With this profound and lofty feeling for Nature, did the early philosophers of Greece, who were chiefly Ionians, like Thales, Anaximenes, and Heraclitus, consider respectively water, air, and fire, as the primary powers of Nature and of all things; and it was only Anaxagoras, the master of Socrates, who first clearly expounded the nature of that supreme and divine Intelligence which created nature and regulates the world. Prior to this philosopher, Heraclitus had asserted this doctrine, perhaps with greater purity—certainly with more depth and penetration; but in his obscure writings it is less intelligibly expressed. With his supreme Intelligence in Nature, Anaxagoras conjoined the [Greek: omoiomersa], that is to say, not the real atoms of a lifeless matter, but rather the animated substance of material life. Thus his doctrine was a simple system of dualism, quite in harmony, it would seem, with the feelings of those early ages, as we have noticed a similar system in the history of Indian philosophy. These old Ionian philosophers in general regarded only the internal life in Nature and all existence—the constant change and endless vicissitude in the world and in all things; and hence many of them began to doubt, and at last finally denied, the existence of anything steadfast and enduring. According to that law and march of contrast, which Grecian intellect, whether consciously or unconsciously, invariably pursued, these Ionian philosophers were now opposed by the school of Parmenides, which inculcated the doctrine of an all-pervading unity—and taught that this principle was the first and last, the sole, true, permanent, and eternal Being. Although this system was at first propounded in verse, it was by no means, in its essential and ruling spirit, a poetical Pantheism, like that of the Indians—but more congenial with the intellectual habits of the Greeks, it was a Pantheism thoroughly dialectic, which at first regarded all change as an illusion and idle phenomenon, and at last positively denied the possibility of change. Between these two extreme schools appeared the great disciple of Socrates, who sought, by a path of inquiry completely new, completely foreign to the Greeks—by a range of speculation which soared far above the world of sense, and outward experience, as well as above mere logic, to return to the supreme God-head, infinitely exalted above all nature—deriving the notion of the Deity from immediate intuition, primeval revelation, or profound internal reminiscence. By this doctrine of reminiscence, which is the fundamental tenet of the Platonic system, this philosophy has a strong coincidence or affinity with the Indian doctrine of the Metempsychosis, by the supposition it involves of the prior existence of the human soul. To such a notion of the pre-existence of the soul, in the literal sense of the term, no system of Christian philosophy could easily subscribe. But if, as there is no reason to prevent us, we should understand this Platonic notion of reminiscence in a more spiritual sense—as the awakening or resuscitation of the consciousness of the divine image implanted in our souls—as the soul's perception of that image; this theory would then perfectly coincide with the Christian doctrine of the divine image originally stamped on the human soul, and of the internal illumination of the soul by the renovation of that image—and hence we ought in no way to be astonished that this Platonic mode of thinking, for such it is rather than any exclusive system,—as it is the first great philosophy of revelation clothed and propounded in an European form—should have ever appeared so captivating to the profound thinkers of Christianity. In Plato's time, that host of Sophists who had sprung out of the dialectic contests of the earlier philosophy, out of its rejection and disbelief of every thing permanent, immutable and eternal in Nature, in life, and in knowledge, as well as out of the democratic spirit of the age, and the ever prevailing immorality—in Plato's time, that host of Sophists completely bewildered and confused the public mind, poisoned all principle and morality in their very source, and accomplished the ruin of society in Greece in general, and in Athens in particular. And the masterly portrait which Plato has given us of these Sophists exhibits well this race, and the pernicious influence they exerted over Grecian intellect, and the whole circle of Grecian states; and this political influence of the Sophists forms the third epoch in the history of Greece, which, by means of these popular sycophants, became daily more and more democratic, till at last it perished in anarchy.
The more ancient philosophers of Greece lived almost all in a state of retirement from public life, taking no part in political affairs, or evincing very evident sentiments of hostility to the governments and republics of their native country. They were almost all unfriendly to the prevailing principles of democracy; and the ideal governments, which they, as well as Plato, have sketched, were all in the spirit of a very rigid aristocracy of virtue and law—evincing a very marked predilection for that form of government as it existed, though in a state of great degeneracy, among the Doric Greeks. Long before Plato, the Pythagoreans had inculcated doctrines perfectly similar, or at least of a very kindred nature; and with the view and purpose of introducing their principles into public life, by which undoubtedly the governments and the whole frame of society in Greece, as well as the whole system of Grecian thought, would have assumed a totally new and different shape. But before the Pythagorean confederacy, which was so widely diffused through the Greek states of Southern Italy, was able to accomplish its design, the violent re-action of an opposite party of thinkers destroyed it, or at least deprived it of all ascendancy and political influence.
The age of Aristotle concurred with that of the Macedonian sway to terminate anarchy of every kind. To the old evil of a false dialectic, which had become an inveterate habit, and, as it were, a second nature to Grecian intellect, he endeavoured to oppose his ample and substantial logic—and this must be regarded not so much as a wonderful organum, a living and never-failing source of scientific truth, but rather as a remedy for that disease of a false, sophistical rhetoric, so prevalent in his own age, and the one immediately preceding—and which had brought about the ruin of all truths, and an universal anarchy of doctrines, even in practical life. With a perspicacious, penetrative, and comprehensive intellect, he has reduced all the philosophic, and all the historical science of preceding ages and of his own time, to a clear, well-ordered system, for the ample instruction of posterity:—in both these sciences, as well as in natural history, he has remained, down to the latest time, the master-guide. In those parts of his philosophy which lie between this natural science and the old dialectic contests, in its primary and fundamental principles, the system of Aristotle, when rightly understood, contains much that leads to the most dangerous errors, especially in his notion of God; though we cannot with justice impute to him the abuse which has been made of his philosophy in subsequent ages. Notwithstanding the many excellent things which are to be found in the Ethics of Aristotle, considered merely as an effort of unassisted reason; yet in all the enquiries after a higher truth—after the first notion of the divine which, in the elder philosophy of nature, was so imperfectly understood, and which in the consummate rationalism of Aristotle was completely misapprehended—in all these important enquiries, the Stagyrite is far from being such a guide as Plato; and his philosophy is not like the Platonic, a scientific introduction to the Christian revelation, and to the knowledge of divine truths. The later systems of philosophy among the Greeks were, with some slight variations of form, mere repetitions, often only mere combinations and compilations, of the ancient philosophy; or they exhibited a thorough degeneracy of science and intellect, as in the atomical system of Epicurus, which even on life and morals had an atomical influence.
The Greek states have long since disappeared from the face of the earth—the republics, as well as the Macedonian kingdoms founded by Alexander, have long since ceased to exist. Many centuries—near two thousand years, have elapsed, since not a vestige remains of all that ancient greatness and transitory power. If the celebrated battles and other mighty events of those ages are still known to us; if they still excite in us a lively interest, it is principally because they have been delineated with such incomparable beauty, such instructive interest, by the great classical writers. It is not the republican governments of Greece, nor the brief and fleeting period of Grecian liberty, which was so soon succeeded by civil war and anarchy—it is not the universal empire of Macedon, which was but of short duration, and was soon swallowed up in the Roman or Parthian domination—it is not these that mark out the place which Greece occupies in the great whole of universal history, nor the mighty and important part she has had in the civilization of mankind. The share allotted to her was the light of science in its most ample extent, and in all the clear brilliance of exposition which it could derive from art. It is in this intellectual sphere only that the Greeks have been gifted with extraordinary power, and have exerted a mighty influence on after-ages. Plato and Aristotle, far more than Leonidas and Alexander the Great, contain nearly the sum and essence of all truly permanent and influential, which the Greeks have bequeathed to posterity. It is evident that I include under these great names the whole classical culture which formed the basis of this Greek science—the general refinement of minds—the fine arts, and above all, the glorious old poetry of Greece. We have to mention another department of Greek science, wherein from its natural clearness and liveliness, its profound observation of man, the most eminent success was attained. And the pre-eminence consists in this—that historical art, as well as historical research were originated by the Greeks, and that both have attained a degree of perfection which has been almost ever unknown to the Asiatic nations, and which even the moderns have only imitated by degrees upon the great models of antiquity. The father of history, Herodotus, has not been without reason compared to Homer, on account of his manifold charms, and the clearness and fulness of his narrative. We remain in utter astonishment, when we reflect on the depth and extent of his knowledge, researches, enquiries, and remarks on the history and antiquities of the various nations of the earth, and of mankind in general. The deeper and more comprehensive the researches of the moderns have been on ancient history, the more have their regard and esteem for Herodotus increased. The later classical historians display much rhetoric; but this was natural, when we consider what a mighty influence rhetoric exerted on public life, and that it had become an all-ruling power in the state. This false rhetoric, that idle pomp of words, the death of all genuine poetry and higher art—as the endless strifes of a false dialectic, are the ruin of all sane and legitimate science, of all precision of intellect, and soundness of judgment—this false rhetoric, by the exclusively sophistical turn which it gave to the public mind and public opinion, accelerated the downfall of government, and of all public virtues in Greece.
The third category or sphere of Grecian intellect and Grecian life which I designated after that of divine art, and natural science, and the varied knowledge of man, was political rationalism.[63] I have used that expression, chiefly in reference to the later ages of the Greek Republics, as it is the quality which eminently distinguished them from the Asiatic states, and those of modern Europe.
In the later ages of Athens, and of the other democratic states, the rationalist principles of freedom and equality were the sole prevailing and recognized maxims of government. Considered in this historical point of view, the chief difference between the two principal forms of government consists in this—that the republic is, or at least tends to be, the government of Reason; while monarchy is founded on the higher principles of faith and love. But the distinction lies rather in the ruling spirit—the moral principle which animates these two governments, than in their mere outward form. Republics which are founded on ancient laws and customs, on hereditary rights and usages, on faith in the sanctity of hereditary right, on attachment to ancestral manners (as was undoubtedly the case with the Greek republics in the early ages of their history), such states, so far from being opposed to the true spirit of monarchy, are, to all essential purposes, of a kindred nature with it. Such, too, are those happy republics which, content with the narrow limits of their power and existence, at peace with other states, devoid of ambition, firmly wedded to their ancient rights and customs, figure but little on the arena of history, and occupy but small space in the columns of the gazetteer. In a monarchy, attachment to the hereditary sovereign and to the royal dynasty is the corner-stone and the firmest pillar of the state—whole provinces may be conquered, and important battles may be lost; but while this foundation of love remains unshaken—while this principle is in active operation, the edifice of the state will stand unmoved.
The next foundation of monarchy is faith in ancient rights—in the heritage of ancestral customs and privileges, according to the several relations of the different classes of the state; and we should beware, in a monarchial government, not to touch or violate with an incautious hand, or change without necessity, hereditary rights and usages which time has consecrated, for such heedless changes shake the very foundations of the social edifice. When a monarchy is founded on a written contract (whether it be intended as a sort of treaty of peace, with some party aspiring to dominion in the state, or be only the successful experiment of some scientific theory of political rationalism), such a government, though it may preserve the outward form, has ceased in all essential points, to be a monarchy according to the old acceptation of the term. An absolute government, whatever shape it may assume, whether it take the form of republicanism, and adopt the rationalist principles of freedom and equality—principles which in the nature of things, and according to the very constitution of human reason, are almost ever inseparable from a spirit of progressive encroachment in foreign policy, (as is sufficiently proved by the inordinate ambition, the insatiable thirst of power which distinguished the great republics of antiquity, in proportion as they became more democratic, and more a prey to anarchy,) or whether the absolute government assume the lawless and illegitimate sway of a military despotism—such a government may indeed be established in a sort of equipoise, circumscribed within tolerably reasonable limits, and preserved at least in its physical existence by means of such a written compact as we have spoken of above. But the old Christian state—the state which is founded in faith and love—can be renovated and re-established; not by the mere dead letter of any theory, though it should contain nothing but the pure dogmatic truth—but by faith—by love—by the religious energy of all the great fundamental principles of moral life.