nt
with great genius of every kind, and it is on this account that
retirement is so absolutely necessary to the discovery of truths of the
first dignity and importance; for how is it possible to mix much with
the world, without imbibing the false and puerile conceptions of the
multitude; and without losing that true elevation of soul which
comparatively despises every mortal concern? Plotinus, therefore,
conscious of the incorrectness of his writings arising from the
rapidity, exuberance and daring sublimity of his thoughts,
committed their revision to his disciple Porphyry; who, though
inferior in depth of thought to his master, was, on account of his
extraordinary abilities, called by way of eminence the Philosopher.

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, with
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
perceives, 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 fighting for Ithaca,

"Slow seems the fun to move, the hours to roll;
His native home deep-imag'd in his soul".[1]

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 pas