Book 4 — SECT. I.

The Grecian theology, the history of whose restoration by the latter Platonists is the design of the present dissertation, did not originate among the Greeks, but was the progeny of barbarian propagation. This will be evident by considering that Orpheus was a Thracian; Thales, a Phœnician; Hermes Trismegistus, an Egyptian; Zoroaster, a Persian; Anacharsis, a Scythian; and Pherecydes, a Syrian. Yet though Greece was not the parent of theology, she was notwithstanding her benevolent nurse, by whom she was kindly educated, and received the full perfection of her nature. Indeed, though illustrious men flourished in the East, and theology was there particularly cultivated, yet her education was limited and rough, entangled with inexplicable ceremonies, and guarded by the sanctity of inviolable oaths. But when she was removed into the Grecian soil, and experienced the happy temperature of its climate, her genius became both elegant and profound; her person magnificent and graceful; and her ceremonies rational and sublime. Particular nations, indeed, seem to have been distinguished for particular pursuits. Thus the Egyptians appear to have excelled in the powers of invention; and the East, in general, has been remarkable for its attachment to the most recondite and mystic philosophy. Thus the Romans were famous for the arts of eloquence and war; and the Greeks have ever been celebrated as a people by whom every branch of knowledge received its ultimate perfection. They were a nation equally favoured by the graces, the muses, and philosophy; whose celestial union formed the divine genius of Homer, and inspired that elegance and depth with which the works of Plato are replete. They were, in short, the standards of excellence to the ancient, and are the objects of imitation to the enlightened part of the present world; and their theology, as well as their arts, will be admired when modern systems are no more.

It appears at first view strange that this sublime theology should rise to its pristine perfection during the decline of the Roman empire; and at a period when a new religion (I mean the Christian) was continually increasing in reputation, and advancing with rapid steps to a despotic establishment. But if we attentively consider, we shall find that the very causes which apparently threatened its destruction were the natural and proper sources of its renovation. As every part of the universe subsists by perpetual change, it is necessary that philosophy and the sciences, with respect to their appearance or the contrary, should share in the general mutability of things: but at the same time, it is necessary to their preservation to after-ages, that the order of their revolution should be retrograde to that of sensible particulars. Hence we shall often find, that while kingdoms descend in the circle of vicissitude, philosophy ascends, and perhaps attains to her ultimate perfection, at the very period when the most powerful nations become extinct. Thus the falling empire of the Romans was naturally connected with the rising greatness of philosophy; and the foreign ceremonies of a new religion, were the proper means of bringing to light the secret mysteries of the old. We may add too, that the same circumstances produced the great difference between the first and last appearance of this sublime theology. While Greece maintained her independence unconscious of the Roman yoke, and undisturbed by religious invasions, she disdained to expose her genuine wisdom to vulgar inspection, but involved it in the intricate folds of allegory; and concealed it from the profane under the dark veil of impenetrable mystery. But when she lost her liberty and submitted to foreign dominion, when her most ancient rites were threatened with invasion, and her sacred mysteries were treated with contempt, she found it necessary to change the dress of theology and to substitute a simple and elegant garb, instead of one highly marvellous and mystic.

Yet we must not imagine that theology, now stript of her ancient concealments, became the object of open inspection to the profane and vulgar eye. She had not lost her refulgence, though she had changed her appearance: for the rays of celestial majesty yet beamed from her countenance, with a light awful and terrific to the multitude, but lovely and alluring to the wise. Hence the splendors of divinity no less secured her person from impious curiosity than the dark symbols in which she was formerly involved. The enchanting imagery of a celestial phantasy, and the pure light of an exalted intellect, while they captivated and converted the philosophical part of mankind, were inaccessible to the vulgar, whose mental eye, yet lost in the night of oblivion, was darkened by the splendid vision. However, though the real person of theology was not the object of vulgar inspection, her shadow at least was beheld by the benighted multitude, and became the subject of ridiculous opinions, and idle investigation. Hence some of these astonished with the majesty of her image, fondly fancied she was the progeny of the Jewish religion; and that her sacred mysteries were nothing but corrupt imitations of Mosaic divinity: while others, measuring the obscurity of her real person by the darkness of her shadow, considered her doctrines as delusions, and her sublimest truths as the reveries of a distempered imagination. Thus was true theology perverted and vilified by the multitude, when she appeared in her natural dress to mankind; till, in a few centuries after, indignant of the daring profanation, she ascended to her native heaven, and left the sons of folly involved in the shades of midnight error, and the gross delusions of fancied inspiration.

But let us contemplate her history more minutely, and mark the several particulars which distinguished her appearance on the earth. Let us survey the lives of the great geniuses who so largely participated her celestial light; and who so admirably transfused it in their writings for the benefit of hitherto ungrateful posterity. Let us view with wonder how she rose in majesty, as Rome declined in power, and appeared in full perfection invested with celestial honours, and surrounded with a godlike band of philosophic heroes, while that mighty empire was rapidly diminishing in bulk, and on every side nodding to its dissolution.

We are informed by Proclus[48], that all the Grecian theology is the progeny of the mystic discipline of Orpheus; and that Pythagoras was the first who learned the orgies of the gods from Aglaophemus the disciple of Orpheus. This sacred theology was fully displayed by Orpheus, with all the graces of poetical diction, accompanied with the fury of the muses and divine illumination, in a great work entitled, The Sacred Discourse, which was divided into twenty-four rhapsodies, and which has unhappily perished in the ruins of time. In this inestimable work, if we may be allowed to conjecture from a treatise of the same name composed by Pythagoras, and often mentioned by Syrianus, all the orders of the gods were celebrated from the highest principle of things, to the last processions of the mundane divinities. But Pythagoras was no doubt deeply indebted for a part of this knowledge to the doctrine of Zoroaster, whose dogmata, according to Apuleius[49], he embraced, and whose profound mysteries involved in oracular darkness, we may presume he communicated to his initiated disciples. The whole of this recondite theology was afterwards received by Plato from the writings of Archytas, Philolaus, and other Pythagoreans, but was so concealed by poetical embellishments, and mystical traditions, that, like the numbers of Pythagoras, it was alone adapted to the comprehension of a penetrating and sagacious few.

It is, however, a remarkable historical fact that this theology was lost for many centuries among the disciples of Plato, on the death of their divine master. But we are informed by Numenius[50] the Pythagorean that Plato’s successors, Speusippus, Zenocrates, and Polemo, perverted his dogmata, and almost entirely changed the whole of his philosophy. And Aristotle, it is well known, however he might retain some essential doctrines of his master, altered others of the highest importance; and confining himself chiefly to natural disquisitions, ascended but rarely and feebly to theological contemplations. However it was not irrecoverably lost; and it disappeared for a time, only to shine with brighter splendors on its return. Truth, like the light of the sun, may suffer concealment, but cannot be destroyed; for it would rather have its rays broken by resistance than bound to obscurity. About two hundred and fifty two years, therefore, after the Christian religion had made its appearance, this sublime theology was restored by one Ammonius Saccas an Alexandrian. This extraordinary person, was, it seems, at first nothing more than a porter: though by what methods he rose from this servile employment to the summit of philosophy, and what happy circumstances first affected this wonderful change, are enquiries which can never be answered, but whose loss will always be regretted by the liberal few. But though he was not Διογενεῖς, nobly born, his doctrines, as transmitted to us by his disciples, eminently evince his possessing in high perfection all the other endowments of a true philosopher: such as a penetrating genius, a docile sagacity, a tenacious memory, and every other ornament of the soul, requisite, according to Plato, to form the philosophic character. Indeed he must have possessed these qualifications in a most remarkable degree; or he could never have emerged from the obscurity and servility of a porter, to the splendor and liberty of an exalted and divine philosopher. The truth of this observation is confirmed by the appellation of θεοδίδακτος, or divinely-taught, which was unanimously conferred on him, by his contemporary philosophers.

This great man opened a philosophical school at Alexandria, but with a determination not to commit the more abstruse and theological dogmata of his philosophy to writing. Indeed he was so fearful of profaning these sublime mysteries, by exposing them to vulgar inspection, that he revealed them to his disciples Erennius, Origen, and Plotinus, on the conditions of inviolable secrecy, and under the guard of irrevocable oaths. However, fortunately for posterity, Erennius dissolved the compact, and Origen (different from the Christian father of that name), imitating Erennius, disclosed a part of his master’s secrets, in a curious treatise on dæmons, which, among many other valuable productions, is lost in the ruins of time. But the publications of these two great men were but trifling efforts to unveil the mystic wisdom of antiquity: since a perfect revelation was reserved for the divine genius of Plotinus, who considering himself now freed from his engagements, by the examples of his fellow disciples, resolved to bring theology from her dark concealments and to present her to the astonished world, in all the celestial graces and irresistible majesty of her natural appearance. This wonderful man (if he was not something more, since his writings discover a genius superior to the human), who was born to astonish and enlighten mankind, was the first who committed to writing the secrets of theology, free from the obscure enigmas in which she had been enveloped by the sages of antiquity. The celestial vigor and profundity of his genius, render his conceptions indeed, unavoidably abstruse: but he who has once fathomed his depth, will find himself amply compensated for the labour of investigation, by the rewards of uncommon knowledge and inexpressible delight. There is a long and curious life of this high priest of theology, and dæmon of wisdom, extant by his disciple Porphyry, the substance of which, as it will not I presume be unacceptable to the reader, and as it will throw great light on the history of theology, I have selected from that invaluable work.

Plotinus, was an Egyptian by birth, and was a native of Lycopolis, as we are informed by Eunapius, for Porphyry is wholly silent as to this particular. Indeed this is not wonderful, if we consider what Porphyry asserts in the beginning of his life, that he was ashamed, that his soul was in body. Hence says he, he would neither tell the race, nor the parents from which he originated, nor would he patiently relate in what country he was born. This I know will be considered by a genuine modern, as either rank enthusiasm, or gross affectation; but he who has perused and fathomed his writings will immediately subscribe to its truth. The same vehement love for intellectual pursuits, and contempt for body, made him disdain to sit for his picture; so that when one of his disciples Amelius, begged that he would permit his likeness to be represented, his answer expressed the true greatness of his mind: as if (says he) it was not sufficient to bear this image, with which nature has surrounded us from the first, you think that a more lasting image of this image should be left as a work worthy to be inspected. However the desire of Amelius was at length accomplished, by the ingenious contrivance of one Carterius a painter, who by frequenting the school of Plotinus, and viewing his countenance with fixed attention, produced at length from his memory a happy likeness of the philosopher. Though he was often afflicted with the colic, he always refused the assistance of clysters, asserting that cures of this kind were not proper to a man advanced in years. Nor would he ever receive the assistance of theriacal antidotes, since he said, his nourishment was not derived from the bodies of even tamer animals. He likewise abstained from baths: but daily used frictions at home. But when a grievous pestilence raged[51] at Rome, and the servants who were accustomed to rub him, fell victims to the disease, from neglecting cures of this kind, he gradually became a prey to the pestilence. So great was the violence of this distemper, and its effects so dreadful on Plotinus, as Eustochius informed Porphyry who was absent, that through a very great hoarseness, all the clear, and sonorous vigour of his musical voice was lost; and what was still worse, his eyes were darkened, and his hands and feet were covered with ulcers. Hence, becoming incapable of receiving the salutations of his friends, he left the city; and went to Campania, to the estate of one Zethus, an ancient departed friend. Necessaries were here administered to him from the hereditary possessions of Zethus, and were likewise brought from Minturnus, from the fields of Castricius[52]. But when this divine man drew near to his dissolution, that period which is no less the dread of the vulgar than the transport of the philosopher, and which to Plotinus must be the moment of extatic rapture, Eustochius who dwelt at Puteolus, was not very hasty in his approaches; doubtless not imagining he was on the point of making his triumphant exit from a corporeal life. However when he came into the presence of this departing hero, he was just in time to receive his dying words, and to preserve the sacred sentence to posterity. Listen ye profane with reverence, and treasure in your memories ye wise, the weighty truth it contains! As yet (says he) I have expected you; and now I consent that my divine part, may return to that divine nature, which flourishes throughout the universe. Such were the last words of this mighty man, which like those contained in his writings are great and uncommon, wonderful and sublime. He died at the conclusion of the second year of the emperor Claudius’ reign; and was at the time of his death in the sixty-sixth year of his age, according to the information given by Eustochius to Porphyry. The most trifling particulars relative to the life and death of so extraordinary a man merit our attention; and indeed we may presume without being guilty of either superstition or enthusiasm, that scarcely any thing trifling could mark the existence of such a powerful and celestial genius. There is nothing, properly speaking, can be little which has any relation to a character truly great: for such is the power of uncommon genius, that it confers consequence on every thing within the sphere of its attraction, and renders every surrounding circumstance significant and important. Thus immediately on the death of Plotinus, we are informed by Porphyry that a dragon[53] which had been concealed under his bed, wandered through a hole in the wall, and disappeared. But how great must the grief of Porphyry have been, to be separated from his beloved master, at the time of his death: from a master by whom he had been esteemed beyond the rest of his fellow-disciples; and whose loss no succeeding period was ever likely to repair. Indeed his disciples seem to have been unaccountably dispersed, at this important crisis: for Porphyry was at Lilybæum, Amelius at Apamea in Syria, Castricius at Rome, and Eustochius was alone present at his departure. Porphyry afterwards informs us, in perfect agreement with the genius of Plotinus, that he never would tell to any one, the month, or day in which he was born: because he by no means thought it proper that his nativity should be celebrated with sacrifices and banquets. Indeed we cannot suppose that he who had such a vehement contempt for a corporeal life, would be anxious that his entrance into mortality should be solemnized with festivity; but rather considering himself with Empedocles, as

he would be disposed to lament his captivity, and mourn the degradation of his nature. However he was not averse to celebrate the nativities of Socrates and Plato; for he assisted at the sacred rites, and invited his friends to a philosophic banquet, where it was required that every guest should recite a written oration, adapted to the occasion of their amicable association.

But the few particulars which this great man condescended to relate of himself, in familiar discourse, are the following: When he was eight years of age, and was even under the tuition of a literary preceptor, he used to frequent his nurse, and to uncover her breasts, through an avidity of sucking her milk. And this custom he continued, till being accused of troublesomness, and covered with shame through the reproof, he neglected this extraordinary custom. This story however trifling it may appear, indicates in my opinion the native innocence, and genuine simplicity of manners which marked the character of Plotinus. It is a circumstance, which does not merely point to something uncommon; but it was the harbinger as it were of that purity and sanctity of life, which so eminently formed the conduct, and adorned the writings of our philosopher. But when he was in the twenty-eighth year of his age, being vehemently inflamed with the love of philosophy, he was recommended to the most excellent masters of Alexandria: but he left their schools with sorrow and disappointment. By a fortunate event, however, he told a certain friend, who was well acquainted with the disposition of his mind, the cause of his affliction, and he brought him to the celebrated Ammonius, whose school Plotinus had probably overlooked among the great multitude with which that illustrious city abounded. But when he had entered the school of Ammonius, and had heard him philosophize, he exclaimed in transport to his friend, this is the man I have been seeking. From that day he gave himself up to Ammonius with sedulous attention for eleven years; and made such rapid advances in his philosophy, that he determined to study the philosophy of the Persians, and the wisdom particularly cultivated by the Indian sages. For this exalted purpose, when the emperor Gordian marched into Persia, in order to war upon that nation, Plotinus joined himself to the army, being at that time in the nine and thirtieth year of his age. But after Gordian was destroyed about Mesopotamia, Plotinus fled to Antioch, where he received a fortunate shelter from the dangers and devastations of war; and in the reign of the emperor Philip came to Rome, in the fortieth year of his age. It seems therefore that Plotinus was disappointed in his purpose at that time of procuring the Persian and Indian wisdom: it is however certain that he afterwards obtained his desire; and most probably without the inconvenience of a long and dangerous journey. This will be evident from perusing his works; and attending to the latent dogmata they contain.

It was a long time before Plotinus committed his thoughts to writing; and gave the world a copy of his inimitable mind. That light which was shortly to illuminate mankind, as yet shone with solitary splendour; or at best beamed only on a beloved few. It was now destined to emerge from its awful sanctuary, and to display its radiance with unbounded diffusion. But a disciple like Porphyry, was requisite to the full perfection of its appearance. Amelius was indeed laborious, but he was at the same time verbose: he neither appears to have possessed the inquisitive spirit, nor the elegant genius of Porphyry; and his commentaries were too voluminous to be exquisitely good. Porphyry gives a singular specimen of his endurance of labour, when he informs us, that he committed to writing almost all the dogmata of Numenius, and retained a very considerable part in his memory. He was not however, though an excellent philosopher, calculated to urge Plotinus to write, or to assist him in its prosecution: but this important task was reserved for Porphyry, who in the words of Eunapius, “like a mercurial chain, let down for the benefit of mortals, by the assistance of universal erudition, explained every thing with clearness and precision.” Plotinus indeed began to write in the first year of the emperor Galienus; and he continued just to note such questions as occurred to him, for the ten following years, in the last of which he became acquainted with Porphyry, who was at that time in the thirtieth year of his age. He had then composed one and twenty books, which were in the hands but of a few: for the edition was difficult to be procured, and was not universally known. Besides Plotinus, was neither hasty nor rash in his publications: but he gave those only to the light, which had been approved, by a mature and deliberate, judgment. The one and twenty books we have previously mentioned, after various inscriptions, at length obtained the following titles:

On the beautiful.

On the immortality of the soul.

On fate.

On the essence of the soul.

On intellect, and ideas, and being.

On the descent of the soul into body.

How that which is posterior to the first, proceeds from the first; and concerning the one.

Whether all souls are one.

Concerning the good itself, or the one.

On the three principal hypostases.

On the generation and order of things posterior to the first.

On the two matters, intelligible and sensible.

Various considerations.

On the circular motion of the heavens.

On every one’s peculiar Dæmon.

On the rational exit, from the present life.

On quality.

Whether there are ideas of particulars.

On virtues.

On dialectic.

How the soul is said to be a medium between an impartible and partible essence.

These one and twenty books were finished when Porphyry first became acquainted with Plotinus; and when this great man was fifty-nine years old. During the six years in which Porphyry was his companion as well as disciple, many questions of a very abstruse nature, were discussed in their philosophical conversations, which at the joint request of Porphyry and Amelius, Plotinus committed to writing, and produced from their investigation, two elaborate and admirable books, proving that true being is totally present in every part of the universe. He wrote besides two others; one of which asserts, that the nature superior to being, is without intellection; and the other distinguishes primary from secondary intelligence. He likewise composed at the same period, the following books:

Concerning that which exists in capacity, and energy.

[54]That incorporeal natures are free from passivity.

Two books concerning the soul.

A third concerning the soul, or the manner in which we see.

On contemplation.

On intelligible beauty.

That intelligibles are not external to intellect; and concerning intellect, and the good.

Against the Gnostics.

On numbers.

Why things seen at a distance appear small.

Whether felicity consists in length of time.

Concerning total mixture.

How the multitude of ideas subsists, and concerning the good.

On that which is voluntary.

On the world.

On sense and memory.

Three books on the genera of beings.

On eternity and time.

But while Porphyry resided in Sicily, Plotinus composed the five following books, which he sent to him for his revision:

On felicity.

Two books on providence.

On gnostic essences, and that which is superior to their nature.

On love.

These books were transmitted to Porphyry in the first year of the emperor Claudius’ reign. And about the beginning of the second year, a little before his death, he sent him the following, and the last:

An enquiry into evil.

Whether the stars operate on sublunary natures.

What the nature is of man, and animal.

On the first good, and other goods.

The whole amount therefore of the books written by Plotinus, connecting the preceding with the present, is fifty-four, which Porphyry has divided into six enneads, assigning agreeable to the meaning of the word, nine books to every ennead. But they bear evident marks (says Porphyry) of the different periods, at which they were composed. For the first one and twenty, which were written in the former part of his life, if compared with the next in order seem to possess an inferior power, and to be deficient in strength. But those composed in the middle of his life exhibit the vigour of power, and the summit of perfection. And such with a few exceptions are the four and twenty we have already enumerated. But the last nine, composed in the decline of life, carry the marks of remitted energy, and drooping vigor. And this the four last declare, more evidently than the preceding five. It must however be observed that this difference is only visible, when they are contrasted with one another. To an impartial observer, zealous of truth, and not deeply read in Plotinus, each of his books will appear to be what it really is, uncommonly profound, and inimitably sublime. Each is an oracle of wisdom, and a treasury of invaluable knowledge; and the gradations of excellence consist in the power of composition, and not in the matter from which they are composed.

Plotinus had many auditors, and likewise a multitude of zealous partizans, and philosophic familiars. This indeed must necessarily be the case, if we consider the reputation of philosophy at that golden period, and the extraordinary abilities and celestial genius of its godlike restorer. Among the latter of these, Amelius the Tuscan, and Paulinus the Scythopolitan, a physician, held a distinguished rank. To which may be added Eustochius of Alexandria, a physician, who enjoyed the familiarity of Plotinus to the last, was present at his death, and giving himself entirely to the institutes of Plotinus, assumed the habit of a genuine philosopher. Besides these, Zothicus, a critic and poet, was conversant with Plotinus, who amended the works of Antimachus, and rendered the Atlantic history very poetically in verse: but after this he became blind, and died a short space of time prior to Plotinus. Zethus too, was very familiar with our philosopher, who derived his origin from Arabia, and married the wife of one Theodosius, the familiar of Ammonius. He was deeply skilled in medicine, and very much beloved by Plotinus, who endeavoured to dissuade him from engaging in the administration of public affairs. Such indeed was his familiarity with our philosopher, that, as we have already observed, Plotinus spent the last hours of his life at his rural retreat. Porphyry likewise informs us, that not a few senators were the sedulous auditors of Plotinus. Philosophy indeed, as it is the most noble and liberal of all pursuits, ought never to be separated from noble birth and exalted rank. It is naturally allied with every thing great, and is calculated to confer dignity, even on greatness itself. It exalts the majesty of the monarch, stamps nobility with true grandeur, and raises the plebean to immortality. In the age of philosophy, therefore, we cannot wonder that she was reverenced by the senators of Rome. That illustrious body, even at this declining period, retained a portion of its ancient independence; and the generous ardor of unbounded liberty was not yet extinguished by the frozen hand of despotic usurpation. The Roman manners and religion were not yet destroyed; and nobility was not contaminated by the sordid occupations of traffic. Meekness was not esteemed a virtue, nor merchandize an honour!!! Among this illustrious body of men, Marcellus Orontius diligently applied himself to philosophy, and made rapid advances in its attainment. This too, was the case with Sabinillus, and above all with the senator Rogatianus[55]. So deeply enamoured was this last nobleman with the charms of wisdom, and the discourses of Plotinus, and so attentive to the care of separating his soul from his corporeal life, that he neglected his wealth, and secular affairs, dismissed his servants, and rejected the dignities of the state. Hence, when he was chosen prætor, and the lictors waited for his appearance, he neither came into public, nor regarded the duties of his office, nor dwelt in the house allotted for his reception: but he supped and slept with certain of his friends and familiars, and gave himself to absolute retirement in the day. By this negligence and carelessness of life (says Porphyry), from being so vehemently afflicted with the gout, that he was obliged to be carried in a chair, he resumed his pristine strength and vigour. And from being so diseased in his hands, that he could not extend them when necessary, he so recovered their use by philosophic endurance, as to employ them with greater expedition than the manual mechanic. This great man, as we may suppose, possessed the principal place in the esteem of Plotinus, who was not sparing in his praise of so uncommon a character, and proposed him as an illustrious example to the pupils of philosophy. Happy Rogatianus! who could relinquish power for knowledge, and prefer the perpetual inheritance of wisdom to the gaudy splendors of title, and the fleeting honours of command. Alexandrinus Serapion too, was one of his associates, who was once a rhetorician, but afterwards, gave himself to philosophical disputations; though, shameful to relate, he was at the same time a slave to usury, and avarice. Besides all these (says Porphyry), he reckoned me a native of Tyre, among his most friendly adherents, whom he appointed to correct his writings.

The following particulars relative to composition are related by Porphyry of this extraordinary man. He could by no means endure to review twice what he had written, nor even to read his composition, through the badness of his sight. But while he was writing, he neither formed the letters with accuracy, nor exactly distinguished the syllables, nor bestowed any diligent attention on the orthography: but neglecting all these as trifles, he was alone intent to the intelligence of his wonderful mind; and, to the admiration of all his disciples, persevered in this custom to the end of his life. To a man of mere words, Plotinus will doubtless appear inexcusable for such important omissions: but to the sublime and contemplative genius, his negligence will be considered as the result of vehement conception, and profound cogitation. Such, indeed, was the power of his intellect, that when he had once conceived the whole disposition of his thoughts from the beginning to the end, and had afterwards committed them to writing, his composition was so connected, that he appeared to be merely transcribing from a book. Hence he would discuss his domestic affairs without departing from the actual intention of his mind; and at the same time transact the necessary negociations of friendship, and preserve a perpetual intelligence of his thoughts. In consequence of this uncommon power of intellection, when he returned to writing, after the departure of the person with whom he had been conversing, he did not review what he had written, owing, as we have observed, to the defect of his sight; and yet he so connected the preceding with the subsequent conceptions, as if his composition had never been interrupted. Hence he was, at the same time present with others, and with himself, so that, as Porphyry observes, the self-converted energy of his intellect was never remitted, except perhaps in sleep, which he very moderately indulged. And so vigorous and frequent was the conversion of his soul to intellect, that he would often abstain from bread, swallowed up, as it were, in the depths of contemplation.

Several women too, enamoured with the love of wisdom, were the auditors of Plotinus. The Platonic philosophy, indeed, as it necessarily combines truth with elegance, is naturally adapted to captivate and allure the female mind, in which the love of symmetry and gracefulness is generally pre-dominant. Hence, in every age, except the present, many illustrious females have adorned the Platonic schools, by the brilliancy of their genius, and as uncommon vigour and profundity of thought. This too, would doubtless be the case in our own country, if all the works of Plato and his disciples were but once faithfully and elegantly translated into English: but till the obstacle of Greek is removed, we may in vain expect thinking females[56], and I had almost said Platonic philosophers among men. Porphyry adds, that many men and women of noble birth, when at the point of death, delivered up, and commended their children and all their substance to Plotinus as to a sacred and divine guardian. Hence, says he, you might see the house of Plotinus full, both of young men and virgins, among the number of which was one Potamon, whom he educated with diligence and care. Nor was he wearied in hearing the procurators of his pupils, often rendering an account of their administration; nor did he disdain to pay attention to their expences, affirming, that as they did not yet philosophize, they ought to possess their own goods, and to receive, without detriment, an increase of their estate. Yet though he procured for so many pupils the chief necessaries of life, the intellectual energy of his soul while he was awake, never suffered any interruption from externals, nor any remission of vigour. He was extremely mild, though not meek[57], in his manners, and was easy of access to all his adherents and friends. Hence, so great was his philosophic urbanity, that though he resided at Rome twenty-six years, and had been the arbiter of many litigious causes, which he amicably dissolved, yet he had no enemy throughout that great and illustrious city. This last circumstance, indeed, reflects the highest honour on the philosophic character of Plotinus; but, at the same time, some merit is due to the age in which he fortunately lived. Had he been destined to make his appearance in the present times, unsupported by fortune, and with no other recommendation than an uncommon greatness of mind, and an unequalled depth of thought; from being despised, insulted, and distressed, he must surely have been indignant, though not morose, and severe though not agitated with wrath. He would have been scornful without pride, contemptuous without weakness, patient without servility, and solitary without affectation. He would have lived without notice, wrote with success, and died without regret. But born to a happier fate, his genius was not doomed to languish in the shades of obscurity, but attained to the blossom of perfection in the sun-shine of philosophy, and through the liberal pains of Grecian and Roman cultivation.

But though Plotinus was thus universally esteemed at Rome, and in general by all who had the happiness of his acquaintance, yet he had one vehement enemy in the person of Alexandrinus Olympius, who had been for a short time the disciple of Ammonius, who desired to arrogate to himself the chief place in philosophy, and endeavoured to render Plotinus the object of general contempt. So deadly, indeed, was his hatred of our philosopher, that he attempted to invade him, by drawing down the baneful influences of the stars. The attempt was, however, vain, and its effects noxious to their author. For the sidereal defluctions, instead of being hurtful to Plotinus, were reflected on Olympius. Hence he exclaimed to his companions, “that the soul of Plotinus possessed such a mighty power, that it immediately repelled malignant influences directed upon his person, on the authors of the evil.” But Plotinus, when Olympius first machinated his sidereal inchantments, was conscious of his design, and said to his friends; “Now the body of Olympius is contracted like a purse, and all his members are bruised together.” After Olympius, therefore, had often found to his own detriment, that the baneful influences intended for Plotinus were repelled on himself, he desisted from such base and fruitless undertakings. Indeed, says Porphyry, Plotinus naturally possessed something greater than the rest of mankind, which the following extraordinary relation abundantly evinces. A certain Egyptian priest, who at that time visited Rome, and who became suddenly known to Plotinus by one of his friends (perhaps Porphyry himself), desirous to exhibit his wisdom in that illustrious city, persuaded our philosopher to attend him, for the purpose of beholding, through his invocations, his familiar dæmon; to which request he readily consented. But the invocation was performed in the temple of Isis; this being the only pure place in Rome the Egyptian priest was able to find. However, instead of a dæmon, as was expected, a god approached, who was not (says Porphyry) in the genus of dæmons. The Egyptian astonished at the unexpected event, exclaimed, “Happy Plotinus, who hast a god for a dæmon, and whose familiar attendant does not rank among the inferior-kind!” But this extraordinary and delightful vision was of short duration: for the priest affirmed it was not then lawful to interrogate any thing, nor any longer to enjoy the vision, because a certain common contemplative friend, who was present at the spectacle, suffocated some birds which he held in his hands for the sake of safety, either impelled by envy, or terrified with fear. As Plotinus, therefore, was allotted a dæmon belonging to the diviner orders, the divine eye of his soul was perpetually elevated to this guardian deity. On this account he composed a book concerning every man’s familiar dæmon, in which he diligently endeavours to assign the causes of the diversity subsisting among these attendants on mankind. As a still farther proof of his uncommon greatness of mind, Porphyry adds, that when Amelius who was an observer of sacred rites, in which he officiated, according to the Roman calends, once requested Plotinus to attend him in the discharge of these religious ceremonies, he replied, “It becomes them to approach to me, and not me to them.” But from what conceptions (says Porphyry), he spoke in such an exalted manner of himself, we were unable to conceive, and afraid to ask. We may, however, presume, that Plotinus meant to insinuate the high degree of purity and perfection of his intellectual part, which rendered him so superior to the use of corporeal sacrifices, and the cultivation of material deities, and dæmons, that he ought rather to be propitiated by others, than to propitiate himself. For a soul like his, was, indeed, to use his own expression, ὕϛερος θεὸς, a posterior god, ready winged for flight, and scarcely detained by the fetters of body. This I know will pass for great arrogance and presumption among the philosophers of the present day, who consider meekness and humility as the highest ornaments of their nature, and the truest characteristics of genuine worth. But surely a sublime and godlike soul can never think meanly of its nature, or be willing to suppress and extinguish the inevitable consciousness of its own dignity and elevation. Humiliating conceptions flourish no where but in the breasts of the servile, or the base; and are the ornaments of no characters, but those of the impotent and the mean. Their influence is baneful to the advancement of science, and destructive of all genuine excellence and worth. They damp the glowing ardour of true theology, curb the celestial flight of philosophy, and blast the vigourous blossoms of genius. Let it, however, be remembered, that while we banish meekness, we are by no means the advocates of arrogance and conceit; but are alone desirous of vindicating the proper dignity of the worthy soul, and of rescuing its generous and ardent confidence from the frigid embraces of humiliating opinion. It is one thing to be modest, and another to be meek: for the former is the shadow attendant on genius, inseparable from its progress, and the symbol of its reality; but the latter is the dæmon of traffic, the inspirer of its projects, the support of its credit, and the harbinger of its appearance. It flies from the face of genius like the shadows of night before the beams of the morning, and, terrified at the approach of the elevated mind, hides itself in the dark retreats of trembling pusillanimity. But to return from this digression: Plotinus appears to have possessed an unequalled skill in physiognomy, as the following circumstance eminently evinces. A lady, named Chion, who, together with her daughters resided in his house, and there happily passed a chaste widowhood, was fraudulently deprived of a very valuable necklace. In consequence of this, all the servants and domestics were summoned into the presence of Plotinus, who regarded their several countenances, selected one, and accused him of the theft. The man was immediately chastised, and for a long time denied the fact, but at length confessed his guilt, and restored the necklace. In a similar manner (says Porphyry) he wonderfully predicted the destiny of the young men of his acquaintance; as of one Polemo, he foretold, that he would be very much addicted to love, and not arrive to the maturity of his age, which happened according to his prediction. But the last instance of his sagacity, related by Porphyry, excels all the rest, both in the singular skill displayed in its execution, and the happy consequences it produced. Porphyry, as we are informed by Eunapius, in his life, on his first acquaintance with Plotinus, bade a final farewel to all his preceptors, and totally applied himself to the friendship and confidence of this wonderful man. Here he filled his mind with science, and drew abundantly, without satiety, from the perennial fountain, seated in the sanctuary of the soul of Plotinus. But afterwards being conquered, as it were, by the magnitude of his doctrines, he conceived a hatred of body, and human nature, and could no longer endure the fetters of mortality. “Hence (says Porphyry) I formed an intention of destroying myself, which Plotinus wonderfully perceived, and as I was walking home, stood before me, and said, Your present design, O Porphyry, is not the dictate of a sound intellect, but rather of a soul raging with an atrabilious fury. In consequence of this, he ordered me to depart from Rome, and accordingly I went into Sicily, particularly when I heard that a certain worthy and elegant man dwelt at that time about Lilybæum. And by this means, indeed, I was liberated from this perturbation of soul, but was in the mean time hindered from being with Plotinus till his death.”

But the great reputation of this divine man was not confined to the senate and people of Rome, for the emperor Galienus, and his wife Salonina, honoured his person, and reverenced his doctrine. Indeed, so highly was he esteemed by the emperor, that, relying on his benevolence, he requested that a city in Campania, which had been formerly destroyed, might be restored, and rendered a fit habitation for philosophers; and besides this, that it might be governed by the laws of Plato, and called Platonopolis. Had this design succeeded, Plotinus intended to have dwelt there with all his disciples, and to have realized the beautiful republic, conceived by the godlike genius of Plato. The emperor, indeed, assented to his wishes, and the philosopher would have easily accomplished his intentions, if some of the emperor’s familiars, impelled by envy or indignation, or some other injust and selfish cause, had not warmly opposed its execution.

This extraordinary man (as we are informed by Porphyry) was strenuous in discourse, sagacious in invention, and prompt in the most opportune perceptions: but he was frequently incorrect in his speech, as well as in writing; and this most probably owing to the vehemence and vigour of his conceptions. Besides this, while he was engaged in discourse, his intellect beamed through his corporeal frame, and diffused over his countenance its intimate light. He was, indeed, of a most beautiful aspect, but when he disputed (says Porphyry) he seemed far more lovely to the view. Then a placid gentleness appeared in receiving questions; and a vigour uncommonly robust was demonstrated in their dissolution. When Porphyry once had interrogated him for three days, by what means principally the soul was united with the body, he persevered in demonstrating the manner of its conjunction. And when a certain person, named Thaumasius, entered his school, for the purpose of discussing common questions in philosophy, and premised that he wished to hear the explanatory sentences of Plotinus, but that the questions and answers of Porphyry were by no means adapted to a disputation of this kind, Plotinus replied: unless we dissolve the doubts arising from the interrogations of Porphyry, we shall not be able to comment any thing, in an uninterrupted series of discourse. But he wrote with a most intense acuteness of thought, and an abundant intellect. His writings are remarkably sententious, and he abounds, every where, more with profundity of sense than copiousness of words. “He poured forth (says Porphyry) many things agitated by the impulse of inspiring deity; and was often wonderfully affected with the object of his investigation.” With me indeed every page of his works is a volume, and every sentence an oracle. The latent dogmata of the Stoics, and Peripatetics, are inserted in his books; and more particularly the Sentences of Aristotle posterior to his Physics. He was ignorant of nothing pertaining to geometry, arithmetic, optics, and music, though he had never reduced these sciences to practice. The commentaries of the Platonic philosophers, Cronius, Numenius, Gaius, Atticus; as also of the Peripatetics, Aspasius, Alexander, Adrastus, &c. were read in his schools: but nothing was repeated from these in an uninterrupted series. For his conceptions were entirely his own; and his contemplations were different from theirs. In interpretation, and the discussion of questions, he bore the intellect of Ammonius. As soon as he was sufficiently imbued with reading, and had given, in a short discourse, sentences full of profound contemplation he arose, and left the school. Having once read the book of Longinus concerning principles, he said, that Longinus was indeed a philologist, but by no means a philosopher; and this indeed, as it appears to me, by a necessary consequence: for the knowledge of words is entirely foreign from the study of things. When Origen (not the Christian father of that name) once came into his school, Plotinus whose cheeks were covered with blushes, wished to rise, and being sollicited by Origen to continue his discourse, he replied “that discourse ought to cease, when he who speaks perceives he addresses himself to those who are well acquainted with his doctrine.” And thus after a short dissertation he arose from thence.

When in the celebration of Plato’s nativity, Porphyry recited a poem on the sacred marriage[58], and a certain person who was present objected that Porphyry was mad, because many things were said in the poem mystically, and inspired by a divine fury, Plotinus openly exclaimed, “You have shewn yourself at the same time both a philosopher and a priest.” On a certain time too an orator, named Diophanes, read an apology for the intoxicated Alcibiades in the banquet of Plato, endeavouring to prove that it was proper for the sake of learning virtue that the lover should expose himself to the object of his attachment, and not even refuse venereal congress. But while he was reading this licentious defence, Plotinus often rose from his seat, as if he would suddenly leave the assembly: but he restrained himself till it was finished. However, when he left the company, he commanded Porphyry to confute the oration. But when Porphyry desired the orator to lend him his discourse, for this purpose, and was refused, he answered him from recollection, and delivered his answer in the presence of the same auditors as had attended Diophanes. On this occasion Plotinus was so much rejoiced, that he often repeated in the assembly

Our philosopher too, applied himself to the rules of astronomy, though (says Porphyry) not according to a very mathematical mode. That is, as we may presume, he very little regarded the calculation of eclipses, or measuring the distance of the sun and moon from the earth, or determining the magnitudes and velocities of the planets: for he doubtless considered employments of this kind as more the province of the mathematician than of the profound and intellectual philosopher. The mathematical sciences are indeed the proper means of acquiring wisdom, but they ought never to be considered as its end. They are the bridge as it were between sense and intellect, by which we may safely pass through the night of oblivion over the dark and stormy ocean of matter, to the lucid regions of the intelligible world: and he who is desirous of returning to his true country will speedily pass over this bridge, without making any needless delays in his passage. Plotinus also diligently applied himself to the judgments of the astrologers; but when he found that their predictions were not worthy of belief, he often confuted their presages in his writings.

At that time there were many Christians, and likewise some heathens, who forsaking the ancient philosophers, became the followers of Adelphius and Aquilinus. These men circulated a variety of books of Alexander, Libycus, Philocomus, Demostratus, Lydus; and openly exhibited certain revelations of Zoroaster, Zostrianus, Nicotheus, Allogenes, Mesus, with others of a similar kind. By this means they deceived many, and were themselves deceived, asserting that Plato had by no means penetrated the depth of an intelligible essence. On this occasion, Plotinus urged many arguments in his disputations against these impostors, and composed a book in confutation of their tenets, inscribed, against the Gnostics, leaving a farther discussion of their errors to the labours of his disciples. Hence Amelius composed forty books against the book of Zostrianus; and Porphyry shewed by a variety of arguments, that the writings which they attributed to Zoroaster, were adulterated and recent, and were composed by the propagators of the heresy, that their institutions might pass for the genuine doctrines of the ancient Zoroaster.

Many of the Greeks (says Porphyry) falsly accused Plotinus of privately usurping the doctrines of Numenius, which calumny Tryphon, a Stoic and Platonist, told to Amelius. On this occasion Amelius composed a book, inscribed by Porphyry; Concerning the difference between the dogmata of Plotinus and Numenius, which he dedicated to Porphyry. Every one of the books, indeed, of this great man bear such evident marks of original thought, and singular depth, the execution in each is so similar, and the conceptions so uncommonly abstruse, that no one can understand his meaning, and believe him indebted to the labours of others. Porphyry adds, that he was likewise considered by many as a mere trifler, and treated with contempt, because says he they could by no means comprehend his sayings. Besides the manners of Plotinus contributed to produce and increase this disdain, for he was foreign (says Porphyry) from all sophistical ostentation, and pride; and conducted himself in the company of disputants, with the same freedom and ease as in his familiar discourses. With the superficial and the vain, a haughty carriage and severe aspect are considered as the badges of wisdom: but nothing in reality is more foreign from its possession. For true wisdom when it is deeply possessed gives affability and modesty to the manners, illumines the countenance with a divine serenity, and diffuses over the whole external form an air of dignity and ease. Add to this, that Plotinus did not hastily disclose to every one, the syllogistic necessities, which were latent in his discourse. “The same thing (says Porphyry) happened to me, when I first heard Plotinus. On which account I endeavoured to provoke him, by writing against him, endeavouring to shew that intellections are not external to intellect.” But after the writings of Porphyry on this subject were read to Plotinus, he said, smiling; “It must be your employment Amelius, to dissolve these doubts, occasioned by his ignorance of our opinion.” After Amelius, therefore, had composed no small book against the objections of Porphyry, and Porphyry had again contradicted his writings, and was once more answered by Amelius: “At length (says Porphyry) having scarcely after all these attempts fathomed the depth of Plotinus, I changed my opinion, wrote a recantation of my error, which I recited in a general assembly, considered the books of Plotinus ever after as most worthy of belief, and provoked my master by every possible means to disclose his opinion in a more particular and copious manner.” This relation is a most egregious instance of the unequalled profundity, as well as excellence of Plotinus’s writings: for who will presume to question the merit of composition, which was at first so difficult to be comprehended, and afterwards so greatly admired by such a genius as Porphyry? By a genius equally accurate, elegant and profound, who knew how to combine the Graces with Philosophy and Science, and to adorn the majestic brows of truth with the flowers of enchanting elocution.

But the testimony of the celebrated Longinus concerning our philosopher, sufficiently evinces his uncommon excellence and worth; and in the present age will probably be more esteemed than the eulogium of Porphyry. In a letter, therefore, which he wrote to Porphyry desiring him to come from Sicily into Phœnicia where he resided, and to bring with him the books of Plotinus, he writes among other things as follows: “These books (meaning those of Plotinus) are not moderately faulty, so that I have no means of using them, though I desire above measure to consider what Plotinus has written concerning the soul, and on being.” And again: “Do not send these books but bring them with you, and not these alone, but any others which may have escaped the notice of Amelius. For why should I not enquire, with the greatest diligence, after the writings of this man, which deserve the highest honour and veneration? This indeed I have always signified to you, both when present and absent, and when you resided at Tyre, that I could not understand many of the hypotheses of Plotinus’s books, but that I immoderately loved and reverenced the manner of his writing, the density of his conceptions, and the very philosophic disposition of his questions. And indeed I judge that the investigators of truth ought only to compare the books of Plotinus with the most excellent works.”

This testimony of Longinus is the more remarkable, as, prior to this, he had for a long time despised our philosopher, through the ignorant aspersions of others. The wonderful genius of Plotinus, was indeed so concealed under the garb of modesty, that before fame had announced his worth, it was only visible to a penetrating and sagacious few. But Longinus (says Porphyry) thought the works of Plotinus which he had received from Amelius incorrect, through the fault of the transcribers, because he was unacquainted with his usual elocution: for if any, the books in the possession of Amelius were correct, because they were transcribed from the manuscripts of Plotinus. Porphyry has likewise preserved the preface of a book composed by Longinus, inscribed, concerning the end, and dedicated to Plotinus and Amelius, in the course of which he thus speaks of our philosopher. “Plotinus and Gentilianus Amelius are replete with a copiousness of propositions, which they studiously discuss, and have seriously chosen the employment of writing, using a mode of contemplation peculiar, and their own. And Plotinus indeed, as it seems, has more certainly explained the Pythagoric and Platonic principles than his predecessors. For the writings of Numenius, Cronius, Moderatus, and Thrasyllus, are not to be compared, for accuracy in any part, with the books of Plotinus on the same subjects.”

If such then is the decision of Longinus concerning the abilities and writings of this extraordinary man: of Longinus who is celebrated by one of our first poets, as inspired by all the Nine; and whose literary reputation is universal; what judgment must we form of the philosophic taste of the present age, when we find that the very name of Plotinus is known but to a few, and his works scarcely to any? The inference is obvious: let the reader draw it, and lament. But (says Porphyry), if it be requisite to employ the testimony of the wise, who is wiser than a god? Than a god, who truly said of himself:

And this is no other than Apollo, who when Amelius enquired, where the soul of Plotinus had emigrated, answered in divine numbers, as follows:

“According to this oracle then (says Porphyry) Plotinus was worthy, and mild, gentle and endearing, and such as we found him to be by invariable experience. And again, it asserts that he was vigilant, endued with a purified soul, and always elevated to divinity, which he ardently loved. Likewise that he endeavoured by exerting all his powers to emerge from the bitter waters of this sanguine life. Hence when by the assistance of this blessed light, he had often raised himself by intellectual conceptions, to that first god who is superior to intellect, and had ascended according to all the gradations in the banquet of Plato to an union with his ineffable nature, this supreme principle suddenly appeared to him, neither possessing any form, nor any idea, but established above intellect, and every intelligible essence. And to this supreme god I Porphyry once approached, and was united with his nature, when I was sixty-eight years of age. The end of life therefore appeared to Plotinus: for the end and scope of existence to him, was a conjunction with that deity who is every where present. But he four times obtained this end, while I resided with him, not in capacity, but by an ineffable energy. Besides the oracle adds, that the gods often surrounding Plotinus with divine splendors, directed him in the right path, while they benignantly extended to his eyes abundant rays of celestial light: so that he may be said to have composed his books from the contemplation, and intuition of divinity. But from internal and external vigilance, he is said by the oracle, to have seen many and most beautiful spectacles, which no other philosopher has easily beheld. For human contemplation may indeed have various degrees of excellence, but when compared with divine knowledge, cannot fathom a depth, such as is penetrated by the gods. Hitherto the oracle shews, what were the energies of Plotinus, and what he obtained, while surrounded with body. But after his solution from body, it declares that he arrived at the blessed society, where friendship, sweet desire, joy, and love united with the deity, perpetually reign. Besides this, how the sons of the divinity, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Æacus, are appointed the judges of souls; and that Plotinus departed to these, not for the purpose of receiving their decisions of his conduct, but to enjoy their conversation, with whom also other gods of the most exalted order converse. Where Plato and Pythagoras reside, and other sublime souls, who compose the choir of immortal love; and where the most blessed dæmons have fixed their abode. And lastly, that the life of the inhabitants, in these celestial regions is ever flourishing and full of joy, and perseveres in perpetuity of bliss, from the benignant communications of divinity.” And thus much for the life of Plotinus, who was a philosopher unequalled for the strength and profundity of his intellect, and the purity and elevation of his life. He was a being, wise without the usual mixture of human darkness, and great without the general combination of human weakness and imperfection. He seems to have left the orb of light, solely for the benefit of mankind; that he might teach them how to repair the ruin contracted by their exile from good, and how to return to their true country, and their proper kindred and allies. I do not mean that he descended into mortality for the purpose of enlightening the vulgar part of mankind: for this would have been a vain and ridiculous attempt. The splendour of truth cannot be apprehended by eyes totally fixed in the dark night of oblivion; but previous to this, punishment must be inflicted, and purgation employed; the labours of Hercules must be accomplished, and the sufferings of Ulysses endured. But he came as a guide to the liberal few, who are struggling to gain the lost region of light, but know not how to break the fetters by which they are detained; and who are impatient to leave the obscure cavern of sense, where all is delusion and shadow, and to ascend to the realms of intellect, where all is substance and reality.

Let us now consider what were the principal tenets of the Platonic theology, which this extraordinary man restored, and illustrated in his writings. And, in the first place, he every where profoundly and copiously proves the super-essential nature of the one, or the supreme principle of things, which is one of the principal doctrines in the Parmenides, and is more plainly asserted in the Republic[61]. However prior to Plotinus[62], the interpreters of Plato ascended no higher than to intellect and being, and by this means placed a compound, and not a perfectly simple nature at the summit of the universe. This doctrine, which is called by Cudworth, high-flown, phantastical, and unsafe, will, I am sure, be deemed no better than jargon and reverie, by modern philosophers, who, so far from being able to conceive a cause superior to being, scarcely possess a thought which is not the progeny of body and sense. It is, however, sufficient for our present purpose to prove that this is the opinion of Plato, and to shew how it is defended by Plotinus. In the sixth book of the Republic then, Plato most beautifully evinces the super-essential nature of the first cause, whom he calls the good, by his analogy to the sun, as follows. “Have you not observed, with respect to the author of the senses, in how perfect a manner he has formed the power of sight, and of being visible? I have not entirely perceived it, replied he. But consider it in this manner. Do hearing and sound require any other species, in order that the one may hear, and the other be heard, which third nature when absent, the one shall not hear, nor the other be heard? There is nothing, said he. It appears to me, indeed, that many others (that I may not say none), require no such third species. Or are you able to find any such power? By no means. Have you not perceived that sight, and the object of sight, require such a nature? How? When sight is present with the eyes, and they are directed to vision, when colour also is present, unless a third species is present, naturally formed for the purpose, the sight will be without vision, and the colours will be invisible. But what do you call this? What you call light. You speak the truth. Indeed, the sense of seeing, and the power of being seen, are joined together by a bond the most honourable of all other conjunctions, and by no trifling form, if light be not dishonourable. Whom then of the celestial gods can you assign as the cause of this, that light causes our sight to see in the best manner, and that objects are perceived by the eyes? The same as you and others assign; for you interrogate concerning the sun. But the sight is thus affected with reference to this god. How? Neither is the sight the sun; nor is the eye in which vision resides the sun. It is not. But of all the organs of sense, the eye participates most of the sun. Greatly so. Does it not preserve the power which it possesses, as infused from the sun? Entirely. Besides, the sun is not sight, but its cause, and is on this account beheld by sight. It is plainly so. This is what I called the son of the good, which the good generated analogous to itself: that as this in the intelligible place, is to intellect and the objects of intelligence, so is that in the visible place to sight. How is this? Explain yourself more largely. You know that the eyes as often as they are not turned towards objects whose colours the splendour of day irradiates and discloses, but to such as are faintly illuminated by nocturnal rays, grow dim by the vision, and appear almost blind, as if perfect sight was not resident in their nature. So it happens. But as often as they are turned to objects which the sun illustrates, they perspicuously perceive, and in the very same eyes, sight appears to be contained. It is so. Thus think also concerning the soul. For when it adheres to that in which truth, and being itself shines forth to view, then it understands and knows this, and appears to possess intelligence. But when it is carried to that which is mingled with darkness, which is generated and destroyed, the sharpness of its sight is blunted, it is conversant with various opinions, and it seems to be destitute of intellect. So it appears. Hence, that which affords truth to objects of intelligence, and extends the power of intellection to him who understands, you may call the idea of the good, the cause of science, and truth perceived by intellect. But since these two are so beautiful, I mean knowledge and truth, if you esteem the good itself, as something different from these, and far more beautiful, you will think in a proper manner. And, as it is proper to believe, that light and sight possess a certain form of the sun, but are by no means the sun itself: so here it is proper to judge, that knowledge and truth possess a certain form of the good itself, but are by no means the good; for its majesty is far more venerable and august.” And a little after he adds: “You may say therefore, that the good, not only affords to objects of knowledge the power of being known, but likewise distributes their being and essence, while in the mean time the good itself is not essence, but above essence, excelling it both in dignity and power.”

It is plain, therefore, from the words of Plato himself, that he considered the supreme principle of things superior to being; and consequently this doctrine was not devised by the latter Platonists, contrary to the opinion of their divine master. But this is likewise evident from the testimony of Speusippus, the immediate successor of Plato, who, as we are informed by Proclus[63] confirmed this doctrine from the most ancient authority, and asserted, “that the ancients considered the one, as better than being, and that the principle of being was free from all proportion to the subsequent order of things, as the good itself is separated from every condition of any particular good.” To this most respectable evidence we may also add, that of the philosopher Moderatus, who, as we are informed by Simplicius[64], declares, “that, according to the Pythagoreans (from whom Plato, it must be observed, received the greater part of his philosophy), the first one is above all essence.”

This sublime theory was supported by Plotinus, with all that truly philosophic accuracy and depth, for which his writings are every where so remarkable. Indeed, it appears to have been his favourite topic; for he has employed considerable parts of many of his books in its illustration and defence. Nor can we wonder at his partiality for this exalted speculation, if we consider that a union with this ineffable nature, was the great aim of all his desires, and the only end of all his studies and pursuits. This was the divinely solitary light to which his intellectual eye was ever directed, and which so abundantly illumined the most secret recesses of his soul. Here he discovered the true fountain of good, and drank deep of its perennial streams. And lastly, here he derived those inestimable stores of knowledge, which he so fortunately transmitted to future generations. That the English reader, therefore, may have a specimen of his inimitable writings on this abstruse subject, and may see some of the deepest mysteries of the Greek theology disclosed, I shall present him with a paraphrased translation of two books of Plotinus: the first of which is inscribed, That Intelligibles are not external to Intellect, and concerning the Good, and the other, Concerning intelligible Beauty. I have particularly chosen these, not only because they admirably unfold the depths of the Platonic philosophy and theology; but because the first relates to the vision of the supreme, explaining the wonderful manner in which it is accomplished; and the second describes the method of becoming united with the intelligible world. The Platonic reader will find in these books (if I have done justice to their divine author), instances of sublimity beyond all comparison with any other writings; and specimens of a profundity of thought unequalled by any other philosopher. I am sensible that the great labour I have employed in the translation, will be, most probably, lost on the present generation: but though I write with no views nor desires of popular renown, yet I flatter myself with the approbation of more equitable posterity. The fifth book, therefore, of the fifth Ennead of Plotinus is as follows:

“Is it possible any one can think that true intellect, possessing true being, can at any time be deceived, and believe in things which have no real existence? Certainly no one. For how could it be intellect, if it is ever liable to deception? It is requisite, therefore, that it should always understand, and that nothing should ever be concealed from it, like those natures that are subject to oblivion. But it is likewise necessary that knowledge should reside in its essence, not like one imagining or doubting, or deriving information from another. Nor yet again, like knowledge collected from demonstration. For though it is granted that some things are collected by demonstration, it cannot likewise be denied that something is of itself known to intellect, at the same time that reason dictates, that all knowledge is essential to its nature. But it is now necessary to enquire after what manner we must distinguish the essential knowledge of intellect, and that which it obtains by investigation. Likewise from whence the certainty is derived to intellect, of its essential knowledge? From whence its faith is derived, that it is in such a condition? Because about things offered to the senses, the belief of which appears more certain, it is usual to doubt whether they possess their apparent nature in the subject things, or in certain passions only; where certainly the judgment of intellect, or, at least, of thought, is required. For though it should, perhaps, be granted, that the natures of sensible objects are contained in their subject bodies, yet what is known by sense, is nothing more than an image of the object; for sense cannot apprehend the thing itself, since it abides external to its perception. But intellect when it understands and apprehends intelligibles, if it knows these as something different from itself, after what manner is it connected with them? For it may happen that it shall not meet with them, and consequently that it may not understand: or perhaps then at last when it meets with them it will immediately understand, and thus it will not always possess intellection. And if it should be said, that intelligibles are conjoined with intellect, it remains to enquire what such a conjunction means. Besides the intellections themselves will be certain figures: and, if this is the case, they will be adventitious, and nothing more than certain pulsations. But after what manner will intellect be figured; and what will be the form of intelligibles? Lastly, from this hypothesis intelligence will be like sense, a perception of externals. After what manner then do these disagree among themselves? Shall we say in this, that one of them comprehends lesser concerns? Also, how can intellect know that it perceives something in reality? Or how will it be able to judge that this is good, or beautiful, or just? For every one of these will be different from intellect, nor will it contain the principles of judging by which it believes, but these also will be external to its essence; and in the same manner truth. Again, intelligibles themselves, are either destitute of sense, life and intellect, or they possess intellect. If they possess intellect, they will equally contain both, and this will be the true and first intellect. But of this also we enquire how it contains truth, intelligible itself, and intellect. Whether subsisting in the same and together, or in some other manner? But if intelligibles themselves are destitute of intellect and life, we must enquire what they are. For they are neither certain propositions, nor axioms, nor dictions. For if this were the case they would affirm something of other things, but would not be things themselves: as if they should say, that what is just is beautiful, when at the same time justice itself is different from the beautiful itself. But if they should consider as simple essences, the just itself, and the beautiful itself, apart from each other: in the first place, intelligible itself will not be a certain one; but every intelligible will be separate from others. In which case we must enquire where they are, and in what places they are separately disposed: afterwards in what manner intellect every where running round in a discursive procession, is able to find these: also how it abides: and again, how it abides or perseveres in the same; and what form or figure it is endued with. Unless, perhaps, intelligibles are situated like certain images formed from gold, or from some other matter by a statuary or painter. But if this be the case, intellect in its perceptions will be the same as sense. Besides in what respect among these, is this intelligible, justice, but that, something else. Lastly, this is the most powerful objection of all: viz. if any one should entirely admit, that these are extrinsical, and that intellect speculates them as having an external position, it necessarily follows that intellect does not possess the truth of these, but is deceived in the contemplation of each. For the object of its contemplation will be truly external: it will therefore behold them deprived of their intimate possession, and containing only their images in a knowledge of this kind. Since, therefore, it does not possess truth itself, but only contains certain images of truth, it will possess what is false, and have nothing of truth. If then it knows that it contains only what is false, it must undoubtedly confess itself to be destitute of truth: but if it is ignorant of this, and thinks that it participates of truth, when at the same time it is destitute of its possession, it is deceived by a two-fold fallacy, and is very far distant from truth. For it is on this account, as I think, that truth is not to be found in sensible objects but opinion alone: because opinion is conversant in receiving, from whence its name is derived. On this account it receives something different from itself, since that also is different from which it possesses what it receives. If then truth is not resident in intellect, such an intellect cannot be truth, nor a true intellect, nor intellect at all: nor indeed will truth be resident in any other place.

Hence it is not proper either to investigate intelligibles separate from intellect, or to confess that the figures of things only are contained in intellect, or to deprive it of truth, while we admit it is ignorant of intelligibles, and that the objects of its intellection have no existence in the order of things. But it is necessary to attribute all things to true intellect, if it is requisite to induce knowledge and truth; to preserve beings themselves; and that knowledge by which the essence of every thing is known; and no longer to acquiesce in the resemblances and images of things, as when we alone understand the particular mode of existence, and not the real essence of a thing; in this case neither possessing the object itself, nor dwelling with it, nor conspiring into one with its nature. For intellect indeed truly knows, nor is any thing concealed from its essential intelligence, nor is it liable to oblivion, nor does it wander by investigation, but it contains truth, and the seat of things in its essence, and is ever vital and intelligent. All which properties, indeed, ought to reside in the most blessed nature, or where can any thing honourable and venerable be found?

Hence it neither requires demonstration, nor the faith of persuasion, that intellect is thus essentially intelligent: for it is entirely manifest to itself, and there is nothing more worthy of faith than its own essence. So that it contains real truth, not consonant to any other but to itself, nor does it pronounce and exist any thing besides itself: and that which it is, it pronounces. Who then can confute it? And from whence can he bring his confutation? For the argument which is adduced must revolve into the same with the former. And although it is employed as different, it is nevertheless referred to the thing proposed by the first argumentator, and is with it entirely one and the same. For nothing can be found more true than truth.

This one nature intellect therefore is all beings: it is truth: it is a great deity: or rather it is not any particular god: but is deservedly every deity. And such is the nature of this second divinity, appearing to beholders, before they survey that superior God, who is seated in sublimer majesty on the illustrious throne of intellect, depending from his ineffable nature. For it is highly proper that he should not subsist in an inanimate seat, nor again immediately occur to us moving in the circular chariot of soul, but that an inestimable beauty should wonderfully shine before his appearance, as before the presence of a mighty king. For to such as advance to his intuition it is ordained that lesser things should first occur and afterwards that such as are greater should gradually present themselves to the view; and that such as surround the king should be more royal, and the rest in a degree proportionate to their distance from his ineffable glory. But after all these, the mighty king himself, suddenly shines forth to the view: while the rest venerate the king, in a suppliant manner; such I mean as do not depart from thence till they have proceeded to the last spectacle of all, like those who are satisfied with the splendor of the attendants on majesty. Another king, therefore, reigns in this intelligible world, and his attendants are different from his nature. But this supernal king does not rule over foreign subjects, but he possesses a just and natural government, and a true kingdom: since he is himself the king of truth, and is naturally the lord of his offspring the universe, and of the divine company of immortal gods. Hence he is the king of a king, and of kings, and is called by a juster name, the father of the gods. Whom indeed Jupiter in this respect imitates, since he does not acquiesce in the contemplation of his Father, but proceeds beyond this to his grand-sire, as to an energy in the very subsistence (ὑπόϛασις) of his essence.

But let us now ascend to the one itself, which is indeed truly one, not like other things which at the same time that they are many, are also one through the participation of unity. For we must now receive one itself, which is not one by participation, like such things as are not more truly one than many. We must likewise assert that the intelligible world is more one than other things, and that nothing is nearer than this to unity itself: at the same time that it is not purely one.

But for the present we desire to contemplate, if possible, the nature of the pure and true one, which is not one from another, but from itself alone. It is therefore here requisite, to transfer ourselves on all sides to one itself, without adding any thing to its nature, and to acquiesce entirely in its contemplation; being careful lest we should wander from him in the least, and fall from one into two. But if we are less cautious we shall contemplate two, nor in the two possess the one itself; for they are both posterior to unity. And one will not suffer itself to be numerated with another, nor indeed to be numbered at all: for it is a measure free from all mensuration. Nor is it equal to any others, so as to agree with them in any particular, or it would inherit something in common with its connumerated natures; and thus this common something, would be superior to one though this is utterly impossible. Hence neither essential number, nor number posterior to this, which properly pertains to quantity can be predicated of one: not essential number whose essence always consists in intellection; nor that which regards quantity, since it embraces unity, together with other things different from one. For the nature pertaining to number which is inherent in quantity, imitating the nature essential to prior numbers, and looking back upon true unity, procures its own essence, neither dispersing nor dividing unity, but while it becomes the duad, the one remains prior to the duad, and is different from both the unities comprehended by the duad, and from each apart. For why should the duad be unity itself? Or one unity of the duad rather than another, be one itself? If then neither both together, nor each apart is unity itself, certainly unity which is the origin of all number, is different from all these; and while it truly abides, seems after a manner not to abide. But how are those unities different from the one? And how is the duad in a certain respect one? And again, is it the same one, which is preserved in the comprehension of each unity? Perhaps it must be said that both unities, participate of the first unity, but are different from that which they participate: and that the duad so far as it is a certain one participates of one itself, yet not every where after the same manner: for an army, and a house are not similarly one; since these when compared with continued quantity, are not one, either with respect to essence, or quantity. Are then the unities in the pentad, differently related to one, from those in the decad? But is the one contained in the pentad, the same with the one in the decad? Perhaps also if the whole of a small ship is compared with the whole of a large one, a city to a city, and an army to an army, there will be in these the same one. But if not in the first instance, neither in these. However, if any farther doubts remain, we must leave them to a subsequent discussion.

But let us return to unity itself, asserting that it always remains the same, though all things flow from it as their inexhaustible fountain. In numbers, indeed, while unity abides in the simplicity of its essence, number producing another is generated according to this abiding one. But the one which is above beings, much more abides in ineffable station. But while it abides, another does not produce beings, according to the nature of one: for it is sufficient of itself to the generation of beings. But as in numbers the form of the first monad is preserved in all numbers, in the first and second degree while each of the following numbers do not equally participate of unity; so in the order of things, every nature subordinate to the first, contains something of the first, as it were his vestige or form in its essence. And in numbers, indeed, the participation of unity produces their quantity. But here the vestige of one gives essence to all the series of divine numbers, so that being itself, is as were the footstep of ineffable unity. Hence he who asserts that τὸ εἶναι, which is a denomination declarative of essence, is derived from τὸ ἕν, that is, one, will not perhaps deviate from the truth. But that which is called τὸ ὄν, that is, being, first of all shining forth from the depths of unity, and as it were not far proceeding from thence, is unwilling to advance beyond its original, but abides converted to its most interior retreats, where it becomes essence, and the essence of all things, and that which pronounces these; containing itself as it were in its labouring with sound; and declaring by its speech that it flows from one: and indeed τὸ ὄν thus pronounced, signifies its origin as much as possible. So that what becomes οὐσία, that is essence, and εἶναι or to be, imitate to the utmost their author, from whose unwearied power they perpetually flow. But intellect perceiving this, and being moved by the spectacle, and imitating what it knows, suddenly produces with an energetic voice the words ὄν, εἶναι, οὐσία, ἑστία. For these sounds endeavour to express the substance of that which is generated, (the pronouncing nature labouring with the expression;) and imitate as much as possible the origin of being itself.

But this must be left to every one’s particular determination. But since generated essence is form, (and that which is produced from thence can have no other appellation,) it is not a particular form, but universal, so that nothing else than this general form remains to species; and therefore it is necessary that one itself should be destitute of form. But since it is foreign from species neither can it be essence: since it is requisite that essence should be something determinate. But it is not lawful to consider unity itself as any thing particular and bounded, otherwise it would not be the principle, but that alone which you denominate something singular. If then all things are contained in that nature which is generated from the first, we must truly say that the author of all things, is not any one of these, and that he can alone be called that which is above all. But the natures produced from thence are beings, and being itself; and hence the one itself is superior to being. And that which is above being, does not say I am this, nor does it determine any thing concerning its nature, nor does it tell its name, but it alone pronounces, I am not this, i.e. I am nothing comprehensible and definite. But it is impossible by this means, to comprehend its nature; since it is ridiculous to attempt to comprehend immensity itself. So that whoever attempts it, removes himself far from the least vestige of this nature. For as he who desires to know intelligible essence, then only perceives what is above sense, when he possesses no image of a sensible object: so he who desires to contemplate a nature superior to intelligible essence, will enjoy the ineffable vision, if he neglects every thing intelligible, while merged in the most profound and delightful of all contemplations; learning from hence, that he is, but neglecting the enquiry into what he is, as impossible to investigate. For this which is called such, signifies when applied to him, not such: since the appellation of such cannot belong to a nature, to whom the predication what, is not applied. But we labouring as it were with our difficulty of conception, are ignorant what denomination is proper to his nature, and desiring as much as possible to signify something to ourselves give a name to that which is ineffable. But perhaps this name which is called one derives its appellation from a certain negation of many. On which account the Pythagoreans denominated him Apollo, according to a more secret signification, which also implies a negation of many. But if any one establishes this name one, and affirms something according to its signification, both the name and the thing named will be more obscure than if its appellation had been entirely neglected. For perhaps the name was expressed that the investigator beginning from something signifying the greatest simplicity of all might arrive at that perfection of contemplation, as even to deny him the appellation of one; convinced that the best name indeed had been assigned him, but that it was unworthy to express the superlative excellence of his nature. For this cannot be reached by the hearing, nor be understood by any hearer: but if it is manifest to any one, it must be to the profound beholder. But if he who perceives, endeavours to behold form, he will lose the intuition of this ineffable nature.

Again, the energy of vision is two-fold, as it happens with respect to the eye. For one thing, indeed, is a spectacle to the eye, that is, the form of the sensible object, but another, that by which it perceives the form, and which though itself sensible, is different from the sensible form. Hence it is the cause by which form is beheld, is inherent in form, and is perceived connected with its nature: though on this account it is not clearly perceived, since the eye more intently directs itself to the illuminated object than to the illuminating cause. But when there is nothing besides itself, it is beheld with a sudden and universal vision, though it should then be perceived adhering to some other object: for if it was entirely separate and alone, it could not be subject to sensible inspection; since the light of the sun flourishing in the sun itself, would perhaps escape our sense, unless its more solid orb was the subject of its splendor. But if it should be said that the whole sun is light, it is perhaps only asserted for the sake of explanation: for light is in no form of other visible objects, and is perhaps nothing else than that which is visible[65], while other things are visible, but not light alone; since their natures are various and composite. In like manner the eye of intellect, sees from another light things illuminated by that first nature, and in them it truly sees their illuminating source. But when it too earnestly converts itself to the nature of the illuminated objects, it perceives less their splendid original. And if at any time it should dismiss the visible objects, and attentively survey the light by which it perceives, it will then view light itself, and the principle of light. But because it is requisite that intellect should behold a light of this kind, not as any thing external; let us return again to the example of the corporeal eye, which on a time does not perceive external and foreign light, but previous to this beholds a light more peculiarly its own, and by far more lucid, shining in a certain inviolate and pure seat; either when it perceives before itself a ray darting from its transparent receptacle, through the darkness of night; or when not disposed to behold other objects, it confines itself under the covering of the eye-lids, and in the mean time produces from itself a purer light within; or lastly, when some one by pressing the corners of his eye-lids, views the inward light of the eye. For then, indeed, by not seeing he sees, and then sees in the most exalted degree; for he views light itself: while other things which were the objects of this vision before, were indeed lucid, without being light. In like manner intellect concealing and separating itself from all other concerns, and confining itself in its most inward retreats, and perceiving nothing, will immediately behold light, not subsisting in another, but by itself alone, perfectly pure, and suddenly shining from itself, with a splendor ineffably sacred and divine.