of ethics which, however, is guided by a logic as\ntheory of method, and rests upon physics as foundation.\n\n\n\nLogic.\n\nWe may pass over the formal logic of the Stoics, which is, in all\nessentials, the logic of Aristotle. To this, however, they added a\ntheory, peculiar to themselves, of the origin of knowledge and the\ncriterion of truth. All knowledge, they said, enters the mind through\nthe senses. The mind is a _tabula rasa_, upon which sense-impressions\nare inscribed. It may have a certain activity of its own, but this\nactivity is confined exclusively to materials supplied by the physical\norgans of sense. This theory stands, of course, in sheer opposition to\nthe idealism of Plato, for whom the mind alone was the source of\nknowledge, the senses being the sources of all illusion and error. The\nStoics denied the metaphysical reality of concepts. Concepts are\nmerely ideas in the mind, abstracted from particulars, and have no\nreality outside consciousness.\n\nSince all knowledge is a knowledge of sense-objects, truth is simply\nthe correspondence of our impressions to things. How are we to know\nwhether our ideas are correct copies of things? How distinguish\nbetween reality and imagination, dreams, or illusions? What is the\ncriterion of truth? It cannot lie in concepts, since these are of our\nown making. Nothing is true save {346} sense-impressions, and\ntherefore the criterion of truth must lie in sensation itself. It\ncannot be in thought, but must be in feeling. Real objects, said the\nStoics, produce in us an intense feeling, or conviction, of their\nreality. The strength and vividness of the image distinguish these\nreal perceptions from a dream or fancy. Hence the sole criterion of\ntruth is this striking conviction, whereby the real forces itself upon\nour consciousness, and will not be denied. The relapse into complete\nsubjectivity will here be noted. There is no universally grounded\ncriterion of truth. It is based, not on reason, but on feeling. All\ndepends on the subjective convictions of the individual.\n\n\n\nPhysics.\n\nThe fundamental proposition of the Stoic physics is that \"nothing\nincorporeal exists.\" This materialism coheres with the sensationalism\nof their doctrine of knowledge. Plato placed knowledge in thought, and\nreality, therefore, in the Idea. The Stoics, however, place knowledge\nin physical sensation, and reality, therefore, in what is known by the\nsenses, matter. All things, they said, even the soul, even God\nhimself, are material and nothing more than material. This belief they\nbased upon two main considerations. Firstly, the unity of the world\ndemands it. The world is one, and must issue from one principle. We\nmust have a monism. The idealism of Plato and Aristotle had resolved\nitself into a futile struggle against the dualism of matter and\nthought. Since the gulf cannot be bridged from the side of the Idea,\nwe must take our stand on matter, and reduce mind to it. Secondly,\nbody and soul, God and {347} the world, are pairs which act and react\nupon one another. The body, for example, produces thoughts\n(sense-impressions) in the soul, the soul produces movements in the\nbody. This would be impossible if both were not of the same substance.\nThe corporeal cannot act on the incorporeal, nor the incorporeal on\nthe corporeal. There is no point of contact. Hence all must be equally\ncorporeal.\n\nAll things being material, what is the original kind of matter, or\nstuff, out of which the world is made? The Stoics turned to\nHeracleitus for an answer. Fire is the primordial kind of being, and\nall things are composed of fire. With this materialism the Stoics\ncombined pantheism. The primal fire is God. God is related to the\nworld exactly as the soul to the body. The human soul is likewise\nfire, and comes from the divine fire. It permeates and penetrates the\nentire body, and, in order that its interpenetration might be regarded\nas complete, the Stoics denied the impenetrability of matter. Just as\nthe soul-fire permeates the whole body, so God, the primal fire,\npervades the entire world. He is the soul of the world. The world is\nHis body.\n\nBut in spite of this materialism, the Stoics averred that God is\nabsolute reason. This is not a return to idealism. It does not imply\nthe incorporeality of God. For reason, like all else, is material. It\nmeans simply that the divine fire is a rational element. Since God is\nreason, it follows that the world is governed by reason, and this\nmeans two things. It means, firstly, that there is purpose in the\nworld, and therefore, order, harmony, beauty, and design. Secondly,\nsince reason is law as opposed to the lawless, it means that the\nuniverse is {348} subject to the absolute sway of law, is governed by\nthe rigorous necessity of cause and effect.\n\nHence the individual is not free. There can be no true freedom of the\nwill in a world governed by necessity. We may, without harm, say that\nwe choose to do this or that, that our acts are voluntary. But such\nphrases merely mean that we assent to what we do. What we do is none\nthe less governed by causes, and therefore by necessity.\n\nThe world-process is circular. God changes the fiery substance of\nhimself first into air, then water, then earth. So the world arises.\nBut it will be ended by a conflagration in which all things will\nreturn into the primal fire. Thereafter, at a pre-ordained time, God\nwill again transmute himself into a world. It follows from the law of\nnecessity that the course taken by this second, and every subsequent,\nworld, will be identical in every way with the course taken by the\nfirst world. The process goes on for ever, and nothing new ever\nhappens. The history of each successive world is the same as that of\nall the others down to the minutest details.\n\nThe human soul is part of the divine fire, and proceeds into man from\nGod. Hence it is a rational soul, and this is a point of cardinal\nimportance in connexion with the Stoic ethics. But the soul of each\nindividual does not come direct from God. The divine fire was breathed\ninto the first man, and thereafter passes from parent to child in the\nact of procreation. After death, all souls, according to some, but\nonly the souls of the good, according to others, continue in\nindividual existence until the general conflagration in which they,\nand all else, return to God.\n\n\n\n{349}\n\nEthics.\n\nThe Stoic ethical teaching is based upon two principles already\ndeveloped in their physics; first, that the universe is governed by\nabsolute law, which admits of no exceptions; and second, that the\nessential nature of man is reason. Both are summed up in the famous\nStoic maxim, \"Live according to nature.\" For this maxim has two\naspects. It means, in the first place, that men should conform\nthemselves to nature in the wider sense, that is, to the laws of the\nuniverse, and secondly, that they should conform their actions to\nnature in the narrower sense, to their own essential nature, reason.\nThese two expressions mean, for the Stoics, the same thing. For the\nuniverse is governed not only by law, but by the law of reason, and\nman in following his own rational nature is _ipso facto_ conforming\nhimself to the laws of the larger world. In a sense, of course, there\nis no possibility of man's disobeying the laws of nature, for he, like\nall else in the world, acts of necessity. And it might be asked, what\nis the use of exhorting a man to obey the laws of the universe, when,\nas part of the great mechanism of the world, he cannot by any\npossibility do anything else? It is not to be supposed that a genuine\nsolution of this difficulty is to be found in Stoic philosophy. They\nurged, however, that, though man will in any case do as the necessity\nof the world compels him, it is given to him alone, not merely to obey\nthe law, but to assent to his own obedience, to follow the law\nconsciously and deliberately, as only a rational being can.\n\nVirtue, then, is the life according to reason. Morality is simply\nrational action. It is the universal reason which is to govern our\nlives, not the caprice and self-will {350} of the individual. The wise\nman consciously subordinates his life to the life of the whole\nuniverse, and recognises himself as merely a cog in the great machine.\nNow the definition of morality as the life according to reason is not\na principle peculiar to the Stoics. Both Plato and Aristotle taught\nthe same. In fact, as we have already seen, to found morality upon\nreason, and not upon the particular foibles, feelings, or intuitions,\nof the individual self, is the basis of every genuine ethic. But what\nwas peculiar to the Stoics was the narrow and one-sided interpretation\nwhich they gave to this principle. Aristotle had taught that the\nessential nature of man is reason, and that morality consists in\nfollowing this, his essential nature. But he recognized that the\npassions and appetites have their place in the human organism. He did\nnot demand their suppression, but merely their control by reason. But\nthe Stoics looked upon the passions as essentially irrational, and\ndemanded their complete extirpation. They envisaged life as a battle\nagainst the passions, in which the latter had to be completely\nannihilated. Hence their ethical views end in a rigorous and\nunbalanced asceticism.\n\nAristotle, in his broad and moderate way, though he believed virtue\nalone to possess intrinsic value, yet allowed to external goods and\ncircumstances a place in the scheme of life. The Stoics asserted that\nvirtue alone is good, vice alone evil, and that all else is absolutely\nindifferent. Poverty, sickness, pain, and death, are not evils.\nRiches, health, pleasure, and life, are not goods. A man may commit\nsuicide, for in destroying his life he destroys nothing of value.\nAbove all, pleasure is not a good. One ought not to seek pleasure.\nVirtue is {351} the only happiness. And man must be virtuous, not for\nthe sake of pleasure, but for the sake of duty. And since virtue alone\nis good, vice alone evil, there followed the further paradox that all\nvirtues are equally good, and all vices equally evil. There are no\ndegrees.\n\nVirtue is founded upon reason, and so upon knowledge. Hence the\nimportance of science, physics, logic, which are valued not for\nthemselves, but because they are the foundations of morality. The\nprime virtue, and the root of all other virtues, is therefore wisdom.\nThe wise man is synonymous with the good man. From the root-virtue,\nwisdom, spring the four cardinal virtues, insight, bravery,\nself-control, justice. But since all virtues have one root, he who\npossesses wisdom possesses all virtue, he who lacks it lacks all. A\nman is either wholly virtuous, or wholly vicious. The world is divided\ninto wise men and fools, the former perfectly good, the latter\nabsolutely evil. There is nothing between the two. There is no such\nthing as a gradual transition from one to the other. Conversion must\nbe instantaneous. The wise man is perfect, has all happiness, freedom,\nriches, beauty. He alone is the perfect king, statesman, poet,\nprophet, orator, critic, physician. The fool has all vice, all misery,\nall ugliness, all poverty. And every man is one or the other. Asked\nwhere such a wise man was to be found, the Stoics pointed doubtfully\nat Socrates and Diogenes the Cynic. The number of the wise, they\nthought, is small, and is continually growing smaller. The world,\nwhich they painted in the blackest colours as a sea of vice and\nmisery, grows steadily worse.\n\nIn all this we easily recognize the features of a resuscitated\nCynicism. But the Stoics modified and softened {352} the harsh\noutlines of Cynicism, and rounded off its angles. To do this meant\ninconsistency. It meant that they first laid down harsh principles,\nand then proceeded to tone them down, to explain them away, to admit\nexceptions. Such inconsistency the Stoics accepted with their habitual\ncheerfulness. This process of toning down their first harsh utterances\ntook place mainly in three ways. In the first place, they modified\ntheir principle of the complete extirpation of the passions. Since\nthis is impossible, and, if possible, could only lead to immovable\ninactivity, they admitted that the wise man might exhibit certain mild\nand rational emotions, and that the roots of the passions might be\nfound in him, though he never allowed them to grow. In the second\nplace, they modified their principle that all else, save virtue and\nvice, is indifferent. Such a view is unreal, and out of accord with\nlife. Hence the Stoics, with a masterly disregard of consistency,\nstuck to the principle, and yet declared that among things indifferent\nsome are preferable to others. If the wise man has the choice between\nhealth and sickness, he will choose the former. Indifferent things\nwere divided into three classes, those to be preferred, those to be\navoided, and those which are absolutely indifferent. In the third\nplace, the Stoics toned down the principle that men are either wholly\ngood, or wholly evil. The famous heroes and statesmen of history,\nthough fools, are yet polluted with the common vices of mankind less\nthan others. Moreover, what were the Stoics to say about themselves?\nWere they wise men or fools? They hesitated to claim perfection, to\nput themselves on a level with Socrates and Diogenes. Yet they could\nnot bring themselves to admit that there was {353} no difference\nbetween themselves and the common herd. They were \"proficients,\" and,\nif not absolutely wise, approximated to wisdom.\n\nIf the Stoics were thus merely less consistent Cynics, and originated\nnothing in the doctrines of physics and ethics so far considered, yet\nof one idea at least they can claim to be the inventors. This was the\nidea of cosmopolitanism. This they deduced from two grounds. Firstly,\nthe universe is one, proceeds from one God, is ordered by one law, and\nforms one system. Secondly, however much men may differ in\nunessentials, they share their essential nature, their reason, in\ncommon. Hence all men are of one stock, as rational beings, and should\nform one State. The division of mankind into warring States is\nirrational and absurd. The wise man is not a citizen of this or that\nState. He is a citizen of the world.\n\nThis is, however, only an application of principles already asserted.\nThe Stoics produced no essentially new thought, in physics, or in\nethics. Their entire stock of ideas is but a new combination of ideas\nalready developed by their predecessors. They were narrow, extreme,\nover-rigorous, and one-sided. Their truths are all half-truths. And\nthey regarded philosophy too subjectively. What alone interested them\nwas the question, how am I to live? Yet in spite of these defects,\nthere is undoubtedly something grand and noble about their zeal for\nduty, their exaltation above all that is petty and paltry, their\nuncompromising contempt for all lower ends. Their merit, says\nSchwegler, was that \"in an age of ruin they held fast by the moral\nidea.\"\n\n\n\n{354}\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE EPICUREANS\n\nEpicurus was born at Samos in 342 B.C. He founded his school a year or\ntwo before Zeno founded the Stoa, so that the two schools from the\nfirst ran parallel in time. The school of Epicurus lasted over six\ncenturies. Epicurus early became acquainted with the atomism of\nDemocritus, but his learning in earlier systems of philosophy does not\nappear to have been extensive. He was a man of estimable life and\ncharacter. He founded his school in 306 B.C. The Epicurean philosophy\nwas both founded and completed by him. No subsequent Epicurean to any\nappreciable extent added to or altered the doctrines laid down by the\nfounder.\n\nThe Epicurean system is even more purely practical in tendency than\nthe Stoic. In spite of the fact that Stoicism subordinates logic and\nphysics to ethics, yet the diligence and care which the Stoics\nbestowed upon such doctrines as those of the criterion of truth, the\nnature of the world, the soul, and so on, afford evidence of a\ngenuine, if subordinate, interest in these subjects. Epicurus likewise\ndivided his system into logic (which he called canonic), physics, and\nethics, yet the two former branches of thought are pursued with an\nobvious carelessness and absence of interest. It is evident that\nlearned {355} discussions bored Epicurus. His system is amiable and\nshallow. Knowledge for its own sake is not desired. Mathematics, he\nsaid, are useless, because they have no connexion with life. The\nlogic, or canonic, we may pass over completely, as possessing no\nelements of interest, and come at once to the physics.\n\n\n\nPhysics.\n\nPhysics interests Epicurus only from one point of view--its power to\nbanish superstitious fear from the minds of men. All supernatural\nreligion, he thought, operates for the most part upon mankind by means\nof fear. Men are afraid of the gods, afraid of retribution, afraid of\ndeath because of the stories of what comes after death. This incessant\nfear and anxiety is one of the chief causes of the unhappiness of men.\nDestroy it, and we have at least got rid of the prime hindrance to\nhuman happiness. We can only do this by means of a suitable doctrine\nof physics. What is necessary is to be able to regard the world as a\npiece of mechanism, governed solely by natural causes, without any\ninterference by supernatural beings, in which man is free to find his\nhappiness how and when he will, without being frightened by the bogeys\nof popular religion. For though the world is ruled mechanically, man,\nthought Epicurus in opposition to the Stoics, possesses free will, and\nthe problem of philosophy is to ascertain how he can best use this\ngift in a world otherwise mechanically governed. What he required,\ntherefore, was a purely mechanical philosophy. To invent such a\nphilosophy for himself was a task not suited to his indolence, and for\nwhich he could not pretend to possess the necessary {356}\nqualifications. Therefore he searched the past, and soon found what he\nwanted in the atomism of Democritus. This, as an entirely mechanical\nphilosophy, perfectly suited his ends, and the pragmatic spirit in\nwhich he chose his beliefs, not on any abstract grounds of their\nobjective truth, but on the basis of his subjective needs and personal\nwishes, will be noted. It is a sign of the times. When truth comes to\nbe regarded as something that men may construct in accordance with\ntheir real or imagined needs, and not in accordance with any objective\nstandard, we are well advanced upon the downward path of decay.\nEpicurus, therefore, adopted the atomism of Democritus _en bloc_, or\nwith trifling modifications. All things are composed of atoms and the\nvoid. Atoms differ only in shape and weight, not in quality. They fall\neternally through the void. By virtue of free will, they deviate\ninfinitesimally from the perpendicular in their fall, and so clash\nagainst one another. This, of course, is an invention of Epicurus, and\nformed no part of the doctrine of Democritus. It might be expected of\nEpicurus that his modifications would not be improvements. In the\npresent case, the attribution of free will to the atoms adversely\naffects the logical consistency of the mechanical theory. From the\ncollision of atoms arises a whirling movement out of which the world\nemerges. Not only the world, but all individual phenomena, are to be\nexplained mechanically. Teleology is rigorously excluded. In any\nparticular case, however, Epicurus is not interested to know what\nparticular causes determine a phenomenon. It is enough for him to be\nsure that it is wholly determined by mechanical causes, and that\nsupernatural agencies are excluded.\n\n{357}\n\nThe soul being composed of atoms which are scattered at death, a\nfuture life is not to be thought of. But this is to be regarded as the\ngreatest blessing. It frees us from the fear of death, and the fear of\na hereafter. Death is not an evil. For if death is, we are not; if we\nare, death is not. When death comes we shall not feel it, for is it\nnot the end of all feeling and consciousness? And there is no reason\nto fear now what we know that we shall not feel when it comes.\n\nHaving thus disposed of the fear of retribution in a future life,\nEpicurus proceeds to dispose of the fear of the interference of the\ngods in this life. One might have expected that Epicurus would for\nthis purpose have embraced atheism. But he does not deny the existence\nof the gods. On the contrary, he believed that there are innumerable\ngods. They have the form of men, because that is the most beautiful of\nall forms. They have distinctions in sex. They eat, drink, and talk\nGreek. Their bodies are composed of a substance like light. But though\nEpicurus allows them to exist, he is careful to disarm them, and to\nrob them of their fears. They live in the interstellar spaces, an\nimmortal, calm, and blessed existence. They do not intervene in the\naffairs of the world, because they are perfectly happy. Why should\nthey burden themselves with the control of that which nowise concerns\nthem? Theirs is the beatitude of a wholly untroubled joy.\n\n  \"Immortal are they, clothed with powers,\n     Not to be comforted at all,\n  Lords over all the fruitless hours,\n     Too great to appease, too high to appal,\n        Too far to call.\" [Footnote 17]\n\n[Footnote 17: A. C. Swinburne's _Felise_.]\n\n{358}\n\nMan, therefore, freed from the fear of death and the fear of the gods,\nhas no duty save to live as happily as he can during his brief space\nupon earth. We can quit the realm of physics with a light heart, and\nturn to what alone truly matters, ethics, the consideration of how man\nought to conduct his life.\n\n\nEthics.\n\nIf the Stoics were the intellectual successors of the Cynics, the\nEpicureans bear the same relation to the Cyrenaics. Like Aristippus,\nthey founded morality upon pleasure, but they differ because they\ndeveloped a purer and nobler conception of pleasure than the Cyrenaics\nhad known. Pleasure alone is an end in itself. It is the only good.\nPain is the only evil. Morality, therefore, is an activity which\nyields pleasure. Virtue has no value on its own account, but derives\nits value from the pleasure which accompanies it.\n\nThis is the only foundation which Epicurus could find, or desired to\nfind, for moral activity. This is his only ethical principle. The rest\nof the Epicurean ethics consists in the interpretation of the idea of\npleasure. And, firstly, by pleasure Epicurus did not mean, as the\nCyrenaics did, merely the pleasure of the moment, whether physical or\nmental. He meant the pleasure that endures throughout a lifetime, a\nhappy life. Hence we are not to allow ourselves to be enslaved by any\nparticular pleasure or desire. We must master our appetites. We must\noften forego a pleasure if it leads in the end to greater pain. We\nmust be ready to undergo pain for the sake of a greater pleasure to\ncome.\n\nAnd it was just for this reason, secondly, that the {359} Epicureans\nregarded spiritual and mental pleasures as far more important than\nthose of the body. For the body feels pleasure and pain only while\nthey last. The body has in itself neither memory nor fore-knowledge.\nIt is the mind which remembers and foresees. And by far the most\npotent pleasures and pains are those of remembrance and anticipation.\nA physical pleasure is a pleasure to the body only now. But the\nanticipation of a future pain is mental anxiety, the remembrance of a\npast joy is a present delight. Hence what is to be aimed at above all\nis a calm untroubled mind, for the pleasures of the body are\nephemeral, those of the spirit enduring. The Epicureans, like the\nStoics, preached the necessity of superiority to bodily pains and\nexternal circumstances. So a man must not depend for his happiness\nupon externals; he must have his blessedness in his own self. The wise\nman can be happy even in bodily torment, for in the inner tranquillity\nof his soul he possesses a happiness which far outweighs any bodily\npain. Yet innocent pleasures of sense are neither forbidden, nor to be\ndespised. The wise man will enjoy whatever he can without harm. Of all\nmental pleasures the Epicureans laid, perhaps, most stress upon\nfriendship. The school was not merely a collection of\nfellow-philosophers, but above all a society of friends.\n\nThirdly, the Epicurean ideal of pleasure tended rather towards a\nnegative than a positive conception of it. It was not the state of\nenjoyment that they aimed at, much less the excitement of the\nfeelings. Not the feverish pleasures of the world constituted their\nideal. They aimed rather at a negative absence of pain, at\ntranquillity, quiet calm, repose of spirit, undisturbed by fears and\n{360} anxieties. As so often with men whose ideal is pleasure, their\nview of the world was tinged with a gentle and even luxurious\npessimism. Positive happiness is beyond the reach of mortals. All that\nman can hope for is to avoid pain, and to live in quiet contentment.\n\nFourthly, pleasure does not consist in the multiplication of needs and\ntheir subsequent satisfaction. The multiplication of wants only\nrenders it more difficult to satisfy them. It complicates life without\nadding to happiness. We should have as few needs as possible. Epicurus\nhimself lived a simple life, and advised his followers to do the same.\nThe wise man, he said, living on bread and water, could vie with Zeus\nhimself in happiness. Simplicity, cheerfulness, moderation,\ntemperance, are the best means to happiness. The majority of human\nwants, and the example of the thirst for fame is quoted, are entirely\nunnecessary and useless.\n\nLastly, the Epicurean ideal, though containing no possibility of an\nexalted nobility, was yet by no means entirely selfish. A kindly,\nbenevolent temper appeared in these men. It is pleasanter, they said,\nto do a kindness than to receive one. There is little of the stern\nstuff of heroes, but there is much that is gentle and lovable, in the\namiable moralizings of these butterfly-philosophers.\n\n\n\n{361}\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE SCEPTICS\n\nScepticism is a semi-technical term in philosophy, and means the\ndoctrine which doubts or denies the possibility of knowledge. It is\nthus destructive of philosophy, since philosophy purports to be a form\nof knowledge. Scepticism appears and reappears at intervals in the\nhistory of thought. We have already met with it among the Sophists.\nWhen Gorgias said that, if anything exists, it cannot be known, this\nwas a direct expression of the sceptical spirit. And the Protagorean\n\"Man is the measure of all things\" amounts to the same thing, for it\nimplies that man can only know things as they appear to him, and not\nas they are in themselves. In modern times the most noted sceptic was\nDavid Hume, who attempted to show that the most fundamental categories\nof thought, such as substance and causality, are illusory, and thereby\nto undermine the fabric of knowledge. Subjectivism usually ends in\nscepticism. For knowledge is the relation of subject and object, and\nto lay exclusive emphasis upon one of its terms, the subject, ignoring\nthe object, leads to the denial of the reality of everything except\nthat which appears to the subject. This was so with the Sophists. And\nnow we have the reappearance of a similar {362} phenomenon. The\nSceptics, of whom we are about to treat, made their appearance at\nabout the same time as the Stoics and Epicureans. The subjective\ntendencies of these latter schools find their logical conclusion in\nthe Sceptics. Scepticism makes its appearance usually, but not always,\nwhen the spiritual forces of a race are in decay. When its spiritual\nand intellectual impulses are spent, the spirit flags, grows weary,\nloses confidence, begins to doubt its power of finding truth; and the\ndespair of truth is scepticism.\n\nPyrrho.\n\nThe first to introduce a thorough-going scepticism among the Greeks\nwas Pyrrho. He was born about 360 B.C., and was originally a painter.\nHe took part in the Indian expedition of Alexander the Great. He left\nno writings, and we owe our knowledge of his thoughts chiefly to his\ndisciple Timon of Phlius. His philosophy, in common with all\npost-Aristotelian systems, is purely practical in its outlook.\nScepticism, the denial of knowledge, is not posited on account of its\nspeculative interest, but only because Pyrrho sees in it the road to\nhappiness, and the escape from the calamities of life.\n\nThe proper course of the sage, said Pyrrho, is to ask himself three\nquestions. Firstly, he must ask what things are and how they are\nconstituted; secondly, how we are related to these things; thirdly,\nwhat ought to be our attitude towards them. As to what things are, we\ncan only answer that we know nothing. We only know how things appear\nto us, but of their inner substance we are ignorant. The same thing\nappears differently to different people, and therefore it is {363}\nimpossible to know which opinion is right. The diversity of opinion\namong the wise, as well as among the vulgar, proves this. To every\nassertion the contradictory assertion can be opposed with equally good\ngrounds, and whatever my opinion, the contrary opinion is believed by\nsomebody else who is quite as clever and competent to judge as I am.\nOpinion we may have, but certainty and knowledge are impossible. Hence\nour attitude to things (the third question), ought to be complete\nsuspense of judgment. We can be certain of nothing, not even of the\nmost trivial assertions. Therefore we ought never to make any positive\nstatements on any subject. And the Pyrrhonists were careful to import\nan element of doubt even into the most trifling assertions which they\nmight make in the course of their daily life. They did not say, \"it is\nso,\" but \"it seems so,\" or \"it appears so to me.\" Every observation\nwould be prefixed with a \"perhaps,\" or \"it may be.\"\n\nThis absence of certainty applies as much to practical as to\ntheoretical matters. Nothing is in itself true or false. It only\nappears so. In the same way, nothing is in itself good or evil. It is\nonly opinion, custom, law, which makes it so. When the sage realizes\nthis, he will cease to prefer one course of action to another, and the\nresult will be apathy, _\"ataraxia.\"_ All action is the result of\npreference, and preference is the belief that one thing is better than\nanother. If I go to the north, it is because, for one reason or\nanother, I believe that it is better than going to the south. Suppress\nthis belief, learn that the one is not in reality better than the\nother, but only appears so, and one would go in no direction at all.\nComplete suppression of opinion would mean complete {364} suppression\nof action, and it was at this that Pyrrho aimed. To have no opinions\nwas the sceptical maxim, because in practice it meant apathy, total\nquietism. All action is founded on belief, and all belief is delusion,\nhence the absence of all activity is the ideal of the sage. In this\napathy he will renounce all desires, for desire is the opinion that\none thing is better than another. He will live in complete repose, in\nundisturbed tranquillity of soul, free from all delusions. Unhappiness\nis the result of not attaining what one desires, or of losing it when\nattained. The wise man, being free from desires, is free from\nunhappiness. He knows that, though men struggle and fight for what\nthey desire, vainly supposing some things better than others, such\nactivity is but a futile struggle about nothing, for all things are\nequally indifferent, and nothing matters. Between health and sickness,\nlife and death, difference there is none. Yet in so far as the sage is\ncompelled to act, he will follow probability, opinion, custom, and\nlaw, but without any belief in the essential validity or truth of\nthese criteria.\n\n\n\nThe New Academy.\n\nThe scepticism founded by Pyrrho soon became extinct, but an\nessentially similar doctrine began to be taught in the school of\nPlato. After the death of Plato, the Academy continued, under various\nleaders, to follow in the path marked out by the founder. But, under\nthe leadership of Arcesilaus, scepticism was introduced into the\nschool, and from that time, therefore, it is usually known as the New\nAcademy, for though its historical continuity as a school was not\nbroken, its essential character underwent change. What especially\n{365} characterized the New Academy was its fierce opposition to the\nStoics, whom its members attacked as the chief dogmatists of the time.\nDogmatism, for us, usually means making assertions without proper\ngrounds. But since scepticism regards all assertions as equally\nill-grounded, the holding of any positive opinion whatever is by it\nregarded as dogmatism. The Stoics were the most powerful, influential,\nand forceful of all those who at that time held any positive\nphilosophical opinions. Hence they were singled out for attack by the\nNew Academy as the greatest of dogmatists. Arcesilaus attacked\nespecially their doctrine of the criterion of truth. The striking\nconviction which, according to the Stoics, accompanies truth, equally\naccompanies error. There is no criterion of truth, either in sense or\nin reason. \"I am certain of nothing,\" said Arcesilaus; \"I am not even\ncertain that I am certain of nothing.\"\n\nBut the Academics did not draw from their scepticism, as Pyrrho had\ndone, the full logical conclusion as regards action. Men, they\nthought, must act. And, although certainty and knowledge are\nimpossible, probability is a sufficient guide for action.\n\nCarneades is usually considered the greatest of the Academic Sceptics.\nYet he added nothing essentially new to their conclusions. He appears,\nhowever, to have been a man of singularly acute and powerful mind,\nwhose destructive criticism acted like a battering-ram not only upon\nStoicism, but upon all established philosophies. As examples of his\nthoughts may be mentioned the two following. Firstly, nothing can ever\nbe proved. For the conclusion must be proved by premises, which in\nturn require proof, and so _ad infinitum_. Secondly, {366} it is\nimpossible to know whether our ideas of an object are true, i.e.,\nwhether they resemble the object, because we cannot compare our idea\nwith the object itself. To do so would involve getting outside our own\nminds. We know nothing of the object except our idea of it, and\ntherefore we cannot compare the original and the copy, since we can\nsee only the copy.\n\n\n\nLater Scepticism.\n\nAfter a period of obliteration, Scepticism again revived in the\nAcademy. Of this last phase of Greek scepticism, Aenesidemus, a\ncontemporary of Cicero, is the earliest example, and later we have the\nwell-known names of Simplicius and Sextus Empiricus. The distinctive\ncharacter of later scepticism is its return to the position of Pyrrho.\nThe New Academy, in its eagerness to overthrow the Stoic dogmatism,\nhad fallen into a dogmatism of its own. If the Stoics dogmatically\nasserted, the Academics equally dogmatically denied. But wisdom lies\nneither in assertion nor denial, but in doubt. Hence the later\nSceptics returned to the attitude of complete suspense of judgment.\nMoreover, the Academics had allowed the possibility of probable\nknowledge. And even this is now regarded as dogmatism. Aenesidemus was\nthe author of the ten well-known arguments to show the impossibility\nof knowledge. They contain in reality, not ten, but only two or three\ndistinct ideas, several being merely different expressions of the same\nline of reasoning. They are as follows. (1) The feelings and\nperceptions of all living beings differ. (2) Men have physical and\nmental differences, which make things appear different to them. (3)\nThe different senses give different {367} impressions of things. (4)\nOur perceptions depend on our physical and intellectual conditions at\nthe time of perception. (5) Things appear different in different\npositions, and at different distances. (6) Perception is never direct,\nbut always through a medium. For example, we see things through the\nair. (7) Things appear different according to variations in their\nquantity, colour, motion, and temperature. (8) A thing impresses us\ndifferently when it is familiar and when it is unfamiliar. (9) All\nsupposed knowledge is predication. All predicates give us only the\nrelation of things to other things or to ourselves; they never tell us\nwhat the thing in itself is. (10) The opinions and customs of men are\ndifferent in different countries.\n\n\n\n{368}\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nTRANSITION TO NEO-PLATONISM\n\nIt has been doubted whether Neo-Platonism ought to be included in\nGreek philosophy at all, and Erdmann, in his \"History of Philosophy,\"\nplaces it in the medieval division. For, firstly, an interval of no\nless than five centuries separates the foundation of Neo-Platonism\nfrom the foundation of the preceding Greek schools, the Stoic, the\nEpicurean, and the Sceptic. How long a period this is will be seen if\nwe remember that the entire development of Greek thought from Thales\nto the Sceptics occupied only about three centuries. Plotinus, the\nreal founder of Neo-Platonism, was born in 205 A.D., so that it is, as\nfar as historical time is concerned, a product of the Christian era.\nSecondly, its character is largely un-Greek and un-European. The Greek\nelements are largely swamped by oriental mysticism. Its seat was not\nin Greece, but at Alexandria, which was not a Greek, but a\ncosmopolitan, city. Men of all races met here, and, in particular, it\nwas here that East and West joined hands, and the fusion of thought\nwhich resulted was Neo-Platonism. But, on the other hand, it seems\nwrong to include the thought of Plotinus and his successors in\nmedieval philosophy. The whole character of what is usually called\nmedieval philosophy was determined by its growth upon a distinctively\nChristian soil. It was {369} Christian philosophy. It was the product\nof the new era which Christianity had substituted for paganism.\nNeo-Platonism, on the other hand, is not only unchristian, but even\nanti-christian. The only Christian influence to be detected in it is\nthat of opposition. It is a survival of the pagan spirit in Christian\ntimes. In it the old pagan spirit struggles desperately against its\nyounger antagonist, and finally succumbs. In it we see the last gasp\nand final expiry of the ancient culture of the Greeks. So far as it is\nnot Asiatic in its elements, it draws its inspiration wholly from the\nphilosophies of the past, from the thought and culture of Greece. On\nthe whole, therefore, it is properly classified as the last school of\nGreek philosophy.\n\nThe long interval of time which elapsed between the rise of the\npreceding Greek schools, whose history we have traced, and the\nfoundation of Neo-Platonism, was filled up by the continued existence,\nin more or less fossilized form, of the main Greek schools, the\nAcademic, the Peripatetic, the Stoic, and the Epicurean, scattered and\nharried at times by the inroads of scepticism. It would be wearisome\nto follow in detail the development in these schools, and the more or\nless trifling disputes of which it consists. No new thought, no\noriginal principle, supervened. It is sufficient to say that, as time\nwent on, the differences between the schools became softened, and\ntheir agreements became more prominent. As intellectual vigour wanes,\nthere is always the tendency to forget differences, to rest, as the\norientals do, in the good-natured and comfortable delusion that all\nreligions and all philosophies really mean much the same thing. Hence\neclecticism became characteristic of the schools. {370} They did not\nkeep themselves distinct. We find Stoic doctrines taught by Academics,\nAcademic doctrines by Stoics. Only the Epicureans kept their race\npure, and stood aloof from the general eclecticism of the time.\nCertain other tendencies also made their appearance. There was a\nrecrudescence of Pythagoreanism, with its attendant symbolism and\nmysticism. There grew up a tendency to exalt the conception of God so\nhigh above the world, to widen so greatly the gulf which divides them,\nthat it was felt that there could be no community between the two,\nthat God could not act upon matter, nor matter upon God. Such\ninteraction would contaminate the purity of the Absolute. Hence all\nkinds of beings were invented, demons, spirits, and angels, intended\nto fill up the gap, and to act as intermediaries between God and the\nworld.\n\nAs an example of these latter tendencies, and as precursor of\nNeo-Platonism proper, Philo the Jew deserves a brief mention. He lived\nat Alexandria between 30 B.C. and 50 A.D. A staunch upholder of the\nreligion and scriptures of the Hebrew race, he believed in the verbal\ninspiration of the Old Testament. But he was learned in Greek studies,\nand thought that Greek philosophy was a dimmer revelation of those\ntruths which were more perfectly manifested in the sacred books of his\nown race. And just as Egyptian priests, out of national vanity, made\nout that Greek philosophy came from Egypt, just as orientals now\npretend that it came from India, so Philo declared that the origin of\nall that was great in Greek philosophy was to be found in Judea. Plato\nand Aristotle, he was certain, were followers of Moses, used the Old\nTestament, and gained their wisdom therefrom! {371} Philo's own ideas\nwere governed by the attempt to fuse Jewish theology and Greek\nphilosophy into a homogeneous system. It was Philo, therefore, who was\nlargely responsible for contaminating the pure clear air of Greek\nthought with the enervating fogs of oriental mysticism.\n\nPhilo taught that God, as the absolutely infinite, must be elevated\ncompletely above all that is finite. No name, no thought, can\ncorrespond to the infinity of God. He is the unthinkable and the\nineffable, and His nature is beyond the reach of reason. The human\nsoul reaches up to God, not through thought, but by means of a\nmystical inner illumination and revelation that transcends thought.\nGod cannot act directly upon the world, for this would involve His\ndefilement by matter and the limitation of His infinity. There are\ntherefore intermediate spiritual beings, who, as the ministers of God,\ncreated and control the world. All these intermediaries are included\nin the Logos, which is the rational thought which governs the world.\nThe relation of God to the Logos, and of the Logos to the world, is\none of progressive emanation. Clearly the idea of emanation is a mere\nmetaphor which explains nothing, and this becomes more evident when\nPhilo compares the emanations to rays of light issuing from an\neffulgent centre and growing less and less bright as they radiate\noutwards. When we hear this, we know in what direction we are moving.\nThis has the characteristic ring of Asiatic pseudo-philosophy. It\nreminds us forcibly of the Upanishads. We are passing out of the realm\nof thought, reason, and philosophy, into the dream-and-shadow-land of\noriental mysticism, where the heavy scents of beautiful poison flowers\ndrug the intellect and obliterate thought in a blissful and languorous\nrepose.\n\n\n\n{372}\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE NEO-PLATONISTS\n\nThe word Neo-Platonism is a misnomer. It does not stand for a genuine\nrevival of Platonism. The Neo-Platonists were no doubt the offspring\nof Plato, but they were the illegitimate offspring. The true greatness\nof Plato lay in his rationalistic idealism; his defects were mostly\nconnected with his tendency to myth and mysticism. The Neo-Platonists\nhailed his defects as the true and inner secret of his doctrine,\ndeveloped them out of all recognition, and combined them with the hazy\ndream-philosophies of the East. The reputed founder was Ammonius\nSaccas, but we may pass him over and come at once to his disciple\nPlotinus, who was the first to develop Neo-Platonism into a system,\nwas the greatest of all its exponents, and may be regarded as its real\nfounder. He was born in 205 A.D. at Lycopolis in Egypt, went to Rome\nin 245, founded his School there, and remained at the head of it till\nhis death in 270. He left extensive writings which have been\npreserved.\n\nPlato had shown that the idea of the One, exclusive of all\nmultiplicity, was an impossible abstraction. Even to say \"the One is,\"\ninvolves the duality of the One. The Absolute Being can be no abstract\nunity, but only a unity in multiplicity. Plotinus begins by ignoring\nthis {373} supremely important philosophical principle. He falls back\nupon the lower level of oriental monism. God, he thinks, is absolutely\nOne. He is the unity which lies beyond all multiplicity. There is in\nhim no plurality, no movement, no distinction. Thought involves the\ndistinction between object and subject; therefore the One is above and\nbeyond thought. Nor is the One describable in terms of volition or\nactivity. For volition involves the distinction between the willer and\nthe willed, activity between the actor and that upon which he acts.\nGod, therefore, is neither thought, nor volition, nor activity. He is\nbeyond all thought and all being. As absolutely infinite, He is also\nabsolutely indeterminate. All predicates limit their subject, and\nhence nothing can be predicated of the One. He is unthinkable, for all\nthought limits and confines that which is thought. He is the ineffable\nand inconceivable. The sole predicates which Plotinus applies to Him\nare the One and the Good. He sees, however, that these predicates, as\nmuch as any others, limit the infinite. He regards them, therefore,\nnot as literally expressing the nature of the infinite, but as\nfiguratively shadowing it forth. They are applied by analogy only. We\ncan, in truth, know nothing of the One, except that it _is_.\n\nNow it is impossible to derive the world from a first principle of\nthis kind. As being utterly exalted above the world, God cannot enter\ninto the world. As absolutely infinite, He can never limit Himself to\nbecome finite, and so give rise to the world of objects. As absolutely\nOne, the many can never issue out of Him. The One cannot create the\nworld, for creation is an activity, and the One is immutable and\nexcludes all {374} activity. As the infinite first principle of all\nthings, the One must be regarded as in some sense the source of all\nbeing. And yet how it can give rise to being is inconceivable, since\nany such act destroys its unity and infinity. We saw once for all, in\nthe case of the Eleatics, that it is fatal to define the Absolute as\nunity exclusive of all multiplicity, as immutable essence exclusive of\nall process, and that if we do so we cut off all hope of showing how\nthe world has issued from the Absolute. It is just the same with\nPlotinus. There is in his system the absolute contradiction that the\nOne is regarded, on the one hand, as source of the world, and on the\nother as so exalted above the world that all relationship to the world\nis impossible. We come, therefore, to a complete deadlock at this\npoint. We can get no further. We can find no way to pass from God to\nthe world. We are involved in a hopeless, logical contradiction. But\nPlotinus was a mystic, and logical absurdities do not trouble mystics.\nBeing unable to explain how the world can possibly arise out of the\nvacuum of the One, he has recourse, in the oriental style, to poetry\nand metaphors. God, by reason of His super-perfection, \"overflows\"\nHimself, and this overflow becomes the world. He \"sends forth a beam\"\nfrom Himself. As flame emits light, as snow cold, so do all lower\nbeings issue from the One. Thus, without solving the difficulty,\nPlotinus deftly smothers it in flowery phrases, and quietly passes on\nhis way.\n\nThe first emanation from the One is called the Nous. This Nous is\nthought, mind, reason. We have seen that Plato regarded the Absolute\nitself as thought. For Plotinus, however, thought is derivative. The\nOne is beyond thought, and thought issues forth from the One {375} as\nfirst emanation. The Nous is not discursive thought, however. It is\nnot in time. It is immediate apprehension, or intuition. Its object is\ntwofold. Firstly, it thinks the One, though its thought thereof is\nnecessarily inadequate. Secondly, it thinks itself. It is the thought\nof thought, like Aristotle's God. It corresponds to Plato's world of\nIdeas. The Ideas of all things exist in the Nous, and not only the\nIdeas of classes, but of every individual thing.\n\nFrom the Nous, as second emanation, proceeds the world-soul. This is,\nin Erdmann's phrase, a sort of faded-out copy of the Nous, and it is\noutside time, incorporeal, and indivisible. It works rationally, but\nyet is not conscious. It has a two-fold aspect, inclining upwards to\nthe Nous on the one hand, and downwards to the world of nature on the\nother. It produces out of itself the individual souls which inhabit\nthe world.\n\nThe idea of emanation is essentially a poetical metaphor, and not a\nrational concept. It is conceived poetically by Plotinus as resembling\nlight which radiates from a bright centre, and grows dimmer as it\npasses outwards, till it shades off at last into total darkness. This\ntotal darkness is matter. Matter, as negation of light, as the limit\nof being, is in itself not-being. Thus the crucial difficulty of all\nGreek philosophy, the problem of the whence of matter, the dualism of\nmatter and thought, which we have seen Plato and Aristotle struggling\nin vain to subjugate, is loosely and lightly slurred over by Plotinus\nwith poetic metaphors and roseate phrases.\n\nMatter Plotinus considers to be the ground of plurality and the cause\nof all evil. Hence the object of life can {376} only be, as with\nPlato, to escape from the material world of the senses. The first step\nin this process of liberation is _\"katharsis,\"_ purification, the\nfreeing of oneself from the dominion of the body and the senses. This\nincludes all the ordinary ethical virtues. The second step is thought,\nreason, and philosophy. In the third stage the soul rises above\nthought to an intuition of the Nous. But all these are merely\npreparatory for the supreme and final stage of exaltation into the\nAbsolute One, by means of trance, rapture, ecstasy. Here all thought\nis transcended, and the soul passes into a state of unconscious swoon,\nduring which it is mystically united with God. It is not a thought of\nGod, it is not even that the soul sees God, for all such conscious\nactivities involve the separation of the subject from its object. In\nthe ecstasy all such disunion and separation are annihilated. The soul\ndoes not look upon God from the outside. It becomes one with God. It\nis God. Such mystical raptures can, in the nature of the case, only be\nmomentary, and the soul sinks back exhausted to the levels of ordinary\nconsciousness. Plotinus claimed to have been exalted in this divine\necstasy several times during his life.\n\nAfter Plotinus Neo-Platonism continues with modifications in his\nsuccessors, Porphyry, Iamblicus, Syrianus, Proclus, and others.\n\nThe essential character of Neo-Platonism comes out in its theory of\nthe mystical exaltation of the subject to God. It is the extremity of\nsubjectivism, the forcing of the individual subject to the centre of\nthe universe, to the position of the Absolute Being. And it follows\nnaturally upon the heels of Scepticism. In the Sceptics all faith in\nthe power of thought and reason had finally died out. They {377} took\nas their watchword the utter impotence of reason to reach the truth.\nFrom this it was but a step to the position that, if we cannot attain\ntruth by the natural means of thought, we will do so by a miracle. If\nordinary consciousness will not suffice, we will pass beyond ordinary\nconsciousness altogether. Neo-Platonism is founded upon despair, the\ndespair of reason. It is the last frantic struggle of the Greek spirit\nto reach, by desperate means, by force, the point which it felt it had\nfailed to reach by reason. It seeks to take the Absolute by storm. It\nfeels that where sobriety has failed, the violence of spiritual\nintoxication may succeed.\n\nIt was natural that philosophy should end here. For philosophy is\nfounded upon reason. It is the effort to comprehend, to understand, to\ngrasp the reality of things intellectually. Therefore it cannot admit\nanything higher than reason. To exalt intuition, ecstasy, or rapture,\nabove thought--this is death to philosophy. Philosophy in making such\nan admission, lets out its own life-blood, which is thought. In\nNeo-Platonism, therefore, ancient philosophy commits suicide. This is\nthe end. The place of philosophy is taken henceforth by religion.\nChristianity triumphs, and sweeps away all independent thought from\nits path. There is no more philosophy now till a new spirit of enquiry\nand wonder is breathed into man at the Renaissance and the\nReformation. Then the new era begins, and gives birth to a new\nphilosophic impulse, under the influence of which we are still living.\nBut to reach that new era of philosophy, the human spirit had first to\npass through the arid wastes of Scholasticism.\n\n\n\nSUBJECT INDEX\n\nA\n\nAbortions, 291.\n\nAbsolute, The;\n  as many in one, 70-71, 197;\n  as reason, 240-1, 307;\n  as knowable, 299;\n  as form, 307.\nActuality, 279.\nAir, as first principle, 28.\nAntinomy, 54.\nAppearance, 61.\nAristocracy, 324.\nAsceticism, defect of, 317.\n_Ataraxia_, 363.\nAtoms, 88 et seq, 356.\nAufklaerung, 119-120.\n\n\nB\n\nBecoming;\n  Parmenides on, 44;\n  Heracleitus on, 73;\n  Empedocles on, 82;\n  Plato on, 192;\n  Aristotle on, 279-280\n\nBeing;\n  Parmenides on, 44 et seq;\n  Plato on, 191, 197.\n\n\nC\n\nCausation, 6-7;\n  as explanation, 64;\n  Aristotle's doctrine of, 267-73.\nClassification, 199.\nComedy, 330-1.\nConcepts;\n  defined, 143;\n  identified with definitions, 145;\n  Socrates's doctrine of, 143-6;\n  objectivity of, 183;\n  Stoics on, 345.\nCondensation, 28.\nContract, the social, 323.\nCosmopolitanism, 353.\nCounter-earth, 38.\nCriterion, The Stoic, 345-6.\n\n\nD\n\nDarwinism, 293.\nDeath, problem of, 76-7.\nDemocracy, 123, 325.\nDialectic, 55, 183, 199, 204.\nDichotomy, 200.\nDivision, 199.\nDualism;\n  defined, 63;\n  of Eleatics, 68-70;\n  of Anaxagoras, 105;\n  of Plato, 238;\n  of Aristotle, 334-5.\n\n\nE\n\nEclipses, 103.\nEcstasy, 376-7.\nEfficient cause, 269;\n  identified with final cause, 273-4.\nElements, The Four, 83.\nEmanation, 371, 374-5.\nEmpty Space, 47, 89, 291-2\nEros, 204.\n\nEvolution;\n  Anaximander and, 27;\n  Aristotle's doctrine of, 293-9, 307-12, 333, 336-7;\n  Spencer's doctrine of, 308 et seq.\n\n{379}\n\nEvil, problem of, 240-1.\nExplanation, scientific, 64-5.\nExternal goods, value of, 159, 31-6, 350, 359.\n\n\nF\n\nFaith, age of, 151.\nFamily, The; Aristotle on, 324.\nFinal cause, 269;\n  identified with formal cause, 273.\nFire, as first principle, 78, 347.\nFirst Cause, 66.\nFirst Mover, 284-5.\nForm, Aristotle's doctrine of, 267, 274-8.\nFormal cause, 269;\n  identified with final cause, 273.\nFree Will, 320, 348, 355.\nFriendship, 225, 359.\n\n\nG\n\nGenius, artistic, 231.\nGeocentric hypothesis, 38, 211, 305.\nGeometry, 3-5, 275.\nGod;\n  Xenophanes on, 41-2;\n  Socrates on, 132;\n  Plato on, 202-4;\n  Aristotle on, 283-8;\n  as first mover, 284-5;\n  as thought of thought, 285-6;\n  relation of, to the world, 282;\n  Plotinus on, 373.\nGods, The;\n  Democritus on, 92;\n  Protagoras on, 112;\n  Socrates on, 132;\n  Epicurus on, 357.\nGood,\n  The Idea of, 198, 200-1, 244;\n  as God, 203.\nGravitation, 294-5.\n\nH\n\nHabit, 7.\nHappiness;\n  Antisthenes on, 159;\n  Plato on, 220-1;\n  Aristotle on, 314-15;\n  Stoics on, 351;\n  Epicurus on, 358, 361;\n  distinguished from pleasure, 221.\nHeavenly bodies, The;\n  Anaximander on, 26;\n  Pythagoreans on, 38;\n  Xenophanes on, 43;\n  Anaxagoras on, 103;\n  Plato on, 211;\n  Aristotle on, 305-6.\nHeliocentric hypothesis, 38.\nHinduism, 71, 197, 308, 312-13.\n\n\nI\n\nIdealism;\n  of Parmenides, 47 et seq;\n  essentials of, 48, 49, 235;\n  Plato as founder of, 235.\nIdeas,\n  Theory of, 174, 183-207;\n  Aristotle on, 262-5.\nImagination, 300.\nImmortality;\n  Atomists on, 92;\n  Plato on, 175, 212;\n  Aristotle on, 302-3;\n  Epicurus on, 357.\nIndian Thought, 14-16; see also Hinduism.\nIndividualism, 323.\nInduction, 144, 146, 190, 206, 260.\nInfinite divisibility;\n  Zeno on, 56;\n  Anaxagoras on, 96;\n  Aristotle on, 292-3;\n  Hume on, 57-8;\n  Kant on, 57;\n  Hegel on, 58-60.\nInorganic matter, 294-6.\nInsight, moral, 318.\nIntuition, 153, 375, 377.\nIrony, of Socrates, 130.\n\nJ\n\nJudaism, 71.\nJustice;\n  Pythagoreans on, 37;\n  Plato on, 224;\n  Aristotle on, 319-20.\n\n{380}\n\nK\n\nKnowledge;\n  of the Infinite, 7-8;\n  of the Absolute, 299;\n  through concepts, 146, 182;\n  Plato on, 177-82;\n  as recollection, 212-17;\n  necessary knowledge, 213-15.\n\n\nL\n\nLife; Aristotle's doctrine of, 296.\nLimit, The, 36.\nLove, Platonic, 204-6.\n\n\nM\n\nMarriage, 224.\nMaterial cause, 268.\nMaterialism;\n  origin of, 9-11;\n  of Ionics, 23;\n  defect of, 66.\nMatter;\n  indestructibility of, 50;\n  Platonic, 208;\n  Aristotle's doctrine of, 275-9;\n  Plotinus on, 375.\nMechanical theories, 88.\nMemory, 300.\nMonarchy, 324.\nMonism, 62-7.\nMonstrosities,29l.\nMorality;\n  founded on reason, 118.\nMotion;\n  Zeno on, 54;\n  Aristotle on, 29l.\nMultiplicity;\n  Zeno on, 53.\nMysticism, 12, 171, 371, 372, 374, 376.\nMyths, of Plato, 170-71, 208, 209, 210, 211.\n\nN\n\nNecessary Knowledge, 213-15;\n  necessary concepts, 242.\nNon-sensuous thought, 8-13.\nNot-being, 44, 75, 76, 77, 89, 191, 208, 279, 280.\nNous;\n  of Anaxagoras, 97-105;\n  of Plotinus, 375.\nNumbers, as first principle, 36.\n\nO\n\nObject, the right of the, 122.\nObjectivity;\n  defined, 113;\n  of concepts, 183.\nOligarchy, 324.\nOpinion, 181-2.\nOrganic matter, organism, 294-6.\n\nP\n\nPantheism, 312.\nParticipation, 194, 236.\nPersonality, 286.\nPleasure, 161-2, 218-19, 350, 358;\n  distinguished from happiness, 221.\nPotentiality, 279.\nPragmatism, 121.\nProtestantism, 123.\n\nQ\n\nQuality, mechanical explanation of, 87-8.\n\nR\n\nRarefaction, 28.\nReality;\n  distinguished from appearance, 61;\n  distinguished from existence, 60-1, 246-7.\nReason;\n  distinguished from sense, 45, 79, 112, 113, 115, 239, 290;\n  distinguished from cause, 64, 76;\n  as universal, 113;\n  as concepts, 144;\n  supremacy of, 153-4;\n  as basis of love, 205-6;\n  as Absolute, 240-1;\n  passive and active, 300;\n  as basis of morals, 118, 317, 349-50.\n\n{381}\n\nRecollection;\n  knowledge as, 212-17;\n  Aristotle on, 300.\nReincarnation; see Transmigration.\nReligion;\n  relation to philosophy, 14-15, 207;\n  Xenophanes on, 41-2;\n  Heracleitus on, 79;\n  Democritus on, 92;\n  decay of Greek, 107-8.\n\nRhetoric, 111, 122.\n\nS\n\nScepticism, 343, 361.\nSensation;\n  particularism of, 113;\n  distinguished from reason, 45, 79, 112, 113, 115, 239, 290.\nSlavery, 225, 321.\nSoul;\n  Heracleitus on, 78-9;\n  Atomists on, 92;\n  Plato on, 211-17;\n  Aristotle on, 296 et seq;\n  Stoics on, 348;\n  Epicureans on, 357.\nSpace, 3-4, 56; see also Empty space.\nSphere, of Empedocles, 84.\nState, The;\n  Sophists on, 119;\n  Plato's, 201-2, 225-29;\n  Aristotle on, 320-5.\nSubject, the right of the, 122, 152.\nSubjectivism, Preface, 340-3, 361, 376.\nSubjectivity, defined, 113.\nSubstance;\n  defined, 186-7;\n  Ideas as, 186-8;\n  Aristotle's doctrine of 265-7.\nSuicide, 160, 350.\n_Summum Bonum_, 222, 314.\nSymbolism, 12.\n\n\nT\n\nTeleology;\n  defined,101;\n  of Anaxagoras, 104, 105;\n  of Plato, 201-2;\n  of Aristotle, 289.\nTheosophists, 153-4.\nTime, 282, 292.\nTimocracy, 324.\nTragedy, 330-1.\nTransmigration, 17, 32, 85, 212, 217, 301.\nTyranny, 324.\n\n\nU\n\nUniversals, 188.\nUtilitarianism, 220-21, 315.\n\nV\n\nVirtue;\n  as knowledge, 147, 157;\n  teachable, 149;\n  unity of, 149, 223, 351;\n  as sole good, 159-60, 350;\n  relation to pleasure, 161, 218-19;\n  customary and philosophic, 220;\n  dianoetic, 316, 317;\n  as the mean, 317.\nVoid, The, 90.\nVortex, 90, 102.\n\n\nW\n\nWater, as first principle, 21.\nWise Man, The;\n  of the Cynics, 160;\n  of the Cyrenaics, 162;\n  of the Stoics, 351.\nWomen, status of, 224.\nWorld-Soul, The, 210, 211, 375.\n\n\n{382}\n\nINDEX OF NAMES\n\nA\n\nAbdera, 86, 112.\nAcademy, The, 167, 249, 250;\n  The New, 364-6.\nAegean, The, 18.\nAenesidemus, 366-7.\nAEsculapius, 141.\nAgrigentum, 81.\nAlcibiades, 132, 133.\nAlexander the Great, 251, 252, 339, 340, 362.\nAlexandria, 368, 370.\nAmmonius Saccas, 372.\nAmyntas, 249.\nAnaxagoras, 22, 30, 82, 86, 91, 94-105, 106, 120, 137, 166,\n            271, 272, 273, 340\nAnaximander, 20, 22, 23, 24-7, 28, 29.\nAnaximenes, 20, 22, 23, 27-30, 82, 83, 102, 271.\nAndronicus, 262.\nAnniceris, 162, 167.\nAntiochis, 134.\nAntisthenes, 156, 158, 159.\nAnytus, 133.\nAppolonia, 30.\nApollodorus, 140.\n_Apology, The_, 129, 133, 134, 172, 173.\nArcesilaus, 364, 365.\nArginusae, 134.\nAristippus, 156, 161, 358.\nAristophanes, 135, 152.\nAristotle, 14, 17, 18, 19,23, 38, 42 (footnote), 55, 95, 98, 99,\n           106, 122, 148, 150, 191, 193, 231, 233, 248, 249-338,\n           339, 340, 341, 342, 345, 346, 350, 370;\n  on Thales, 21-2;\n  on Anaxagoras, 104, 105;\n  on Socrates, 147,317,320;\n  on Plato, 193, 262-5, 323-4.\n\nAsia Minor, 18, 20, 72, 94, 95, 250.\nAssyria, 13.\nAtarneus, 250.\nAthens, 94, 95, 112, 127, 128, 129, 131, 133, 134, 135, 136,\n        137, 165, 166, 167, 169, 249, 250, 251, 252, 254, 344.\nAtomists, The, 82, 86-93, 95, 96, 97, 103, 104.\nAurelius, Marcus, 14, 344.\n\n\nB\n\nBabylon, 252.\nBabylonia, 86.\nBacon, Francis, 257-8.\n_Banquet, The_, 132. See also _Symposium, The_.\nBentham, 220.\n_Bhagavat Gita, The,_ 15.\nBrahman, 15, 64, 170, 197.\nBuddha, The, 213.\nBurnet Prof., Preface, 25, 28, 46, 91, 98.\n\n{383}\n\n\nC\n\nCarneades, 365.\nChairephon, 129.\nChalcis, 252.\n_Charmides, The_, 172, 173.\nChina, 13.\nChristianity, 69, 70, 71, 101, 369, 377.\nChrysippus, 344.\nCicero, 366.\nClazomenae, 94.\nCleanthes, 344.\n_Clouds, The_, of Aristophanes, 135.\nColeridge, S. T., 263.\nColophon, 41.\nCopernicus, 38.\nCrates, 344.\nCratylus, 166.\nCritias, 118.\nCrito, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141.\n_Crito, The_, 172, 173.\nCroesus, 20, 21.\nCrotona, 31, 33.\nCynics, The, 156, 158-60, 163, 316, 342, 351, 353, 358.\nCyprus, 344.\nCyrenaics, The, 156, 160-2, 163, 218, 342, 358.\nCyrene, 167.\n\n\nD\n\nDarwin, 308.\nDelium, 131.\nDelphi, 129.\nDemocritus, 22, 49, 50, 52, 86, 93, 104, 108, 112, 234, 342,\n            354, 356.\nDiogenes of Apollonia, 30.\nDiogenes the Cynic, 159, 351, 352.\nDionysius the Elder, 167, 168.\nDionysius the Younger, 168, 169.\n\n\nE\n\nEchechrates, 139, 141.\nEgypt, 13, 16, 17, 31, 86, 125, 167, 372.\nElea, 40, 41, 43, 52, 60.\nEleatics, The, 22, 23, 40-71, 72, 73, 75, 79, 89, 109, 112, 117,\n               162, 164, 166, 173, 174, 175, 193, 195, 196, 197,\n               234, 235, 246, 272, 279, 374.\nEleusinian mysteries, 72.\nEmpedocles, 17, 22, 49, 52, 81-5, 86, 87-8, 89, 95, 96,\n            97, 103, 271, 272, 329.\nEmpiricus, Sextus, 366.\nEngland, 121.\nEphesus, 72, 73.\nEpictetus, 14, 344.\nEpicureans, The, 89, 90, 91, 342, 343, 354-60, 362, 368, 369.\nEpicurus, 342, 345-60.\nErdmann, 46, 98, 368, 375.\n_Ethics, The_, of Aristotle, 319.\nEuboea, 252.\nEuclid, the geometrician, 33, 113.\nEuclid of Megara, 156, 162-3, 166, 167.\nEuripides, 94.\n_Euthyphro, The_, 172.\n\n\nF\n\nFrance, 121.\n\n\nG\n\nGorgias, 110, 111, 116-18, 361.\n_Gorgias, The_, 174, 177.\nGrant, Sir A., 295 (footnote).\nGreece, 13, 16, 17, 18, 33, 41, 107, 109, 112, 122, 168, 220,\n        252, 339, 344, 368.\nGrote, 98.\n\n\n{384}\n\nH\n\nHalys, 21.\nHegel, 38, 46, 55, 58-60, 312 (footnote), 333.\nHegesias, 162.\nHellas, 41.\nHeracleitus, 22, 72-80, 82, 86, 108, 112, 116, 164, 166, 192,\n             193, 234, 271, 333, 342, 347.\nHermeias, 250.\nHerpyllis, 251.\nHesiod, 41, 72, 77.\nHippias, 110.\n_Hippias Minor, The_, 172.\nHippo, 30.\nHomer, 41, 72.\nHume, David, 57, 58, 361.\nHylicists, The, 24.\n\n\nI\n\nIamblicus, 376.\nIdaeus, 30.\nIndia, 14, 16, 17.\nIonia, 20, 41, 137.\nIonics, The, 20-30, 61, 62, 82, 83, 271, 272.\nIslam, 71.\nItaly, 18, 31, 40, 167.\n\n\nJ\n\nJapan, 125.\n+Jatakas, The+, 213.\nJudaea, 370.\n\n\nK\n\nKant, 55, 57, 213, 215.\nKepler, 65.\nKrishna, 15.\n\n\nL\n\n_Laches, The_, 172, 173.\nLampsacus, 95.\nLeon, 134-5.\nLeucippus, 86, 88, 89, 91, 104.\nLondon, 189.\nLucretius, 14.\nLyceum, The, 251.\nLycon, 133.\nLycopolis, 372.\n_Lysis, The_, 172, 173.\n\n\nM\n\nMacedonia, 249, 252, 339.\nMacran, H. S., 312 (footnote).\nMegara, 166, 167, 172, 173.\nMegarics, The, 156, 162-3.\nMelissus, 46.\nMelitus, 133.\n_Memorabilia, The_, 142.\n_Meno, The_, 216.\nMeru, 15, 16.\n_Metaphysics, The_, of Aristotle, 19, 42, 105, 253, 254, 261, 271.\nMetchnikoff, 76.\nMiletus, 20, 24, 27.\nMill, J. S., 220, 221, 269.\nMilton, 330.\nMoses, 370.\nMytilene, 251.\n\n\nN\n\nNapoleon, 252.\nNeo-Platonists, The, 342, 343, 368, 369, 372-377.\nNewton, 65.\nNichomachus, 249, 251\nNietzsche, 156.\n\n\nO\n\nOrphics, The, 17, 32.\n\n\nP\n\nParamatman, 15.\nParmenides, 13,40,41, 42, 43, 52, 53, 57, 72, 81, 82, 86, 117,\n             162, 163, 164, 167, 234.\n_Parmenides, The_, 169, 175, 176, 177, 195, 244.\nPeloponnese, The, 103.\n\n{385}\n\nPeloponnesian War, The, 131, 165.\nPericles, 94, 95, 137.\nPeripatetics, The, 251, 369.\nPersians, The, 251.\n_Phaedo, The_, 137, 175, 177.\n_Phaedrus, The_, 172, 175, 177.\n_Philebus, The_, 175, 203.\nPhilip of Macedonia, 251.\nPhilo the Jew, 370-1.\nPhilolaus, 37.\nPhlius, 262.\nPlato, 1, 13, 17, 19, 23, 38, 50, 51, 52, 55, 95, 99, 101, 104,\n       106, 122, 129, 132, 133, 137, 141, 142, 150, 156, 164-248,\n       249, 250, 253, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 262-5, 267, 269,\n       271, 272, 273, 275, 281, 282, 286, 287, 288, 290, 291, 298,\n       299, 301, 303, 304, 314, 319, 321, 323, 324, 325, 327, 329,\n       331, 332, 334, 335, 336, 338, 341, 342, 345, 346, 350, 364,\n       370, 372, 374, 375.\nPlotinus, 368, 372-6.\nPorphyry, 376.\nProclus, 376.\n_Poetics, The_, of Aristotle, 326.\nPolus, 118-9.\nPolemo, 344.\nProdicus, 110, 121.\nProtagoras, 110, 112-6, 118, 121, 153, 154, 161, 178, 179,\n            181, 217, 361.\n_Protagoras, The_, 172.\nProxenus, 249.\nPyrrho, 343, 362-4, 365, 366.\nPythagoras, 31, 32, 33, 34, 72, 81, 301.\nPythagoreans, The, 17, 22, 31-9, 43, 44, 61, 62, 109, 164,\n                   167, 169, 191, 209, 217, 272, 291, 370.\nPythias, 251.\n\n\nR\n\n_Republic, The_, Preface, 168, 175, 177, 201-2, 225-9, 230, 231.\nRome, 14, 344, 372.\nRotunda, The, 134, 135.\n\n\nS\n\nSalamis, 134, 135.\nSatan, Milton's, 330.\nSceptics, The, 7 (footnote), 342, 361-7, 368, 376.\nSchopenhauer,72.\nSchwegler, 46, 353.\nSeneca, 14, 344.\nSeven Sages, The, 21.\nShaw, Bernard, 126, 156.\nSicily, 18, 81, 112, 176, 168.\nSimplicius, 366.\nSocrates, 18, 19, 51, 73, 95, 110, 122, 127-54, 155, 156, 157,\n          158, 159, 160, 161, 163, 164, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172,\n          173, 182, 183, 193, 223, 234, 252, 317, 320, 351, 352.\nSolon, 20.\n_Sophist, The_, 175, 176, 177, 195.\nSophists, The, 18, 19, 24, 106-26, 127, 128, 135, 142, 144,\n               145, 150, 151, 152, 153, 161, 166, 174, 178,\n               182, 185, 218, 219, 221, 234, 343, 361.\nSparta, 339.\nSpencer, Herbert, 2, 308-12.\nSpeusippus, 250.\nSpinoza, 66, 71, 197.\nStagirus, 249.\n_Statesman, The_, 175, 176.\nStilpo, 344.\nStoa, The, 344.\nStoics, The, 341, 342, 343, 344-53, 358, 359, 362, 365, 366,\n             368, 369, 370.\nSwinburne, A. C., 357.\n\n{386}\n\n_Symposium, The_, 175, 205-6, 231. See also _Banquet, The_.\nSyracuse, 42, 167, 168, 169.\nSyrianus, 376.\n\n\nT\n\nThales 20-4, 27, 28, 29, 30, 36, 44, 82, 120, 271, 368.\nThebes, 252.\nThessaly, 137.\nThirty Tyrants, The, 134, 165.\nThrace, 86, 249.\nThrasymachus, 118-9.\n_Timaeus, The_, 38, 171, 175, 177, 190, 208, 210.\nTimon of Phlius, 362.\nTolstoi, 230.\n\n\nU\n\n_Upanishads, The_, 14, 15, 170, 371.\n\n\nW\n\nWallace, 38 (footnote).\nWells, H. G., Preface.\nWilde, Oscar, 126, 156.\n\n\nX\n\nXenocrates, 250, 251.\nXenophanes, 40-3, 72, 79, 108, 340.\nXenophon, 132, 141, 142.\n\n\nZ\n\nZeller, 98, 101, 176, 202, 209, 224.\nZeno the Eleatic, 40, 52-60, 72, 117, 163, 246, 292.\nZeno the Stoic, 344, 354.\nZeus, 360.\n\n\n\nGLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS\nBY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.\n\n\n{387}\n\nNEW WORKS ON PHILOSOPHY\n\n\nTHE IDEA OF PROGRESS: An Inquiry into its\nOrigin and Growth. By Professor J. B. BURY,\nD. Litt. 8vo.\n\n\nMIND-ENERGY. By Professor HENRI BERGSON.\nTranslated by Professor H. WILDON CARR, in\ncollaboration with the Author. 8vo.\n\n\nIMPLICATION AND LINEAR INFERENCE. By\nBERNARD BOSANQUET, LL.D., F.B.A. Crown 8vo.\n7s. 6d. net.\n\n\nSPACE, TIME, AND DEITY. Gifford Lectures at\nGlasgow, 1916-1918. By Professor S. ALEXANDER,\nM.A., LL.D., F.RA. 2 vols. 8vo.\n\n\nTHE REIGN OF RELIGION IN CONTEMPORARY\nPHILOSOPHY. By Professor S. RADHAKRISHNAN,\nM.A. Extra Crown 8vo.\n\n\nESSAYS IN CRITICAL REALISM: A Co-operative\nStudy of the Problem of Knowledge. By\nProfessors DURANT DRAKE, ARTHUR O. LOVEJOY,\nJAMES BISSETT PRATT, ARTHUR K. ROGERS,\nGEORGE SANTAYANA, ROY WOOD SELLARS, C. A.\nSTRONG. 8vo.\n\nLONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.\n\n{388}\n\nWORKS ON PHILOSOPHY\n-----\nBy Prof. HENRI BERGSON\n\nCREATIVE EVOLUTION. Translated by ARTHUR MITCHELL,\nPh.D. 8vo. 12s. 6d. net.\n\nLAUGHTER: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic.\nAuthorised Translation from the Sixth Edition by CLOUDESLEY\nBRERETON, L. es L. (Paris), M.A. (Cantab.); and FRED\nROTHWELL, B.A. (London). Extra Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d.\nnet.\n\nAN INTRODUCTION TO METAPHYSICS. Translated by\nT. E. HULME. Crown 8vo. 2d. 6d. net.\n\n-----\n\nA CRITICAL EXPOSITION OF BERGSON'S PHILOSOPHY.\nBy J. M'KELLAR STEWART, B.A., D.Phil. Extra Crown 8vo.\n6s. 6d. net.\n\n\nHENRI BERGSON. An Account of his Life and Philosophy.\nBy ALGOT RUHE and NANCY MARGARET PAUL. With\nPortrait. Extra Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. net.\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGE. A Study of the Fundamental\nPrinciple of the Philosophy of Bergson.\nBy H. WILDON CARR. 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.\n\n\nBy BENEDETTO CROCE\n\nPHILOSOPHY OF THE PRACTICAL. Economic and Ethic\nTranslated by DOUGLAS AINSLIE, B.A. 8vo. 14s. net.\n\n\nAESTHETIC AS SCIENCE OF EXPRESSION AND GENERAL\nLINGUISTIC. Translated by DOUGLAS AINSLIE, B.A\n8vo. 12s. 6d. net.\n\n\nLOGIC AS THE SCIENCE OF THE PURE CONCEPT\nTranslated by DOUGLAS AINSLIE, B.A. 8vo. 14s. net.\n\n\nWHAT IS LIVING AND WHAT IS DEAD OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF HEGEL.\nTranslated by DOUGLAS AINSLIE B.A. 8vo. 10s. net.\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF BENEDETTO CROCE: The\nProblem of Art and History. By H. WILDON CARR, Hon. D.Litt.\n8vo. 7s. 6d. net.\n\n\nLONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.","title":"A critical history of Greek philosophy","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":113408}