The design of the following discourse is to bring us to the perception of the beautiful itself, even while connected with a corporeal nature, which must be the great end of all true philosophy, and which Plotinus happily obtained. To a genius, indeed, truly modern, w’ith whom the crucible and the air-pump are alone the standards of truth, such an attempt must appear ridiculous in the extreme. With these, nothing is real but what the hand can grasp, or the corporeal eye perceive: and nothing useful but what pampers the appetite, or fills the purse: but, unfortunately their perceptions, like Homer’s frail dreams, pass through the ivory gate; and are, consequently, empty and fallacious, and contain nothing belonging to the vigilant soul. To such as these, a treatise on the Beautiful cannot be addressed: since its object is too exalted to be approached by those engaged in the impurities of sense; and too bright to be seen by the eye accustomed to the obscurity of corporeal vision. But it is alone proper to him, who is sensible that his soul is strongly marked with ruin by its union with body; who considers himself in the language of Empedocles, as
Heaven’s exile, straying from the orb of light;
and who so ardently longs for a return to his true country, that to him, as to Ulysses, when sighing for Ithaca,
Slow seems the sun to move the hours to roll;
His native home deep-imag’d in his soul1
But here it is requisite to observe, that our ascent to this region of Beauty must be made by gradual advances: for, from our association with matter, it is impossible to pass directly, and without a medium, to such transcendent perfection; but we must proceed in a manner similar to those who pass from darkness to the brightest light, by advancing from places moderately enlightened, to such as are the most luminous of all. It is necessary, therefore, that we should become very familiar with the most abstract contemplations; and that our intellectual eye should be strongly irradiated with the light of ideas which precedes the splendours of the beautiful itself, like the brightness which is seen on the summit of mountains, previous to the rising of the sun. Nor ought it to seem strange, if it should be some time before even the liberal soul can recognize the beautiful progeny of intellect as kindred and allies: for, from its union with body, it has drank deep of the cup of oblivion, and all its energetic powers are stupefied by the intoxicating draught. So that the intelligible world, on its first appearance, is utterly unknown by us, and our recollection of its inhabitants, entirely lost: and we become similar to Ulysses on his first entrance into Ithaca, of whom Homer says,
Yet had his mind, thro’ tedious absence, lost
The dear remembrance of his native coast.
For,
Now all the land another prospect bore,
Another port appear’d, another shore,
And long continued ways, and winding floods,
And unknown mountains crown’d with unknown woods:
until the goddess of wisdom purges our eyes from the mists of sense, and says to each of us as she did to Ulysses,
Now lift thy longing eyesy while I restore,
The pleasing prospect of thy native shore.
For then will
the prospect clear;
The mists disperse, and all the coast appear.
Let us then humbly supplicate the irradiations of wisdom, and follow Plotinus as our divine guide to the beatific vision of the Beautiful itself: for, in this alone can we find perfect repose, and repair those destructive clefts and chinks of the soul, which its departure from the light of good, and its lapse into a corporeal nature have introduced.
But, before I conclude, I think it necessary to caution the reader, not to mix any modern enthusiastic opinions with the doctrines contained in the following discourse: for there is not a greater difference between substance and shade than between ancient and modern enthusiasm. The object of the former was the highest good and supreme beauty; but that of the latter is nothing more than a phantom raised by bewildered imaginations, floating on the unstable ocean of opinion, the sport of the waves of prejudice, and blown about by the breath of factious party. Like substance and shade, indeed, they possess a similitude in outward appearance, but in reality they are perfect contraries; for the one fills the mind with solid and durable good; but the other with empty delusions; which, like the ever running waters of the Danaides, glide away as fast as they enter, and leave nothing behind but the ruinous passages through which they flowed.
I only add, that the ensuing treatise is designed as a specimen (if it should meet with encouragement) of my intended mode of publishing all the works of Plotinus. The undertaking is, I am sensible, arduous in the extreme; and the disciples of wisdom are unfortunately few: but, as I desire no other reward of my labour, than to have the expense of printing defrayed, and to see Truth propagated in my native tongue; I hope those few will enable me to obtain the completion of my desires.
For then, to adopt the words of Ulysses,
That view vouchsaf d, let instant death surprise,
With ever-during shade these happy eyes!2