Chapter XXIII: Appendix (3)

And now rejoycing in the prosp’rous gales,
With beating heart Ulysses spread his sails;
Plac’d at the helm he sate, and mark’d the skies,
Nor clos’d in sleep his ever watchful eyes.
There view’d the Pleiads, and the northern team,
And great Orion’s more refulgent beam,
To which around the axle of the sky
The bear revolving, points his golden eye;
Who shines exalted on th’ ætherial plain,
Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main,
Far on the left those radiant fires to keep
The nymph directed, as he sail’d the deep.
Full seventeen nights he cut the foamy way;
The distant land appear’d the following day:
Then swell’d to sight Phæacia’s dusky coast,
And woody mountains half in vapour lost;
That lay before him, indistinct and vast,
Like a broad shield amid the wat’ry waste.

Lib. v. l. 269, &c.

Indeed as Ulysses is the image of a man passing in a regular manner from a sensible life, and advancing from darkness to light, he is very properly represented as sailing by the splendor of the stars, and directing his course by the most conspicuous of these illustrious orbs. For star-light corresponds to the light of the mathematical sciences, which are the proper employment of one who is departing from the sensible phantasy, and her detaining charms. And the stars themselves correspond to ideas, from which the light of science is derived. Ulysses therefore who is hastening to an intellectual life, contemplates these lucid objects with vigilant eyes, rejoycing in the illuminations and assistance they afford him, while sailing over the dark ocean of a material nature.

But as he is now earnestly engaged in departing from sense, he must unavoidably be pursued by the anger of Neptune, whose service he has forsaken; and whose offspring he has blinded by stratagem, and irritated by reproach. Hence in the midst of these delightful contemplations, he is almost overwhelmed by the waves of misfortune, roused by the wrath of his implacable foe. He is however through divine assistance or Leucothea, enabled to sustain the dreadful storm: for receiving from divinity, the immortal fillet of true fortitude, and binding it under his breast, (the proper seat of courage) he encounters the billows of adversity, and bravely shoots along the boisterous ocean of life.

Ulysses therefore having with much difficulty escaped the dangers arising from the wrath of Neptune, lands at length on the island of Phæacia, where he is hospitably received, and honourably dismissed. Now as it is proper that he who like Ulysses departs from the delusions of imagination, should immediately betake himself to the more intellectual light of thought, the land of Phæacia, ought to correspond to the realms of cogitation: and that this is the case the following discourse will I persuade myself abundantly evince. In the first place then this island is represented by the poet, as enjoying a perpetual spring; which plainly indicates, that it is not any terrene situation. Indeed the critical commentators have been so fully convinced of this, that they acknowledge Homer describes Phæacia, as one of the Fortunate Islands; but they have not attempted to penetrate his design, by such a description. Now if we consider the perfect liberty, unfading variety, and endless delight, which the regions of cogitation afford, we shall find that it is truly the fortunate island of the soul. In the next place the poet by the description of the palace of Alcinous, the king of this island, egregiously insinuates the pure and splendid light of cogitation: for thus he speaks:

The front appear’d with radiant splendors gay,
Bright as the lamp of night, or orb of day.
The walls were massy brass: the cornice high
Blue metals crown’d, in colours of the sky:
Rich plates of gold the folding doors incase;
The pillars silver, on a brazen base;
Silver the lintels deep projecting o’er,
And gold the ringlets that command the door.
Two rows of stately dogs, on either hand,
In sculptur’d gold, and labour’d silver stand.
These Vulcan form’d intelligent to wait
Immortal guardians at Alcinous’ gate.

Lib. vii. l. 84, &c.

And he represents it, as no less luminous internally, by night.

Refulgent pedestals the walls surround,
Which boys of gold with flaming torches crown’d;
The polish’d ore reflecting ev’ry ray;
Blaz’d on the banquets with a double day.

For this palace is not like the cavern of Calypso naturally obscure, but remarkably bright and refulgent. Indeed Homer by his description of the outside of this palace, sufficiently indicates its agreement with the planet Mercury, who is the god of speech; and cogitation as Plato beautifully observes in the Theætetus, is nothing more than inward discourse. For, according to astronomers, the planet Mercury is resplendent with the colours of all the other planets. Thus Baptista Porta in Cœlest. Physiog. p. 88. Videbis in eo Saturni luridum, Martis ignem, Jovis candidum, Veneris flavum, nec-non utriusque nitor, hilaritasque, et ob id non peculiaris formæ, sed eorum formam capit, cum quibus associatur, ob id in describendo ejus colore astrologi differunt. That is, “you may perceive in this planet the pale colour of Saturn, the fire of Mars, the whiteness of Jupiter, and the yellow of Venus: likewise the brilliancy and hilarity of each; and on this account it is not of a peculiar form, but receives the form of its associates, and by this means causes astrologers to differ in describing its colour.”

But that the island of Phæacia, is the region of cogitation, is indisputably confirmed by Homer’s account of the ships fabricated by its inhabitants: for thus he beautifully describes them:

Ὄφρα σε τῇ πέμπωσι τιτυσκόμεναι φρεσὶ νῆες.
Οὐ γὰρ Φαιήκεσσι κυβερνητῆρες ἔασιν.
Οὐδέ τι πηδάλι’ ἐϛτὶ τάτ’ ἄλλαι νῆες ἔχουσιν.
Ἀλλ’ αὐταὶ ἴσασι νοήματα καὶ φρένας ἀνδρῶν.
Καὶ πάντων ἴσασι πόλιας καὶ πίονας ἀγροὺς
Ἀνθρώπων. καὶ λαῖτμα τάχισθ’ ἁλὸς ἐκπερόωσιν,
Ἠέρι καὶ νεφέλῃ κεκαλυμμέναι· οὐδέ ποτέ σφιν,
Οὔτέ τι πημανθῆναι ἔπι δέος οὐτ’ απολέσθαι·

Lib. viii. l. 556, &c.

i.e. “That ships intently directed by intellect, may send you to your country. For the Phæacians have no pilots, nor have the ships helms like others: but they know the thoughts and minds of men. They likewise know the cities and fertile fields of all men; and swiftly swim over the waters of the sea, covered with darkness and clouds: for they never are afraid of sustaining any damage, or of being utterly lost.” Or in verse:

So shalt thou instant reach the realm assign’d,
Is wond’rous ships self-mov’d, instinct with mind;
No helm secures their course, no pilot guides,
Like man intelligent they plow the tides,
Conscious of ev’ry coast, and ev’ry bay,
That lies beneath the fan’s all seeing ray;
And veil’d in clouds impervious to the eye,
Fearless and rapid thro’ the deep they fly.

Now it is absurd to suppose that Homer would ever employ such an hyperbole, in merely describing the excellency of the Phæacian ships: for it so eminently surpasses the bounds of probability, and is so contrary to the admirable prudence, which Homer continually displays, that it can only be admitted as an allegory, pregnant with latent meaning, and the recondite wisdom of antiquity.

It must here however be observed, that as the energies of cogitation are two-fold, according to the objects on which they are employed (for they are either sensible or intellectual); so the manners of Alcinous and his nobles, are perfectly opposite to those of the other inhabitants. For these latter are thus described by the poet:

A race of rugged mariners are these;
Unpolish’d men, and boistrous as their seas;
The native islanders alone their care,
And hateful he that breathes a foreign air.
These did the ruler of the deep ordain
To build proud navies, and command the main;
On canvas wings to cut the wat’ry way;
No bird more light, _no thought more swift than they_.

Lib. vii. l. 33, &c.

The last of which lines, so remarkably agrees with the preceding account, that I presume no stronger confirmation can be desired. Nor is the original less satisfactory:

Τῶν νέες ὼκεῖαι ὡσεὶ πτερὸν ἠὲ νόημα.

i.e. “The ships of these are swift as a wing, or as _a conception of the mind_.” But the inhabitants of the palace, are represented as spending their days in continual festivity, and unceasing mirth: in listening to the harmony of the lyre; or in forming the tuneful mazes of the joyful dance. And this distinction of manners, admirably agrees with the difference between vulgar, and intellectual cogitations: for the former of these are boisterous, and rough, selfish and proud; skilled indeed in rapidity, but groveling and unpolished. But the latter are constantly employed in intellectual festivity and mirth; in tuning the melodious lyre of divine recollection, or forming the responsive dance of refined imaginations. It was with the greatest reason therefore, that Ulysses exclaimed on this occasion:

How sweet the products of a peaceful reign?
The heav’n taught poet, and enchanting strain:
The well fill’d palace, the perpetual feast,
A land rejoycing, and a people blest.
How goodly seems it ever to employ
Man’s social days in union, and in joy?
The plenteous board high-heap’d with cates divine,
And o’er the foaming bowl the laughing wine.

Lib. ix. l. 3, &c.

And here we may observe how much the behaviour of Ulysses at the palace of Alcinous, confirms the preceding exposition, and agrees with his character as a man passing in a regular manner from the delusions of sense, to the realities of intellectual enjoyment. For as he is now seated in the palace of cogitation, it is highly proper that he should call to mind his past conduct, and be afflicted with the survey; and that he should be wakened to sorrow by the lyre of reminiscense, and weep over the follies of his active life. Hence when the divine bard Demodocus, inspired by the fury of the muses, sings the wrath of Ulysses and Achilles, on his golden lyre; Ulysses is vehemently affected with the relation. For:

Touch’d at the song, Ulysses strait resign’d
To soft affliction all his manly mind:
Before his eyes the purple vest he drew,
Industrious to conceal the falling dew:
But when the music paus’d, he ceas’d to shed
The flowing tear, and rais’d his drooping head.

Lib. viii. l. 83, &c.

And when the inhabitants of the palace, or refined cogitations, transported with the song, demanded its repetition:

Again Ulysses veil’d his pensive head,
Again unmann’d a shower of sorrow shed.

For reminiscence is delightful to the former, because purified from guilt: but afflictive to the latter, because he has not yet arrived at the summit of virtue, and acquired the perfection of contemplative good.

But while Ulysses is at the palace of Alcinous, Homer takes occasion of introducing, some admirable mythological arcana, in the story of Mars and Venus; the explication of which from Proclus, on Plato’s Republic, page 388. will I persuade myself be acceptable to the Platonic reader, and vindicate Homer from acting improperly by introducing this excellent fable. “Both Vulcan and Mars then (says Proclus) operate about the universal world. And Mars indeed separates, perpetually nourishes, and constantly excites the contrarieties of the universe, that the world may exist perfect and entire from all its parts. But Vulcan adorns the whole sensible machine by his artifice, and fills it with certain reasons, proportions, and powers of nature. Hence he is feigned by Homer to construct twenty tripods about the heavens, that he may adorn them with the most perfect of many-sided figures: and he is likewise said to fashion a multitude of sublunary forms, variously figured, and artificially adorned; as when he says:

Chains, bracelets, pendants, all their toys I wrought.

Iliad. xviii.

But each of these deities requires the assistance of Venus; Mars that he may insert order and harmony in contrary natures; but Vulcan that he may induce beauty, in sensible operations, and thus render the world beautiful and divine. However since Venus is every where, Vulcan indeed always enjoys her, according to the superior orders of beings. As for instance, if Vulcan is super-mundane, Mars is mundane; and if the former is in the heavens, the latter enjoys Venus, in the regions subject to the moon. Hence Vulcan is said to have taken Venus for his wife according to the will of Jove; but Mars is reported to have committed adultery with Venus. For the cause of beauty, and conciliation, is naturally conjoined with the artificer of sensible concerns: but is after a manner foreign from the presiding deity of division and contrariety: for the collective, are opposed to the separating genera of gods. And hence fables have given the appellation of adultery, to this consent of dissimilar causes. But a consent of this kind was necessary to the world, that contraries might join in mutual conciliation, and the war of the universe terminate in peace. Indeed as in the celestial regions, beauty, elegance of form, and the fabrications of Vulcan, are particularly conspicuous: but in the realms of generation, elementary war, opposition, contrariety of natural powers, and the gifts of Mars, reside: on this account I say, the sun beholding from the heavens the congress of Mars and Venus, betrays it to Vulcan, with all whose actions he unites in amicable co-operation.

After this, Vulcan entangles them with all-various bonds, invisible to other gods, that he may connect the mundane genera, with artificial reasons; and may produce one constitution from the contrarieties of Mars, and the conciliating benefits of Venus. For both are required in generation. But according to Timæus, there are some bonds of celestial, and others of sublunary concerns: and the latter are dissoluble, but the former of a perpetual nature. Hence Vulcan at last dissolves the bonds, with which he had confined Venus and Mars; and this he effects through the persuasion of Neptune.

Who sues importunate to loose the god.

For Neptune desirous that the perpetual continuity of generation, may be preserved, and that the circle of mutation may revolve into itself, causes begotten natures to be corrupted, and such as are corrupted to be renewed. Is there any reason then, why we should wonder at Homer’s feigning Mars and Venus to be fettered with the bonds of Vulcan, since Timæus also gives the appellation of bonds, to the demiurgic reasons, by which the celestial gods constitute generated natures? Is it not likewise congruous to the nature of things, that these bonds should be again dissolved, since they are the bonds of generation? Indeed the first, and most perfect artificer of things seems to have composed the world from contrary elements, and to have given them friendship in a certain proportion, by uniting the effects of Vulcan, Venus, and Mars, in association with each other. For producing the contrarieties of the elements, he operates within himself, according to Mars: but when he fabricates friendship, he energizes according to the power of Venus; and by connecting the natures of Venus and Mars, he appears to contain in himself the primitive exemplar of Vulcan’s art. _Hence he is all, and operates with all the gods._ Besides the junior artificers imitating their father, produce mortal animals, and again receive them when they perish, fabricating at the same time with Vulcan, mundane bonds, and primarily containing in themselves the causes of their dissolution. For every where, he who possesses a bond, knows also the necessity of its solution.”

We may here too observe that Ulysses, with the greatest propriety relates his past adventures in the palace of Alcinous: for as he now betakes himself to the intellectual light of thought, it is highly necessary that he should review his past conduct, faithfully enumerate the errors of his life, and anxiously sollicit a return to true manners, and perfect rectitude of mind. But the description of his departure from Phæacia is no less pregnant with philosophical mystery, than poetical beauty. For as he is now passing by the pure energy of thought, to his true country, the rational soul; he is represented as departing by night, and falling into so profound a sleep in his voyage, as to be insensible for some time of its happy consummation. For thus according to the poet:

He climb’d the lofty stern; then gently prest
The swelling couch, and lay compos’d to rest.

Lib. xiii. l. 75.

And the vehemence of his thoughts, is finely represented by the rapidity of the vessel:

Now plac’d in order the Phæacian train
Their cables loose, and launch into the main:
At once they bend, and strike their equal oars,
And leave the sinking hills, and less’ning shores.
While on the deck the chief in silence lies,
And pleasing slumbers steal upon his eyes.
As fiery coursers in the rapid race
Urg’d by fierce drivers thro’ the dusty space,
Toss their high heads, and scour along the plain;
So mounts the bounding vessel o’er the main.
Back to the stern the parted billows flow,
And the black ocean foams and roars below.
Thus with spread sails the winged galley flies;
Less swift an eagle cuts the liquid skies;
Divine Ulysses was her sacred load,
A man in wisdom equal to a god!
Much danger long and mighty toils he bore,
In storms by sea, and combats on the shore;
All which soft sleep now banish’d from his breast,
Wrapt in a pleasing, deep, and death-like rest.

By the night, therefore, Homer intimates the stillness and tranquillity which attends intellectual contemplation: and by the sweet and death-like sleep of Ulysses, his being abstracted from all sensible concerns, while merged in the profound and delightful energies of thought. For he has now bid adieu to the storms of passion, and the conflicts of desire; and is hastening to expel these dangerous foes, from the secret recesses of his soul.

Nor is it without reason that the poet represents Ithaca as presenting itself to the mariners’ view, when the bright morning star emerges from the darkness of night. For thus he speaks:

But when the morning star, with early ray,
Flam’d in the front of heav’n, and promis’d day;
Like distant clouds the mariner descries
Fair Ithaca’s emerging hills arise.

Lib. xiii. l. 93, &c.

Since it is only by the dawning beams of intellect, that cogitation can gain a glimpse of the native country, and proper empire of the soul.

But when Ulysses awakes from the delightful sleep of his corporeal energies, and, through the assistance of Minerva, recognizes his native land, he immediately enters into a consultation with the goddess, how he may effectually banish the various perturbations and inordinate desires which yet lurk in the penetralia of his soul. For this purpose it is necessary that he should relinquish all external possessions, mortify every sense, and employ every stratagem, which may finally destroy these malevolent foes. On this occasion the garb of poverty, the wrinkles of age, and the wants of life, are symbols of mortified habits, desertion of sensible pursuits, and an intimate conversion to intellectual good. For the sensitive eye must now give place to the purer sight of the rational soul; and the strength and energies of a corporeal nature must yield to superior vigor of intellectual exertion, and the severe labour of moral investigation. And this Homer appears most evidently to insinuate by the following beautiful lines:

Now seated in the olive’s sacred shade,
Confer the hero and the martial maid,
The goddess of the azure eyes began:
Son of Laertes! much-experienc’d man!
The suitor train thy earliest care demand,
Of that luxurious race to rid the land:
Three years thy house their lawless rule has seen,
And proud addresses to the matchless queen.
But she thy absence mourns from day to day,
And inly bleeds, and silent wastes away:
Elusive of the bridal hour she gives
Fond hopes to all, and all with hopes deceives.

Lib. xiii. l. 372.

Hence:

It fits thee now to wear a dark disguise,
And secret walk unknown to mortal eyes,
For this my hand shall wither ev’ry grace,
And ev’ry elegance of form and face,
O’er thy smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread,
Turn hoar the auburn honours of thy head,
Disfigure every limb with coarse attire,
And in thy eyes extinguish all the fire;
Add all the wants and the decays of life,
Estrange thee from thy own; thy son, thy wife;
From the loath’d object ev’ry fight shall turn,
And the blind suitors their destruction scorn.

Lib. xiii l. 397, &c.

After this follows the discovery of Ulysses to Telemachus, which is no less philosophically sublime than poetically beautiful. For by Telemachus we must understand intellectual virtue, the true progeny of Ulysses, or the rational soul. Hence Ulysses, while employed in the great work of mortification, recognizes his legitimate offspring, and secretly plans with him the destruction of his insidious foes. The assistance however of Minerva, or wisdom, is requisite to this discovery, who beautifies and adorns the rational soul, and restores it on this occasion, to its pristine dignity and excellence of form. But it is necessary that this should be nothing more than a temporary change, till the enemies of reason are destroyed, and the dominion of intellect regained. With great propriety, therefore, is Telemachus represented as exploring his absent father, and impatient for his return: for the rational soul then alone associates with true virtue, when it withdraws itself from sensible delights, and earnestly meditates a restoration of its fallen dignity, and original sway.

And now Ulysses presents himself to our view in the habits of mortification, hastening to his long deserted palace, or the occult recesses of his soul, that he may mark the conduct, and plan the destruction of the malevolent passions, who are secretly attempting to subvert the empire of his mind. Hence the poet very properly and pathetically exclaims:

And now his city strikes the monarch’s eyes,
Alas! how chang’d! a man of miseries;
Propt on a staff, a beggar old and bare,
In tatter’d garments, flutt’ring with the air!

Lib. xvii. l. 201, &c.

However as this disguise was solely assumed for the purpose of procuring ancient purity and lawful rule, he divests himself of the torn garments of mortification, as soon as he begins the destruction of occult desires; and resumes the proper dignity and strength of his genuine form. But it is not without reason that Penelope, who is the image of intellectual purity, furnishes the instrument by which the hostile rout of passions are destroyed: for what besides the arrows of purity can be sufficient to extirpate the leading bands of impurity and vice? Hence as soon as he is furnished with this irresistible weapon, he no longer defers the ruin of his insidious foes, but:

Then fierce the hero o’er the threshold strode;
Stript of his rags, he blaz’d out like a god.
Full in their face the lifted bow he bore,
And quiver’d deaths a formidable store;
Before his feet the rattling show’r he threw,
And thus terrific to the suitor crew.

Lib. xxii. l. 1. &c.

But Homer represents Penelope as remaining ignorant of Ulysses, even after the suitors are destroyed, and he is seated on the throne of majesty, anxious to be known, and impatient to return her chaste and affectionate embrace. For thus he describes her:

Then gliding through the marble valves in state,
Oppos’d before the shining fire she sate.
The monarch by a column high enthron’d,
His eye withdrew, and fix’d it on the ground
Anxious to hear his queen the silence break:
Amaz’d she sate, and impotent to speak;
O’er all the man her eyes she rolls in vain,
Now hopes, now fears, now knows, then doubts again.

Lib. xxiii. l. 88, &c.

Nor ought this to appear strange, for purity has been so long absent from his soul, that it is difficult to obtain a recollection of their pristine union, and legitimate association with each other. However in order to facilitate this discovery, he renders all harmonious and pure, within the recesses of his soul; and by the assistance of Minnerva, or wisdom, resumes the garb and dignity which he had formerly displayed.

Then instant to the bath, (the monarch cries)
Bid the gay youth and sprightly virgins rise,
Thence all descend in pomp, and proud array,
And bid the dome resound the mirthful lay;
While the sweet lyrist airs of raptures sings,
And forms the dance responsive to the strings.

Lib. xxiii. l. 131, &c.

And afterwards Ulysses is described, as appearing through the interposition of Minerva, _like one of the immortals_:

So Pallas his heroic form improves
With bloom divine, and like a god he moves.

Lib. xxiii. l. 163.

For indeed he who, like Ulysses, has destroyed the power of his passions, and purified himself from their defiling nature, no longer ranks in the order of mortals, but assimilates with divinity itself. And now that he may become entirely known to intellectual purity, that chaste Penelope of the soul, he need only relate the secrets of their mystic union, and recognize the bower of celestial love. For then perfect recollection will ensue; and the anxiety of diffidence will be changed into transports of assurance, and tears of rapturous delight.

And thus we have attended Ulysses through his various wanderings and woes, till he recovers the ruined empire of his soul. We must however remember, according to the beautiful observation of Porphyry, in the above treatise, that he is not freed from molestation till he has passed over the raging sea of a material nature, has entirely appeased the anger of divinity, and is become so insensible to the concerns of a corporeal life, as to be ignorant of their nature and use. For:

Then heav’n decrees in peace to end his days,
And steal himself from life by slow decays;
Unknown to pain, in age resign his breath,
When late stern Neptune points the shaft of death;
To the dark grave retiring as to rest;
His people blessing, by his people blest.

Lib. iii, l. 281, &c.

[95] Φόρκυνος δέ τις ἐϛὶ λιμὴν ἁλίοιο γέροντος.

[96] This Sopater, succeeded Plotinus in his philosophical school. Vide Sozom. Hist. Eccles. 1, 5.

[97] The exact time of Iamblichus’ death is unknown; it is however certain, that it was during the reign of Constantine; and according to the accurate Fabricius, prior to the year of Christ 333. Biblioth. Græc. Tom. 4. p. 283.

[98] See vol. I. of this work.

[99] Vol. I. Sect. 4.

[100] I have already mentioned this admirable work, with the praise it so justly deserves, in my account of the life and writings of Proclus. (Vol. I. of this work, p. 38.) I now add, with great pleasure that I have been no less fortunate with respect to the translation of these Elements than in translating the commentaries of Proclus. For the Greek text, is very frequently defective in parts essential to the meaning; and consequently necessary to the perfection of the whole. This defect I have been able to supply from a Latin version of Patricius (Ferrar, 1583) who appears to have had a perfect manuscript in his possession. But notwithstanding this assistance, I must freely own, that I never translated any thing which required so much intense thought, and severe labour in its execution. This indeed must necessarily be the case, if the abstruseness of the subject, the difficulty of finding proper terms, and the defects of the original, are properly considered. But the learned reader may be experimentally convinced of the truth of this assertion, if he only compares the Greek text with the Latin version of Æmilius Portus; in which I am sorry to say, he will scarcely find one proposition, in which Portus has not mistaken the sense of his author. Indeed were I disposed to entertain the critical reader, I might swell the volume with copious notes from the blunders of Portus; and display the superiority of my own version by contrasting the English with the Latin. But I consider verbose criticisms of this kind as both useless and pedantic; as remote from the philosophical genius; and as alone calculated to fill up the leisure hours of men, who have ruined their understandings in the study of words. The genuine Platonist who may be ignorant of Greek, will I persuade myself, rejoice to see this invaluable treasure in his native tongue: and those who have been led to consider the theology of the heathens as delusion, and absurdity, will doubtless be surprized to find, that it is replete with the sublimest knowledge, and the most important truths. Yet I must admonish the reader, that these Elements cannot be understood by any one, who is not a thorough adept in the preceding Commentaries on Euclid: for the propositions relate to the most abstract subjects that can be conceived; and the demonstrations are uncommonly subtle and profound. Indeed if opportunity permitted, I should attempt a commentary on every proposition: but this if ever I should be able to accomplish it, must be reserved for some more auspicious period. In the mean time I hope that my occasional elucidations, will be acceptable to the Platonic reader, and assist him in the study of this inestimable work. I only add, that these Elements form an admirable introduction to the six books of Proclus on Plato’s theology.

[101] The absurdity of this consequence consists in this, that from the hypothesis of unity being excluded, infinite infinites would subsist separate from each other, without any bond of conciliating unity; which is evidently impossible. For though every line contains infinite infinites in _capacity_, because the smallest part of every line is capable of infinite division; yet these infinites in capacity are connected by the power of unity, and form one finite line.

[102] Because, since the whole is motive, the part which is moved will also be motive, and so will be at the same time both moving and moved. And if a part moves, and the whole is moved; then because of the motion of whole, the part will be both moving and moved.

[103] The truth of this may be exemplified in light. Thus for instance we see many species of light; one kind emanating from the sun, another from fire and the stars, another from the moon, and another from the eyes of many animals. But this light though various, is every where familiar, and discovers in its operations a unity of nature. On account of its uniformity therefore it requires one principle, and not different principles. But the sun is the only principle of all mundane light. And though there are many participants of light posterior to the solar orb, yet they scatter their uniform light, through one solar nature, property and power. But if we again seek for the principle of light in the sun, we cannot say that the solar orb is the principle of light: for the various parts of this orb diffuse many illuminations. There will therefore be many principles. But we now require one first principle of light. And if we say that the soul of the sun generates light, we must observe that this is not effected by her animal multiplicity, or she would diffuse different lights: and hence we must assert that she generates visible by intellectual light. But this production again, does not subsist through intellectual variety, but rather by a unity of intellect: and this unity is a symbol of that simple unity which is the principle of the universe. And to this principle the solar intellect is united by its unity; and through this it becomes a god. This divine unity of the sun, therefore, is the principle of the uniform light of the world; in the same manner as simple unity and goodness is the author of intelligible light to all intelligible natures.

[104] This will be evident by considering that _the one_, or the first principle of all, must produce that which first proceeds from himself, by _union_ (καθ’ ἕνωσιν.) And as his first production must be the most similar of all things to himself, and must be at the same time multitude (or in what respect would it differ from the one); hence it is necessary, that this progression must be no other than self-perfect unities. In consequence therefore of this sublime doctrine, as Proclus beautifully observes (Theol. Plat. p. 123.) there is one god, and many gods; one unity, and many unities prior to beings: and one goodness, and many goodnesses after this first good. It likewise follows that the first principle of all is a super-essential one; and that after this one, there are many super-essential unities. And we may consider every unity of beings, as the flower of some certain being; and as the summit and centre about which every being subsists. For a farther account and confirmation of this sublime doctrine, study the third book of Proclus on Plato’s Theology.

[105] By _imparticipable_, in these Elements, we must understand that which participates nothing belonging to the characteristic of its nature, and which is likewise participated through proper mediums by all subordinate natures. Thus for instance _imparticipable being_, is that which participates nothing of _being_, but is the source of _being_, to others; and at the same time it is not participated without a medium by subordinate essences; since the participation of being, in subordinate natures, is accomplished through the immediate progeny of _being itself_. And so of the rest. Nor ought it to seem wonderful that an imparticipable should preside over every series of causes: for this is a necessary consequence, if we consider that every cause must be that to its following progeny, which the first cause of all, is to the universality of things. But the first cause of all is perfectly imparticipable; since he would not be purely _the one_, if he was mingled with _many_, and received the condition of a subordinate nature. As the divine unities therefore are participated by all the following orders of things, and are the mediums, by which every being is conjoined with the first cause of all; so the immediate progeny of every primary cause conjoins all the subsequent progressions with that cause, which from its similarity to _the first_ is properly denominated an imparticipable.

[106] Because if the one generates through motion, an infinite motion must take place, through the want of an immoveable nature.

[107] In order to understand this proposition the reader must observe that the hypothesis requires that both the progression and regression subsist together. And this hypothesis is no less proper than true; for unless effects were continually converted to their causes, they could not exist; since they depend on these for their subsistence, and this can only be procured by conversion.

[108] This is absurd, because every partible nature must be converted to something different from itself, on account of its parts. So likewise since a self-subsistent nature resides in itself, if such a nature was partible, one divisible whole would be in another, not different from itself.

[109] Because every composite consists of matter and form; the former of which is base, and the latter more excellent.

[110] The truth of this reasoning may be evinced by the following considerations: Every thing which is measured by time, and such is every corporeal nature, depends on time for the perfection of its being. But time is composed of the past, present, and future. And if we conceive that any one of these periods is taken away from the nature with which it is connected, that nature must immediately perish. Time, therefore, is so essentially and intimately united with the natures which it measures, that their being, such as it is, depends on the existence of time. But time, as is evident, is perpetually flowing, and this in the most rapid manner imagination can conceive. It is evident, therefore, that the natures to which it is so essential, must subsist in a manner equally transitory and flowing. As we cannot therefore affirm with propriety of any part of time, that it _is_; since even before we can form the assertion, the present time is no more; so with respect to all corporeal natures (from their subsistence in time) before we can say that they exist, they lose all identity of being. But as it appears to me this flowing, and evanescent nature of things existing in time, may be aptly illustrated by the following similitude. Conceive a line, all whose parts are in a continual flux, like the waters of the most rapid river: and let it be distinguished by three different colours, so profoundly mingled with each other, that every part of the line may possess these colours, in the same manner as the whole line. Now a line of this kind, will very properly represent time, distinguished by past, present, and future, to which the three colours correspond. If then we conceive another line moving on this coloured line, with an equable uniform motion, corresponding to the motion of the parts of the coloured line, and so that in every instant of its motion it may be tinged with one of these colours in regular succession; we shall see the condition of a nature whose being is measured by the progressions of time. For as the perpendicular line, in its uniform motion, no sooner assumes one colour, than it deserts it for another, and cannot on this account be said to possess any colour; so every corporeal nature, from its being profoundly mingled with the fleeting and unreal essence of time, cannot be said to possess any true and substantial being.

Such then is the unreal condition of every thing subsisting in time, or of every thing corporeal, and entangled with matter. By this shadowy essence of body is finely demonstrated by Plotinus in the sixth book of his third Ennead, as follows: “Being (says he) properly so called is neither body, nor is subject to corporeal affections: but body, and its properties, belong to the region of non-entity. But you will ask, how is it possible, that visible matter, should possess no real being: that matter, in which stones and mountains reside, the solid earth, and bodies which mutually resist; since bodies which impel each other, confess by their collision, the reality of their existence? You will likewise ask after what manner things which neither strike against, nor resist each other; which neither externally act, nor internally suffer, nor are in any respect the objects of sight, viz. soul and intellect, are to be reckoned true and real beings? We reply, that, on the contrary, things more corpulent are more sluggish and inert, as is evident in bulky masses of earth: but whatever is less ponderous is more movable and alert; and the more elevated the more movable. Hence fire, the most movable of all the elements, flies in a manner from a corporeal nature. Besides, as it appears to me, whatever is more sufficient to itself, disturbs others less, and brings less inconvenience: but such things as are more ponderous and terrene, unable, from their defect of being, to raise themselves aloft, and becoming debile and languid, strike and oppress surrounding bodies, by their falling ruin and sluggish weight. Since it is evident, that bodies destitute of life, fall with molestation on any proximate substance, and more vehemently impel and pain whatever is endued with sense. On the contrary, animated beings, as participating more of entity, by how much the more of being they possess, by so much the more harmless they impinge on their neighbouring bodies. Hence motion, which is a kind of life, or soul, or an imitation of life in bodies, is more present with whatever is less corpulent; as if more of body was necessarily produced where a defect of being happens in a greater degree. Again, it will more manifestly appear from passivity, that whatever is more corpulent is more passive; earth in greater degree than the other elements; and the rest in a similar proportion. For some things, when divided, suddenly return to their former union, when no obstacle prevents their conjunction; but from the section of a terrene body, the divided portions, always remain separate; as if destitute of natural vigour, and without any inherent desire of union and consent. Hence they are ready, by every trifling impulse, to remain as they are impelled; to rush from the embraces of _bound_, and hasten into multitude, and non-entity. So that whatever becomes corporeal in an eminent degree, as falling fast into non-entity, has but little power of recalling itself into one. And on this account ponderous and vehement concussions are attended with ruin, when by mutual rushing one thing impels another. But when debility runs against debility, the one is valid against the other, in the same manner as non-entity rushing on non-entity. And this we think a sufficient confutation of their opinion, who only place being in the genus of body, persuaded by the testimony of impulses and concussions, and the phantasms perceived through the senses, which testify that sense is alone the standard of truth. Such as these are affected in a manner similar to those in a dream, who imagine that the perceptions of sleep are true. For sense is alone the employment of the dormant soul: since as much of the soul as is merged in body, so much of it sleeps. But true elevation, and true vigilance, is a resurrection from and not with the dull mass of body. For indeed a resurrection with body, is only a transmigration from sleep to sleep, and from dream to dream, like a man passing in the dark from bed to bed. But that elevation is perfectly true, which entirely rises from the dead weight of bodies: for these possessing a nature repugnant to soul, possess something opposite to essence. And this is farther evident, from their generation, their continual flowing and decay; properties entirely foreign from the nature of being, substantial and real.”

[111] The account of eternity given by Plotinus, in which its _total_ nature is copiously demonstrated, is so inimitably sublime and profound, that I cannot refrain from presenting the reader with the following paraphrased translation, of the most considerable part of the seventh book of his third Ennead, relative to the nature of eternity. Proclus (in Theol. Plat. p. 149.) observes that the definition of eternity given by Plotinus in this discourse, viz. “Infinite life, which at once openly exhibits itself, and manifestly declares its own being,” is a definition framed _in a most divinely inspired manner_ (ἐνθεαϛικώτατα.)

“Since we reckon eternity and time to be different from each other, and that the one respects a nature which always is, and that the other is conversant with things in generation, unstable and flowing, from which this sensible universe is composed; we are apt to believe that from our natural ingenuity, and a sudden view of intelligence, an instinctive knowledge concerning time and eternity, is profoundly inherent in our souls; since we always affirm the same properties of these, and never vary in the appellations we assign them. But when we endeavour to approach nearer to these, and to explain their natures in a more perfect manner, we are immediately perplexed with doubts; and receiving the different sentiments of the ancients on this subject, according to the difference of our opinions, and perhaps conceiving the same sentiment, in a manner different from other men, we advance no farther in our enquiries; esteeming it sufficient, if when interrogated, we are able to relate the opinions of antiquity on this important subject. Indeed it is proper to believe that some of the ancient, and blessed philosophers, have discovered the truth: but it is highly necessary to enquire what method they pursued in their investigation, and how we may arrive at the knowledge of the same exalted truths. And first, it will be proper to enquire what they think of eternity, who judge it to be different from time: since from the knowledge of that which is, as the exemplar, we may perhaps more plainly understand, the nature of its image, which is denominated time. But if any one previous to his contemplation of eternity, should conceive the nature of time in his imagination, he may perhaps happen, by advancing into the intelligible world, and by a certain reminiscence, to comprehend that to which time is assimilated: since time possesses a similitude to eternity.

What then shall we say eternity is? Is it intelligible essence itself, in the same manner, as some are reported to affirm, that time is the whole heavens, and the world? For since we imagine and understand eternity to be something especially venerable, which we likewise affirm of an intelligible nature, we are not able to discern which of these is most venerable. And as that which is superior to these, ought not to be described by appellations of this kind, perhaps eternity, and an intelligible nature, may with propriety be received as the same. Again, both eternity, and the intelligible world, comprehend in themselves beings entirely the same. But when we say that the one abides in the other, placing intelligibles in eternity, and when we pronounce every thing intelligible eternal, as in the Timæus of Plato, where it is written, “If the nature of the exemplar is eternal, &c.” in these cases, I say, we affirm eternity to be something different from an intelligible nature; at the same time confessing that eternity dwells about, or is resident in, or is present with an intelligible nature. For indeed it is not necessary that because both are venerable, they should be perfectly the same: since perhaps the venerableness of the one, is derived from the other. And what is farther added to establish their identity, that the same things are contained by each, is to be thus explained: that an intelligible nature contains every thing belonging to itself, as parts; but that eternity comprehends at the same time the whole, not as a part, but because all things of this kind are called eternal, from its continual presence. But ought we to judge of eternity according to permanent station in the intelligible world, as in this sensible world we are accustomed to consider time according to motion? But it may be properly enquired, in the first place, whether eternity, is the same with station belonging to being. For if it is the same with station, we cannot with mere propriety, speak of a station which is eternal, than we can of an eternal eternity: since that is eternal which participates of eternity. Besides, if station is the same with eternity, how can motion be eternal? For in this case, it must lose its nature, and become permanent and stable. Besides, how is the notion of station contained in the _ever itself_? I do no not mean the _ever_, or _always_ which respects time, but that which we understand when we speak of eternity. But if the _ever itself_, is contained in the station of being, we must consequently segregate the other genera of beings from eternity. Besides, it is requisite to conceive of eternity, not in station alone, but as abiding in _one_; and to preserve its indistant property, lest it should become entirely the same with time. But station, considered simply as station, neither contains in itself the intelligence of one, nor of that which is indistant. Hence we predicate of eternity, that it abides in one: and consequently it participates of station, without being station itself.

What then is the nature of that, by which we call the whole of the divine world eternal and perpetual? And what is perpetuity itself? Is it the same with eternity, or does eternity subsist according to the perpetual? Perhaps we ought to conceive of eternity, as a certain one collected from many; viz. either as one intelligence, or one nature; whether consequent to things in the intelligible world, or existing together with it, or beheld as situated in the depths of its essence. All these, I say, reduced into eternity a one, which is also many, and is endued with a various capacity. Indeed he who beholds a various capacity, when he considers it as a subject, denominates it essence; but so far as he perceives life, he denominates it motion, and afterwards station, considered as abiding in a manner entirely the same. He will likewise behold difference and sameness, so far as they are many, bound in one. So that he who contracts the difference, subsisting in things which are many, into one life alone, and contemplates an unceasing sameness of energy, never passing its intelligence, or life, from one thing into another, but ever abiding in the same manner in itself, far remote from all distance; he, I say, who beholds all these, contemplates eternity, viewing life ever possessing a present whole, where all things abide together in sameness, without the order of first and last, and are comprehended in an indivisible bound. Where all things are collected into one, as into a point, not yet proceeding into a linear flux, but abiding in sameness, that is, in itself, in an ever present _now_; because nothing of its nature is past, nothing in it is future; but what it is, it always is. Hence eternity is not a subject, but that which beams as it were from its subject, according to the possession of an ever present identity; promising itself, that its ever abiding nature, will never be changed. For what should happen to this in future, which it is not at present? Since it is a perfect and present plenitude of all things. Nor can the term _was_, the appellation of time past, belong to eternity. For what can that be, which _was_ present with its nature, and _is past_? It in like manner independant of all connection with futurity. And hence eternity is that which neither _was_, nor _will be_, but alone _is_, which it possesses in a stable manner; because it is neither changed into a future, nor altered from a past duration. So that the eternity, which we are now investigating, is life total and full, abiding in its essence about being; and is every where indistant and one.