this Power 'God.'

fear of rousing his

Perhaps he was afraid of doing so for enemies still more against him. He

called it Nous, or Intelligence. By whatever name he called it, one thing, I think, is clear. If by this Nous' he meant an overruling Providence sitting apart, commanding and ordering the elements to obey him, then his philosophy must surely be called Theistic. If, on the contrary, he believed this Intelligence to be a subtle pervading power, dwelling within every portion of creation, inhabiting man as much as inhabiting what is generally understood by Nature, then I think the philosophy of Anaxagoras must certainly be called Pantheistic. Just as the philosophy of the four Ionians would be indifferently called Materialistic or Pantheistic, according to the medium through which it is viewed, so would the philosophy of Anaxagoras be called indifferently Theistic or Pantheistic, according to the medium through which we view it.

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CHAPTER II.

PYTHAGORAS.

FROM Anaxagoras, the least political of philosophers, we turn to Pythagoras, the most political.

The life and character of Pythagoras are so hidden in obscurity, and overlain with legends and tales of marvels, that it is somewhat difficult to gain any trustworthy acquaintance with either himself or his philosophy.

Some say he was the contemporary of Solon and Thales, others assigned him to the age of Tarquinius Superbus and Polycrates. The majority of modern historians, however, seem to think that Pythagoras was probably born at Samos, and was a contemporary or nearly a contemporary of Anaxagoras, flourishing, in all probability, shortly before that philosopher.

In point of ability we should, perhaps, decide that the philosophy of Pythagoras comes between that of the Ionian School and Anaxagoras. But there is one strong reason for making us believe Pythagoras was the successor, and not the predecessor, of Anaxagoras. Both Pythagoras and his disciples prosecuted their philosophical studies in secrecy; they founded a secret society, a sort of brotherhood or order. And the most probable reason for such secrecy is to be found in the alarm felt by philosophers at the anger and dislike gradually being evinced by the populace at their teaching, culminating, as we have seen, in the actual exile and threatened death of Anaxagoras. If we suppose that Pythagoras lived after the persecution of

Anaxagoras we have some clue to the reason and cause of the secrecy of the Pythagorean brotherhood; but it becomes much more inexplicable if we suppose Pythagoras was the contemporary of Solon and Thales. There seems, then, to be no reason why this system of secrecy should have been carried on, when as yet philosophy had been free from persecution; receiving, indeed, for the most part a fair share of honour and praise.

It is this same system of secrecy that makes it so difficult for us to ascertain with certainty in what the real doctrines and teaching of Pythagoras consisted. Like Thales he had left nothing behind him in writing; and the mere fact of the secrecy and exclusiveness of his teaching would in itself be sufficient to account for the numerous myths and legends that sprang up after his death. What is secret and unknown is generally regarded with more or less of awe; besides which, it is always easy to invent fables, and always difficult to contradict them, when the subject of the fable was accustomed to teach in privacy, and had been long since dead. It can never be known, except through his disciples, what Pythagoras did or did not teach; and if those disciples chose to invent sayings and doings utterly apart from the real truth, it is almost impossible for us to disprove their statement. The proof of a negative is of proverbial difficulty.

Pythagoras, as far as we can glean from the various statements given of him, followed the Ionians in seeking for a first principle of all things. The conclusion he arrived at, however, was very different from theirs. In his mind neither the water or air, neither the earth or fire proved any satisfactory solution of the difficulty. What, then, was the first principle of all things? The answer he gave was, 'Numbers.' Numbers lay at the root of all being. Numbers can never lie. Resolve a thing into its particles, and each particle is yet one.

It is said that Pythagoras was the first to call himself

by the title of 'philosopher.' When asked in what secret lay his art, he replied that he had none-he was but a lover and seeker after wisdom. Wisdom was the only source of happiness; wisdom was the only goal worthy of a man's ambition. Wisdom was that which he was seeking to attain. It seemed strange to him to find so few caring or endeavouring to seek it. He was a believer in metempsychosis, and thought that all mankind had come down from heaven to dwell upon this earth for but a very short period. How strange, then, that the only thing that had anything of heaven in it, the only thing capable of reminding men of their former condition-how strange it was that this heavenly quality called Wisdom should be so forsaken of mankind!

'All comes from One,' said Pythagoras. 'God embraces all, and actuates all, yet is but One. Take away every mode or condition, and there remains still the One Being which cannot be made either more or less than One.'

To the number Ten' extraordinary importance was imputed, since it contains in itself, or arises from the addition of 1, 2, 3, 4—that is, of even and odd numbers together; hence it received the name of the grand tetractys, because it so contained the first four numbers. The Pythagoreans likewise attached much importance to the triad, since it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. To unity, or one, they gave the designation of the 'even-odd,' asserting that it contained the property both of the even and the odd, as is plain from the fact that if 'one' be added to an even number it becomes odd, but if added to an odd number it becomes even. They even linked their arithmetical views to morality through the observation that numbers never lie. They held that the number one not only contained the most perfect but also the most imperfect; hence it followed that the most perfect, most beautiful, most wise are not at the beginning, but that they are in process of time evolved. They arranged the primary ele

ments of nature in a table of ten contraries, of which the odd and even are one, and light and darkness another.

All this, of course, sounds very fantastic; and it is at first sight somewhat difficult to understand whence arose the extreme admiration with which the disciples of Pythagoras were accustomed to regard their master. A little consideration, however, upon the characteristics of the age in which Pythagoras lived will materially assist us in comprehending the admiration, we might almost say the adoration, with which he was regarded by his disciples.

In the last chapter we dwelt at some length upon the change and alteration effected in Greek religion and Greek philosophy by the intercourse between Egypt and Greece; we showed how the more educated were in consequence gradually losing all faith in the ancient religion, and how the outcome of this gradual disbelief was the first crude commencement of philosophy. Men were fast reaching that despairing stage of unbelief when they feel that they have no positive criterion of truth; when they long to believe, but from the multiplicity of creeds and philosophies know not in what or in whom to believe. There is no state for a thoughtful mind to be in more utterly wretched than this.

If Thales had been the only philosopher he would have been worshipped most probably as eagerly as Pythagoras was worshipped; but almost as soon as his philosophy was accepted and thoroughly mastered, Anaximander arose with a new philosophy, and proved to them how wholly incorrect was the philosophy of Thales. In like manner arose Anaximenes with a new theory to supersede that of Anaximander; and Anaximenes in his turn was shortly to be superseded by Heraclitus. In this war of philosophies and creeds what was to be believed, what was to be disbelieved? Only those who have gone through it know the real misery experienced by such as are longing to believe, yet can find no certain creed worthy of belief;