bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.”  Zeno declined all worldly honors in order that he might diffuse the doctrines of his master.  Heraclitus refused the chief magistracy of Ephesus that he might have leisure to explore the depths of his own nature.  Anaxagoras allowed his patrimony to run to waste in order to solve problems.  “To philosophy,” said he, “I owe my worldly ruin, and my soul’s prosperity.”  All these men were, without exception, the greatest and best men of their times.  They laid the foundation of the beautiful temple which was constructed after they were dead, in which both physics and psychology reached the dignity of science.  They too were prophets, although unconscious of their divine mission,—­prophets of that day when the science which explores and illustrates the works of God shall enlarge, enrich, and beautify man’s conceptions of the great creative Father.

Nevertheless, these great men, lofty as were their inquiries and blameless their lives, had not established any system, nor any theories which were incontrovertible.  They had simply speculated, and the world ridiculed their speculations.  Their ideas were one-sided, and when pushed out to their extreme logical sequence were antagonistic to one another; which had a tendency to produce doubt and scepticism.  Men denied the existence of the gods, and the grounds of certainty fell away from the human mind.

This spirit of scepticism was favored by the tide of worldliness and prosperity which followed the Persian War.  Athens became a great centre of art, of taste, of elegance, and of wealth.  Politics absorbed the minds of the people.  Glory and splendor were followed by corruption of morals and the pursuit of material pleasures.  Philosophy went out of fashion, since it brought no outward and tangible good.  More scientific studies were pursued,—­those which could be applied to purposes of utility and material gains; even as in our day geology, chemistry, mechanics, engineering, having reference to the practical wants of men, command talent, and lead to certain reward.  In Athens, rhetoric, mathematics, and natural history supplanted rhapsodies and speculations on God and Providence.  Renown and wealth could be secured only by readiness and felicity of speech, and that was most valued which brought immediate recompense, like eloquence.  Men began to practise eloquence as an art, and to employ it in furthering their interests.  They made special pleadings, since it was their object to gain their point at any expense of law and justice.  Hence they taught that nothing was immutably right, but only so by convention.  They undermined all confidence in truth and religion by teaching its uncertainty.  They denied to men even the capability of arriving at truth.  They practically affirmed the cold and cynical doctrine that there is nothing better for a man than that he should eat and drink. Cui bono? this, the cry of most men in periods of great outward prosperity, was the popular inquiry.  Who will show us any good?—­how can we become rich, strong, honorable?—­this was the spirit of that class of public teachers who arose in Athens when art and eloquence and wealth and splendor were at their height in the fifth century before Christ, and when the elegant Pericles was the leader of fashion and of political power.