It may seem wonderful that language, which is the only method of
conveying our conceptions, should, at the same time, be an
hindrance to our advancement in philosophy; but the wonder ceases
when we consider, that it is seldom studied as the vehicle of truth,
but is too frequently esteemed for its own sake, independent of its
connection with things. This observation is remarkably verified in
the Greek language; which, as it is the only repository of ancient
wisdom, has, unfortunately for us, been the means of concealing, in
shameful obscurity, the most profound researches and the sublimest
truths. That words, indeed, are not otherwise valuable than as
subservient to things, must surely be acknowledged by every liberal
mind, and will alone be disputed by him who has spent the prime of
his life, and consumed the vigour of his understanding, in verbal
criticisms and grammatical trifles. And, if this is the case, every
lover of truth will only study a language for the purpose of
procuring the wisdom it contains; and will doubtless wish to make
his native language the vehicle of it to others. For, since all truth is
eternal, its nature can never be altered by transposition, though by
this means its dress may be varied, and become less elegant and
refined. Perhaps even this inconvenience may be remedied by
sedulous cultivation; at least, the particular inability of some, ought
not to discourage the well-meant endeavours of others. Whoever
reads the lives of the ancient Heroes of Philosophy, must be
convinced that they studied things more than words, and that Truth
alone was the ultimate object of their search; and he who wishes to
emulate their glory and participate their wisdom, will study their
doctrines more than their language, and value the depth of their
understandings far beyond the elegance of their composition. The
native charms of Truth will ever be sufficient to allure the truly
philosophic mind; and he who has once discovered her retreats will
surely endeavour to fix a mark by which they may be detected by
others.
But, though the mischief arising from the study of words is
prodigious, we must not consider it as the only cause of darkening
the splendours of Truth, and obstructing the free diffusion of her
light. Different manners and philosophies have equally contributed
to banish the goddess from our realms, and to render our eyes
offended with her celestial light. Hence we must not wonder that,
being indignant at the change, and perceiving the empire of
ignorance rising to unbounded dominion, she has retired from the
spreading darkness, and concealed herself in the tranquil and
divinely lucid regions of mind. For we need but barely survey
modern pursuits to be convinced how little they are connected with
wisdom. Since, to describe the nature of some particular place, the
form, situation and magnitude of a certain city; to trace the windings
of a river to its source, or delineate the aspect of a pleasant mountain;
to calculate the fineness of the silkworm's threads, and arrange the
gaudy colours of butterflies; in short, to pursue matter through its
infinite divisions, and wander in its dark labyrinths, is the
employment of the philosophy in vogue. But surely the energies of
intellect are more worthy our concern than the operations of sense;
and the science of universals, permanent and fixed, must be superior
to the knowledge of particulars, fleeting and frail. Where is a
sensible object to be found, which abides for a moment the same;
which is not either rising to perfection, or verging to decay; which is
not mixed and confused with its contrary; whose flowing nature no
resistance can stop, nor any art confine? Where is the chemist who,
by the most accurate analyzation can arrive at the principles of
bodies; or who, though he might be so lucky in his search as to
detect the atoms of Democritus, could by this means give respite to
mental investigation? For every atom, since endued with figure,
must consist of parts, though indissolubly cemented together; and
the immediate cause of this cement must be something incorporeal
or knowledge can have no stability and enquiry no end. Where, says
Mr Harris, is the microscope which can discern what is smallest in
nature? Where the telescope which can see at what point in the
universe wisdom first began? Since, then, there is no portion of
matter which may not be the subject of experiments without end, let
us betake ourselves to the regions of mind, where all things are
bounded in intellectual measure; where everything is permanent and
beautiful, eternal and divine. Let us quit the study of particulars, for
that which is general and comprehensive, and through this, learn to
see and recognize whatever exists.
With a view to this desirable end, I have presented the reader with a
specimen of that sublime wisdom which first arose in the colleges of
the Egyptian priests, and flourished afterwards in Greece; which was
there cultivated by Pythagoras, under the mysterious veil of numbers;
by Plato, in the graceful dress of poetry; and was systematized by
Aristotle, as far as it could be reduced into scientific order; which,
after becoming in a manner extinct, shone again with its pristine
splendour among the philosophers of the Alexandrian school; was
learnedly illustrated with Asiatic luxuriancy of style by Proclus; was
divinely explained by Iamblichus: and profoundly delivered in the
writings of Plotinus. Indeed, the works of this last philosopher are
particularly valuable to all who desire to penetrate into the depths of
this divine wisdom. From the exalted nature of his genius, he was
called Intellect by his contemporaries, and is said to have composed
his books under the influence of divine illumination. Porphyry
relates, in his life, that he was four times united by an ineffable
energy with the divinity; which, however such an account may be
ridiculed in the present age, will be credited by everyone who has
properly explored the profundity of his mind. The facility and
vehemence of his composition was such, that when he had once
conceived a subject, he wrote as from an internal pattern, without
paying much attention to the orthography, or reviewing what he had
written; for the celestial vigour of his intellect rendered him
incapable of trifling concerns, and in this respect, inferior to
common understandings, as the eagle, which in its bold flight
pierces the clouds, skims the surface of the earth with less rapidity
than the swallow. Indeed a minute attention to trifles is inconsistent
with great genius of every kind, and it is on this account that
retirement is so absolutely necessary to the discovery of truths of the
first dignity and importance; for how is it possible to mix much with
the world, without imbibing the false and puerile conceptions of the
multitude; and without losing that true elevation of soul which
comparatively despises every mortal concern? Plotinus, therefore,
conscious of the incorrectness of his writings arising from the
rapidity, exuberance and daring sublimity of his thoughts,
committed their revision to his disciple Porphyry; who, though
inferior in depth of thought to his master, was, on account of his
extraordinary abilities, called by way of eminence the Philosopher.
The design of the following discourse is to bring us to the perception
of the beautiful itself, even while connected with a corporeal nature,
which must be the great end of all true philosophy and which
Plotinus happily obtained. To a genius, indeed, truly modern, with
whom the crucible and the air-pump are alone the standards of Truth,
such an attempt must appear ridiculous in the extreme. With these,
nothing is real but what the hand can grasp or the corporeal eye
perceives, and nothing useful but what pampers the appetite or fills
the purse; but unfortunately, their perceptions, like Homer's frail
dreams, pass through the ivory gate; and are consequently empty
and fallacious, and contain nothing belonging to the vigilant soul.
To such as these a treatise on the beautiful cannot be addressed;
since its object is too exalted to be approached by those engaged in
the impurities of sense, and too bright to be seen by the eye
accustomed to the obscurity of corporeal vision. But it is alone
proper to him who is sensible that his soul is strongly marked with
ruin by its union with body; who considers himself in the language
of Empedocles, as
"Heaven's exile, straying from the orb of light";
and who so ardently longs for a return to his true country, that to
him, as to Ulysses when fighting for Ithaca,
"Slow seems the fun to move, the hours to roll;
His native home deep-imag'd in his soul".[1]
But here it is requisite to observe that our ascent to this region of
Beauty must be made by gradual advances, for, from our association
with matter, it is impossible to pass directly, and without a medium,
to such transcendent perfection; but we must proceed in a manner
similar to those who pass from darkness to the brightest light, by
advancing from places moderately enlightened, to such as are the
most luminous of all. It is necessary therefore, that we should
become very familiar with the most abstract contemplations; and
that our intellectual eye should be strongly irradiated with the light
of ideas which precedes the splendours of the beautiful itself, like
the brightness which is seen on the summit of mountains previous to
the rising of the sun. Nor ought it to seem strange, if it should be
some time before even the liberal soul can recognize the beautiful
progeny of intellect as its kindred and allies; for, from its union with
body, it has drunk deep of the cup of oblivion, and all its energetic
powers are stupefied by the intoxicating draught; so that the
intelligible world, on its first appearance, is utterly unknown by us,
and our recollection of its inhabitants entirely lost; and we become
familiar to Ulysses on his first entrance into Ithaca, of whom Homer
says,
"Yet had his mind, thro' tedious absence lost
The dear remembrance of his native coast".[2]
For,
"Now all the land another prospect bore,
Another port appeared, another shore,
And long-continued ways, and winding floods
And unknown mountains crowned with unknown woods":
until the goddess of wisdom purges our eyes from the mists of sense
and says to each of us, as she did to Ulysses,
"Now lift thy longing eyes, while I restore
The pleasing prospect of thy native shore."