Aristotelian ontological essentialism

October 9, 2007

I have yet to insert some Greek terminology denoted as [Greek] and the full citation details.

============================== 

There is no interpretative consensus among Aristotelian scholars on the methodological principles Aristotle employed in arriving at his list of categories nor indeed how the categories themselves are related to these “classes” of entities. Are they primarily classes (a theory of reality) or classes of expressions (a theory of language) of a certain sort we classify under substance, quality or quantity? Are the entities classified according to a classification of the “categorematic” (Frede 1981: 2) expressions by which they are “signified” or are they classified according to the classification of the “entities” they signify? Aristotle himself “was never in a position to fix his topic . . . because his conception of what ought to be achieved by a discussion of [Greek] constantly outgrew his definitions” (Wiggins 1995: 214); Aristotle’s conception of substance changed across the Categories, Physics and Metaphysics (Driscoll 1981: 129-159). Matters are further complicated in that all that the Aristotelian tradition held to should not be laid at the door of Aristotle. Thus in what follows I keep to a perceived orthodoxy in interpretation (I do look at some competing interpretations) but and in so doing also licence myself to take a more suggestive reading rather than being constrained by a close grained exercise in scholarship.

I. categories

For Aristotle the unit of thought is the proposition in which something can be affirmed or denied, stated as true or false and which he analyses into two factors:

(1) The Subject – that about which something is affirmed or denied; and

(2) The Predicate – that which is affirmed or denied of it.

Consequently his doctrine of the classification of Terms is based on a classification of Predicates, or of Propositions according to the special kind of connection between the Subject and Predicate which they affirm or deny. Two such classifications, which cannot be made to fit into one another, are the “Categories” or “Predicables”. The list of “Categories” reveals itself as an attempt to answer the question in how many different senses the words “is “a” or “are” (one needs to mark that Aristotle’s first word for substance was “being” which “obscures the etymological connection between [Greek] and being” (Gill 1989: 13)) are employed when we assert that x is y or x is a y or xs are ys. Such a statement may tell us:

(1) what x is for if I say that “x is a cat”; the predicate is then said to fall under the category of Substance;

(2) what is x like, for example when I say that “x is black, or wise” – the category of Quality;

(3) how much or how many x is – the category of Quantity;

(4) how is x related to something else, say x is to the right of y, x is the father of y – the category of Relation.

For Aristotle “certain elements of a language have key-designating roles, the full understanding of which requires that we understand the designata as falling within those classes which jointly form the set definitive of, that to which a sensible particular must be related” (Moravcsik 1968: 145). The word key is crucial here. The structure of language was not isomorphic to the structure of reality a la Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, but that there are key parts of language and reality which do have connections.

In Categories 1b25ff Aristotle introduces the list of categories as containing the kinds (quality, quantity) of items (for example, white, grammatical, three cubits long) which are signified by “things said without any combination.” In Topics 101b26-28 he writes that the key elements in a statement are property, genus, definition and accident but that none of them in of themselves comprise a statement. Does the theory that all the elements of such sentences designate an item? Does every element that has a designation fall into one of the categories? The answer offered by Moravcsik (1968: 128-135) is summarized as follows.

(1) Aristotle did not think that every word or phrase which could be part of a sentence of subject-predicate form has the function of designating an entity.

(2) Likewise, not every noun or verb designates an item in one of the categories.

(3) Some noun or verb-phrases do designate items falling under more than one category.

(4) Not all relevantly simple nouns and verbs designate items falling into only one category.

(5) Those elements of subject-predicate form, or definitions (Aristotle did not consider definitions as true or false or as produced by combination but we must assume that he thought of parts of definitions as falling under one category), which

(a) are not connectors;
(b) are not, like “being”, otherwise non-designative in nature;
(c) cannot be turned into sentences of subject-predicate form, by the mere addition of connectors;
(d) designate genuine unities, are “uncombined elements” of language, and designate items falling into one and only one category.

The designative link between simple parts of language (d) and the simple parts of reality which fall into only one category, is the key link between the structure of language and the structure of reality.

Consider an ordinary universal affirmative proposition of the form “all xs are ys.” Now if this statement is true it may also be true that “all ys are xs,” or it may not. On the first supposition we have two possible cases:

(1) the predicate may state precisely what the subject defined is; then y is the Definition of x, for example “men are mortal animals capable of discourse.” Here it is also true to say that “mortal animals capable of discourse are men,” and Aristotle regards the predicate “mortal animal capable of discourse” as expressing the inmost nature of man;

(2) The predicate may not express the inmost nature of the subject, and yet may belong only top the class denoted by the subject and to every member of that class. The predicate is then called a Proprium or property, an exclusive attribute of the class in question. Thus it was held that “all men are capable of laughter” and “all beings capable of laughter are men,” but that the capacity for laughter is no part of the inmost nature or “real essence” of humanity.

Again, in the case where it is true that “all xs are ys” but not true that “all ys are xs”, y may be part of the definition of x or it may not. If it is part of the definition of x it will be either:

(3) a Genus or wider class of which x forms a subdivision as in “All men are animals”; or

(4) a Difference, that is, one of the distinctive marks by which the xs are distinguished from other sub-classes or species of the same genus, as in “All men are capable of discourse”; or

(5) y may be no part of the definition of x, but a characteristic which belongs both to xs and some things other than xs. The predicate is then called Accident. Thus the predicate of a universal affirmative proposition is always a definition, a proprium, a genus, a difference, or an accident.

Nature herself has made certain hard and fast divisions between kinds which it is the business of our thought to recognise and follow. Thus according to Aristotle there is a real gulf, a genuine difference in kind, between the horse and the ass, and this is illustrated by the fact that the mule, the offspring of a horse and an ass, is not capable of propagating. To say that Socrates is a man tells me what Socrates is, because the statement places Socrates in the real kind to which he actually belongs; to say he is wise, or old, or a philosopher merely tells me some of his attributes. It follows from the belief in “real: or “natural” kinds that the problem of definition acquires an enormous importance for science. For Aristotle, it was held that a true classification must not only be formally satisfactory, but must also conform to the actual lines of cleavage which Nature has established between kind and kind, the task of classificatory science becomes more difficult. Science is called on to supply not merely a definition but the definition of the classes it considers, which faithfully reflects the “lines of cleavage” in Nature. This is why the Aristotelian view is that a true definition should always be per genus et differetias. It should “place” a given class by mentioning the wider class next above it in the objective hierarchy, and then enumerating the most deep-seated distinctions by which Nature herself marks off this class from the others belonging to the same wider class. Modern evolutionary science differs from the Aristotelianism on one point of importance. It regards the difference between kinds, not as a primary fact of Nature, but as produced by a long process of accumulation of slight differences. As the intermediate links between “species” drop out because they are less thoroughly adapted to maintain themselves than the extremes between which they form links, the world produced approximates more and more to a system of species between which there are unbridgeable chasms; evolution tends more and more to the final establishment of “real kinds”, marked by the fact that there is no permanent possibility of cross-breeding between them. This makes it once more possible to distinguish between a “nominal” definition and a “real” definition.

As I intimated in the opening paragraph of this section, it is not immediately obvious whether Aristotle’s ten categories, surprisingly hetergeneous, is supposed to yield an ontological classification or an analysis of the structure of propositions. The hetergeneity of the list suggests that Aristotle is primarily concerned with the types to be designated rather than the manner of designation (Moravcsik 1968: 136).

The orthodox characterization of the categories conceives them as the “highest predicables” (in a footnote, Moravcsik cites WHB Joseph’s An Introduction to Logic wherein he writes that the Greek word for category [Greek] means “predicate”). Sensing the ambiguity of “highest” Moravcsik (1968: 137) presents two ways in which the term might be taken:

(1) predicate p/ is higher than predicate p// iff all members of the class which make up the range of application of p// are also members of the class which makes up the range of application of p/, and not vice versa. i. e. animal is higher than man.

(2) p/ is higher than p// iff p/ is an attribute of p//. i. e. a category would be a higher predicate than quality or quantity, and colour, quality, category would be constitute a hierarchy.

Aristotle could not accept a hierarchy (2) for the ontological reality of the higher strata would be approaching Platonism, and so it seems that (1) is more appropriate in that as one goes to wider and wider genera, the particulars contained in any one genera are on an ontological par with the particulars of the wider genera.

Other interpretations of the ‘highest predicables’ have been put forward by Ryle, Anscombe and Ackrill, loosely grouped as the “linguistic” view. On this view the list of categories is intended to delineate the different kinds of things that can be said about a substance. As there are infinitely many things that could be said, the list is necessarily incomplete. However, the central achievement of Aristotle’s list, according to the Ryle/Anscombe view, is that Aristotle anticipated the “concept of semantic category and that the notion of a category-mistake” (Moravcsik 1968: 138). Given the discussion of Aristotle’s “key” elements of a statement, it is understandable that many commentators have taken the “linguistic” view (Frede 1981: 22). Moravcsik gives three objections to the “linguistic” view:

(1) Aristotle’s list was designed to contain mutually exclusive categories which are jointly exhaustive of reality.

(2) The basis of individuation of the categories was not linguistic. Aristotle explicitly states (11a15-20; 6a26) their differentiating characteristics – for example, quality is that in virtue of which things can be said to be similar; quantity is that which can be said to be equal or unequal.

(3) Were Aristotle to have semantic anomaly in mind, “he would have missed the glaring fact that to describe a shape as red or blue is sematically odd, even though both shape and colour belong to the same category – i. e. quality” (Moravcsik 1968: 139).

Ackrill (1963: 78-81) advances the view that Aristotle arrived at his list of categories in two ways.

(1) Through the sorting out of the different types of question that can be asked about substances.

(2) Through the asking what any given thing is and to continue by repeating that question with reference to whatever the previous answer disclosed (Topics 103b22ff).

The process of (1) and (2) is concluded when irreducible genera are reached, presumably because nothing more can be asked. Again, this account has its weakness. The emphasis on questions, or classes of properties concerning substances seem to run on one example, man. Moravcsik (1968: 140-141) quite rightly points out that it would be very surprising if the two approaches yielded the same list: “Why should the classification of the aspects of one kind of entity, e. g. substance, coincide with an exhaustive classification of the essences of all entities that make up reality?” Ackrill’s view also suffers from the same criticism levelled against the Ryle/Anscombe view in that there is an indeterminacy in trying to classify things by repeatedly asking a question.

Ackrill’s second approach runs on a passage in the Topics. It states, among other things, that the essence of anything will be found in one of the categories, but only that the categories make up such an exhaustive classification of reality that no real essence will overlap any one category. This is consistent with the claim that there are irreducible genera within the categories and that the number of categories could be reduced. Most importantly, the statement is only a necessary condition for the correct list of categories; it does not provide a procedure for arriving at or a principle of unity for the list.

In light of the above interpretations, Moravcsik (1968: 142) gives three necessary conditions for an adequate interpretation drawing on the Topics, Physics and Metaphysics, all pointing to Aristotle’s using the list in his analyses of key concepts such as being and change, but also in his intention to show substance as ontologically prior to all else. The three necessary conditions are as follows.

(1) the list must be exhaustive of all that Aristotle takes to exist;

(2) no reduction in the number of categories should be possible without violating the principle that the essence of anything will be found in one of the categories and that no real essence will overlap any of the categories. In other words, each category must be mutually exclusive;

(3) no further subdivision of the categories should be possible without violating the constitutive principle.

These conditions go some way to resolving the debate whether there are particulars and universals in each category, or only universals in all but the first. The conditions do not entail that each category must contain both universals and particulars but rather that they jointly contain all the universals and particulars thus allowing for some categories to be comprised solely of universals, or particulars or both.

For Moravcsik (1968: 143-144) an interpretation that goes some way to providing a more adequate understanding is that of Bonitz (Àber die Kategorien des Aristotles, Vienna 1853). Bonitz’ suggestion is that Aristotle’s list “yields a survey of what is given in sense experience, and that each entity thus given must be related to some item in each of the categories.” On this view the constitutive principle of the list of categories is that they constitute those classes of items to each of which any sensible particular, substantial or otherwise, must be related. A sensible particular includes not only substance, but sound, event etc. and must be related to some substance, it must display some quality and quantity, it must have relational properties, have spatio-temporal existence, subject to the categories of affecting and being affected.

Aristotle’s list was first and foremost an ontological inventory: that is, first determining an ultimate class of entities consisting of all qualities and then introducing a category of quality which is characterised by the fact that the item predicated belongs to the antecedently determined class of qualities. Frede (1981: 22) thinks that the reverse is true: he takes Aristotle in the Categories to rely on the already understood knowledge of what it is to say of something what it is like. And qualities are just those items which we attribute to something when we say what it is like, quantities just those items which we refer to in saying what amount it is, and so on.

I concede that Aristotle did arrive at his list of categories with both logical and grammatical considerations in mind – after all logic and meaning is vital to metaphysical discourse – but I don’t hold to the view of Frede’s (1981: 23) that “the real interest of the Aristotelian notion of a category seems to lie in the fact that we are supposed to have one set of notions, or perhaps, two or three very closely related sets of notions, which do indeed work in logic, in grammar, and in metaphysics.” The reason for attributing an ontological character to Aristotle’s enterprise is because of his emphasis on substance, the preeminent category, having ontological primacy over all other categories predicable of substance, the investigation of which lays the ground for scientific explanation.

II. essence and accident

At the heart of the essence and accident distinction lies the notion of change and permanence: if x really changes then it cannot literally be x, the same object that underwent the change; but if we still call x x after a change, thus in some sense retaining its identity, then could it have really changed?

Aristotle thus distinguishes two senses of change, alterations on the one hand, and on the other hand, coming-to-be and passing-aways (On Generation and Corruption 319b8-24). The first, taking the example of a man, one readily acknowledges that a man may undergo any number of changes associated with growing up, illness, ageing, loss of limb etc., yet substantially or essentially be what he was before the changes. This corresponds to the first notion of the change.

Another sense of change corresponding to the second sense above is, taking the example of some artifact and inflicting some change on it. One might say as in the case of a man, a table can retain its identity were it to be painted. However, were it incinerated, the identity conditions for that table would not be possible for its essential property had been destroyed.

Thus drawing the distinction between substantial or essential change and other types or degree of change is coextensive with the distinction between essential attributes or essences, and other types of attribute, collectively termed as accidental.

Some might say that there exists a tension in Aristotle’s distinction. For if there is some underlying permanencies that persist through even the most drastic of changes, then nothing can be said ever stop or begin existing. But Aristotle seems to have anticipated this objection by positing the much stronger claim of the existence of matter.

What then is the principle for distinguishing between essence and accident? It has already been indicated that one ontological principle might be that:

if a change is perceptible, then we can say that a given property P1 is essential to an object o1 iff its loss would result in the cessation of that object whereas a property P1 is a mere accident iff the object o1 would remain identifiably and substantially the same in its absence.

An epistemic reading of the distinction between essence and accident might be that knowledge of the essence of a thing, i. e. scientific knowledge, dissolves the problem of accidental properties, for “there is no knowledge of accident as all, only of essences” (Copi 1968: 152). And scientific knowledge contrasts with two types of pseudo-definition – the definition of compounds, and the nominal definition of simples. The former are constructions of items from different categories (substance plus some accidental property); are arbitrary as no natural kinds can correspond to them, and therefore have no ontological status. Taking Aristotle’s example of a musician: no individual is constituted by the essence of a musician, since the musician is a man, but a man cannot cease to be a man and to have the essence of a man without ceasing to exist (Ayers 1991: Vol II: 23).

Ayers (1991: Vol II: 21) gives an illustration that makes this idea clearer. We know that crows are always black (cf. Hempel’s paradox of the ravens) inductively so, yet we could conceive of a crow retaining its nature as a crow without being black.

The implication of Aristotle’s drawing a distinction between essence and accident should be quite evident. By positing accidental properties, the implication is somehow we can strip them away and reveal the “real” unchanging (essence) nature of something, and of course Aristotle needed a principle of immutability to run a truly scientific enterprise.

III. matter and form

It should be noted that Aristotle begins his investigation into the structure of reality and the causes by which it is produced by starting from the existence of individual things belonging to the physical realm and which are sensible. About any such thing we may ask two questions:

(1) into what constituent factors can it be logically analysed?

(2) how has it come to exhibit the character which our analysis shows it to have?

The answer to these questions will appear from a consideration of two standing antitheses which run through Aristotle’s philosophy, the contrast between Matter and Form, between Potential and Actual, and his doctrine of the Four Causes. The interest for the present lies with the first of these.

Take any two objects made of the same metal, candlesticks and a bowl, alike in the sense that they are both made of the same metal yet unlike in that they have different shapes – the shape of the candlestick renders it suitable to be used as a candlestick, the shape of the bowl renders it suitable to be used as a bowl and so on. Now a bio-chemist can specify that the constituent tissue and chemical elements of an oak or horse are of the same kind as those of ash or an ox, but that the oak differs from the ash or the horse differs from the ox in characteristic structure. Thus in any individual thing we can distinguish two components, the stuff of which it consists – which may be identical in kind with the stuff of which things of a very different kind consist – and the structural law of formation or the arrangement which is peculiar to the special kind of thing under consideration. In each concrete individual thing these two are inseparable. They do not exist alongside each other in the way two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen do in water; the constitution is manifested in and through the metal or tissue. the individual is the matter as organised in accord with a determinate principle of structure, the form. Aristotle extends the analysis of the “stuff” or timber that constitutes a ship into Matter and Form by analogy beyond the range of individual substances to everything in which we can distinguish a relatively indeterminate “somewhat” and a law or type of order and arrangement giving it determination. So if we consider the relatively fixed or “formed” character of an adult man, we may look upon this character as produced out of the ‘raw material’ of tendencies and dispositions. This licences us to speak of native disposition as the matter or stuff of which character is made. Matter in the Aristotelian sense must not be confused with body; the relatively undetermined factor which receives completer determination by the structural law or Form is Matter. This is brought out in the ontological interpretation put on the logical process of definition by genus and difference – the genus may be said to stand to the ‘differences’ as Matter, the relatively indeterminate, to the Form which gives it its structure.

We also observe that Matter and Form are strictly correlative. The matter is called so relatively to the form which gives it further determination. Form is taken to mean the last determination by which a thing acquires its completed character, and the Matter is that which has yet to receive this last determination. Thus in the case of the silver bowl, the spherical configuration is said to be its form, the silver its material. insofar as living organisms are concerned, the Matter is the tissue, muscles, bones, skin, etc. But each of these things which are counted as belonging to the matter of the bowl or the human body has, according to Aristotle, a development behind it. Silver is not an “element” but a specific combination of “elements” and like wise with the tissue of a living body. Thus what is matter relatively to the bowl or the living organism is Matter already determined by Form if we consider it relatively to its own constituents. Thus at every stage of a process of manufacture or growth a fresh Form is superinduced on, or developed within, a Matter which is already itself a combination of Matter and Form relatively to the process by which it has itself been originated. The implication of such a view would lead to the conclusion that in the end the simple ultimate Matter of all individual things is one and the same throughout the universe, and has absolutely no definite structure at all.

For Aristotle, at least in the Categories, anything that qualifies as a substance does so in virtue of the substance underlying all else. In the Metaphysics he begins to draw out the implications for what is actually to count as a substance – is a statue identical to its clay or to the form of its clay? Frede (1987: 64-65) suggests that an adequate answer to the substance/form distinction will need to satisfy at least three conditions:

(1) the substance must be the sort of thing that will allow one to understand why the object, whose substance it has, has the properties it has. Recall earlier, we talked of an artifact changing its properties but still remaining the same – the history of the changes might well be viewed as equivalent to the history of the object. The object might have had a different history yet have been the same object;

(2) the substance must be an individual, since we are looking for the real individuals in the category of substance which are to explain the individuality of ordinary individual objects;

(3) there must be some kind of asymmetry between substances and properties on the basis of which one can specify properties and all that exists as dependent on substances for their existence and not vice versa.

In Metaphysics Aristotle says that physical objects and the essences of objects, universals and ultimate subjects, were parallel candidates for the one title of substance (1042a3-15).

The primary substances of the Categories are individual concrete objects or things, such as a particular dog or a particular houise. In the Metaphysics, dogs and houses are now viewed as combinations of matter and substantial form and not themselves primary substances – the status of primary substance now being designated to substantial forms. Frede (1987: 74-75) sets out Aristotle’s reason for this shift.

A statement like “Socrates is healthy” introduces two entities, Socrates and health. What then is the subject of health, if health is a distinct entity from its subject? “What in the bundle or cluster of entities that constitutes Socrates is the thing itself as opposed to the properties like health which it underlies?” The two main reasons (Frede 1987: 79) why the concrete, particular substances of the Categories got replaced in the Metaphysics by substantial forms as the primary substance are:

(1) Aristotle is now concerned with the question what is the real subject in itself as opposed to its properties;

(2) Aristotle now not only has developed his own theory of forms, but also has come to assume separate substantial forms which are paradigms of substances, but which are not substances in the same way as the composites or the concrete particular objects are.

The relationship between matter and form in Aristotle the hylomorphic theory which “conceives of a thing’s form as the way in which its proximate matter has to be organized or arranged in order for a thing of that kind, made of that matter, to exist. This a piece of bronze has to be shaped in a certain way in order for a statue, made of that bronze, to exist” (Lowe 1998: 195). In what sense, if any, is a particular bronze statue a ‘combination’ of matter and form? The piece of bronze comprising a statue is not a part of it.

If a living thing is functioning, it will exhibit and behave in a characteristic way; and conversely to behave in this way is its function. Further, this characteristic behaviour depends on the orgasnisation, structure and disposition to causally effect such behaviour. For Aristotle, the form is this disposition or organization, while the matter or substance is what it is thus disposed or organized.

The question then, how could the form so conceived, satisfy the three requirements for being a substance as set out above? Substance was to explain why, despite all the changes an object had undergone, it still was the same object. If we take the example of Theseus’ ship whereby an old ship is gradually repaired with the old planks constituting a second ship, perhaps what makes for the identity of the repaired ship with the original ship is a continuity not of matter or properties, but the continuity of the organisation which functions as a ship. Puzzles such as this will be returned to in another installment.

References

Ackrill (1963) 

Ayers (1991)

Copi (1968)

Driscoll (1981)

Frede (1981)

Frede (1981)

Gill (1989)

Lowe (1998)

Moravcsik (1968)

Wiggins (1995)

 

 


What is philosophy?

June 26, 2007

I have been struck by the number of posts that are tagged in WordPress blogs as ”philosophy.” Given that philosophy is a central interest of mine I naturally have tag surfed “philosophy” from time to time. It has been somewhat of a disappointment to find, even on the most charitable of interpretations, that much of what is classed as philosophy, bears little or no relevance to philosophical thinking.  

The Greek term, φιλοσοφία (philosophia), means the “love of wisdom” or the “quest for truth” (Liddell and Scott). But most people take this as denoting a definition for philosophy when, in fact, this doesn’t distinguish the philosophical outlook from any other inquiry that would have wisdom and truth as virtues.

It has to be admitted that philosophy has been different things at different times in its history –  we’ve had ”natural philosophy” (Newton); and philosophy in the service of theology (philosophia ancilla theologiae - Aquinas) to name but two conceptions. I defy anyone to pin down philosophy in terms of necessary and sufficient conditions. This said, there are three typical philosophical activities:

* conceptual analysis

* high-level theorizing

* the investigation of aporias (problems)

One or more of these activities are found in current philosophy and can be said to offer some sense of historical continuity from Plato to Danto.


Some Thoughts on the Sun, Line and Cave Similes in The Republic

May 20, 2007

(Note: references are incomplete).

Plato’s simile of light – the images of the Sun, the Divided Line and the Cave are outlined in the Republic at the close of Book VI and at the beginning of Book VII. The simile of light has attracted a vast literature from Nettleship’s Victorian lectures, down through the work of James Adam, Henry Jackson and A.S. Ferguson’s brilliant series of articles, to the more recent work of Cross and Woozley, Raven, White and Annas. Of course, there are too many shades and possibilities of interpretation to be canvassed fully in such a limited space but I have been influenced at different points by different scholars. I merely put forward the views I hold about the context, functionality and continuity of the three images.

The simile of light has both a “forward” and a “backward” context. By the forward context I mean that the simile anticipates, and is a metaphorical representation of, the education of the guardians as spelt out by Plato in the remainder of Book VII, after the Cave. And it is through this education that the philosopher will come to know the Form of the Good, the foundation of all value, to be able to govern effectively. So when Socrates presses men to define, what is meant by justice? they resort to characterizing justice in terms of certain just acts. To avoid ethical particularism Socrates needs to abstract from the individual action. So if you claim to know what justice is then presumably you can capture the conditions for justice in a definitional claim. Socrates thus appeals to a universalizability, i.e. the Form of Justice or any other virtue which ultimately participates in the one great universal, the Good. Just as the Sun provides a teleological picture of the world (Rees 1965: xxxv) so too by analogy, consciously or unconsciously, does man participate in the Good. This is reiterated lucidly by Boyd (1922: 128) when he says that ‘in effect that what justice or any other virtue is, we must see it in its relations to life as a whole’.

Now to the “backward” context. Plato does say what the Form of the Good is not – it is not pleasure and it is not knowledge. The point is: can he reasonably assume that there is such a thing, given the metaphysical arguments of the Republic so far? It’s the metaphysical role of the Form of the Good that’s primarily important to Plato. He feels the need for an ultimate explanatory principle – and the Form of the Good fits the bill. There is the temptation to view the Form of the Good as omni-explanatory (Cross and Woozley 1964: 183 cite Cherniss as commending the theory for its philosophical economy), a framework for a kind of theodicy or impersonal God. The Form of the Good “only explains the existence of goodness wherever goodness occurs”. The Form of the Good is the principle of reality, since goodness and reality are interrelated, and is fundamental to any attempt to making the world intelligible. Plato is thus committed to the idea that there is no difference of ultimate nature between facts and values in the world: goodness and values are just as real or indeed more real than other things. Just as the sun provides light, the intermediary between the eye and its object, so the Good provides the intermediary between the mind and its object, thereby making knowledge possible. The Line further illustrates this relation between the two orders of reality, the visible and the intelligible, but from a cognitive point of view – the states of mind in which one apprehends.

That the sun is primarily metaphysical in purpose is the least contentious of the three similes’ interpretations. The Sun is the child of the Good (508b) occupying in the visible world a position analogous to that of the Form of the Good in the world of Forms. Without the Good other Forms would not be known. Further, all the universals whether they be moral properties or mathematical entities (perfect virtue, perfect circles etc.) necessarily exist even independently of any particulars to exemplify them. The Good by analogy with the Sun is the source not only of their intelligibility, “but also of their being and reality; yet it is not itself that reality, but is beyond it, and superior to it in dignity and power” (509b). Likewise “the Sun . . . not only makes the things we see visible, but causes the processes of generation, growth and nourishment, without itself being such a process.”

I do need to reiterate that Plato does not suggest that the Idea of the Good provides a complete explanation of the entire universe, comprising both the intelligible and sensible realms, recalling the comments on the omni-explanatory function of the Form of the Good in the previous section. Cross and Woozley (1964: 183) make this point that the “completely real” world of Forms cannot deny the “semi-real” world of our banal reality. It is a common inference that because Plato constructs only one line, i.e. a common scale, that its segments represent a progression through its four stages. This orthodoxy (Nettleship 1901: 238-258) emphasizes this progression or “passing” that the mind needs to go through. Ferguson (1921: 147-150) refutes the view arising from the assumption of the Line’s being an exhaustive classification by maintaining that the Line is a continuation of the Sun simile (indeed as Plato says at 509c) whereby the Line simile is an illustration of “how two successive methods of studying the intelligible may lead to knowledge of that transcendent Good, still using the convenient symbolism of the visible” (Ferguson 1921:136), highlighting the contrast between the two methods of mathematics and philosophy, represented in the two upper segments.

References (to be completed)

Boyd (1922).

Cross and Woozley (1964) Plato’s Republic: A Philosophical Commentary, London,

Ferguson (1921)

Nettleship (1901). Lectures on the Republic of Plato. London:

Rees (19XX).


Why were the early Christians persecuted?

May 18, 2007

I

This well-worn question needs to be re-analyzed into the following three subsidiary questions.

First, for what reasons did the government (i.e. the organs of state, broadly speaking, the emperor, the senate, officials, and provincial governors) persecute? Secondly, for what reasons did ordinary pagans (i.e. the general populace) demand persecution? Thirdly, we need to examine the concept of martyrdom. There is the problem of distinguishing what constitutes persecution and what constitutes voluntary martyrdom.

Before examining these issues I offer some necessary points of clarification in section two.

II

In his correspondence with Trajan, Pliny uses the terms superstitio and hetaeria in his characterization of the Christians. We need to bring these terms into focus.

In its most familiar sense, the term superstitio referred to beliefs and practices that were alien to the Romans. According to writings attributed to Plutarch (Moralia 166c-170c), the superstitious person is one who fails to bring to bare his intellect on these matters giving rise to groundless fears, fanaticism and an absolving of ones free-will. These sentiments are echoed by Cicero (Nat.D.1.117.2.72): superstition was the irrational fear of gods “whereas religion consisted in pious worship”. The superstitious man’s gods were capricious unlike the divine providence of the Roman deities.

There was a definite functionality to Roman religion – the maintenance of social order and the well being of the Empire. The superstitious person neither honored the gods nor benefited mankind. The criterion of truth in religious matters was custom and tradition, a conservative cast of mind that prefers the familiar to the unknown. Polybius (VI:56) viewed religion as a force for inculcating civic virtue and public discipline, and that this religious devotion was the mark of Roman superiority. To be pious was to believe in the gods of the city-state – the duty Socrates was accused of failing to observe – and even more than believing in them, respecting them. Roman religion therefore emphasized the public practice of ritual: nonconformism and irreligiousity went hand in hand. Piety embraced both senses of reverence for familial and the city cultic sense, but should not be confused with a theocratic emphasis on a set of beliefs and ethics. Cicero (Nat.D. 1.3-1.4) wrote that ‘in all probability, the disappearance of piety towards the gods will entail the disappearance of loyalty and social cohesion among men as well, and of justice itself, the queen of all virtues’ and new or foreign gods need official sanction to be accepted.(De.Leg. 11.8)

The term hetaeriais usually rendered as ‘political club’ or ‘association’ (Wilken 1984: 34) much like a professional guild or funerary society (Dodds 1965: 137). Tertullian appropriated the terminology of these fraternities to make a prima facie case for the Christian communities being just one of many of these associations. Despite his preference for the word corpus rather than ecclessia, we know that it was Tertullian’s conviction in the superiority of Christian association compared with those of the pagan.

The term paganus refers to the rustic, the peasant, and from Cicero onwards could denote townspeople (Jones 1963: 18). Chuvin (1990: 9) suggests that pagani or pagans are best viewed as ‘people of the place, town or country, who have preserved their local customs, whereas the alieni, the people from elsewhere were increasingly Christian.’ This interpretation is consistent with the notions of conservatism in cultural and traditional matters and of setting the parameters for nonconformism. Chadwick (1990: 152) points out that the word remained a colloquialism and did not penetrate Biblical or liturgical literature. If the object of worship was the maintenance of pax deorum, linking religion to political and social order, it is very tempting to infer that the grounds of persecution were political rather than religious.(Frend 1965: 105 uses the term ‘treaty relationship’)

III

On the question of the juridical basis of the persecution of the Christians I use Barnes (1968: 34-50) as my guide. Barnes’ task is to survey the primary sources of evidence without the filters of later hagiography and modern exegesis obscuring the topic. Both Barnes and de Ste. Croix (1963: note 18) regard modern bibliographies for the most part as worthless as their remit is too broad. Barnes therefore circumscribes his excavations by stating that ‘vague references to a lex against the Christians (such as Athenagoras, Legatio 7; Tertullian Apol. 4.4ff) will be disregarded; they show merely that Christianity was illegal not how it came to be so.’ The upshot of Barnes’ survey centres on Trajan’s rescript to Pliny: after Trajan’s rescript, if not earlier, Christianity was a crime in a unique category. Unlike other criminals Christians were punished for being a Christian and not for having been a Christian, an anomaly in Roman law (de Ste. Croix 1963: 9, 20; Frend 1965: 165), and on any reading, is highly ambiguous. Trajan’s famous edict instructing Pliny not to actively seek out Christians and further that anonymous denunciations should be disregarded, only gives a partial definition to the law when stated negatively, leaving so much open to arbitrary individual discretion. It is important to note as de Ste. Croix (p. 28) points out, that the positive facet of Christianity was never officially assailed except for Christian’s contumacious incompliance to acknowledge other gods. Baring in mind the earlier comments made regarding religious conformity, this had to inevitably locate the clash between Christian and pagan. In support of this, de Ste. Croix makes the interesting observation that those who held doctrines of a ‘recognisably Christian character’ and even calling themselves Christians, for example the Gnostics, were spared persecution. It could only be that the Gnostics paid outward respect, thereby appearing to accommodate the Roman gods. As was mentioned earlier, ‘belief’ was conditional on practice or ritual and that was a sufficient condition for conforming. How then was this charge of being a Christian prosecuted under ‘due process’ of law? It is popularly held that Roman law is the single most impressive and admirable achievement of Roman civilization. This achievement however, at least in de Ste. Croix’s view, is primarily confined to private law and the related laws of property. It is quite evident that immense deficiencies in public law manifested itself in the cognito extra ordinum, giving magistrates so wide a discretion, that even the slightest hint or ambiguity of ‘being’ Christian led to prosecution. Such scope to prosecute made the law inherently arbitrary. As de Ste. Croix (1963: 17) says, in fact no legal foundation was necessary ‘other than a prosecutor, a charge of Christianity, and a governor willing to punish on that charge.’ We need however to be cognisant, as Barnes pointed out, that most of our information derives almost entirely from Christian sources which had a vested interest in recording martyrdom and that there needs to be a healthy level of scepticism in these matters. Both Barnes (1968: 34) and de Ste. Croix (1963: 15) reject the idea put forward by Melito that a correlation existed between ‘bad’ emperors who persecuted and ‘good’ emperors who didn’t. There are two problems with this claim. First, understandably, apologist writers are operating on an extremely narrow criterion of good or bad: there is more to judging the adeptness of an emperor than whether or not he countenanced persecution. Secondly, linked to this, persecution might only have been instrumental to real politik or statecraft (in a Machiavellian way; The Prince XVII) even for a ‘good’ emperor.

IV

To ask why the government persecuted is in effect to ask why the general populace demanded persecution. Much of the discussion has unavoidably been pre-empted. Roman religion entailed public worship to maintain the pax deorum of the community averting disasters (natural disasters such as floods, draught, earthquakes etc.) that could befall the community. Failure to comply, therefore, undermined the security and well being of the community at large. In the need to pacify public disquiet, the government was obliged to ‘persecute’ those whose actions threatened the well being of the community. Herein lies a major and perhaps irresolvable problem of exegesis. I’ve already hinted at the difficulty involved in determining whether or not the persecution was politically or religiously motivated. De Ste. Croix holds that the motives for government persecution were essentially religious in character. He supports his thesis by pointing to the Gnostic immunity from persecution. The pax deorum being the prime Roman social value invites charges that Roman religion was superficial and insincere, leading one to infer that persecution had to be politically motivated. However, both Barnes (1968: 49) and de Ste. Croix (1963: 30) are at pains to emphasize that Roman religious sentiment were no less real or powerful than our modern conception of religious belief and practice. (c.f. Janssen 1979). De Ste. Croix does offer the Marxist analysis that ‘religion was above all an instrument by which the governing class hoped to keep the reins of power in its own hands.’ Though this analysis is perfectly valid and may well have been the case, I’m not convinced that such an analysis can be consistently applied to what is a pre-capitalist society. (see Momigliano’s comments 1963: 4 on Marxist analysis). I think a definite tension arises when on the one hand de Ste. Croix asserts that the motives for government persecution were ’essentially religious’, yet on the other hand he acknowledges that it was a prime social value to maintain the pax deorum. Both are inextricably linked and as such I see no reason why even if religious sensibilities were threatened in the first instance, why persecution cannot be viewed as being politically motivated, when the ultimate consequentialist concern had to be the maintenance of the pax deorum, and religion was instrumental to that aim. Even on de Ste. Croix’s own Marxist account, religion was instrumental to political power. In any event a typically pious individual of any class would cherish the benefits of social stability that their religious sensibility ensures.

V

The concept of martyrdom is deeply ambiguous both within the modern and ancient worlds and is therefore incumbent upon the scholar to draw some conceptual distinctions thereby elucidating the question of persecution. Is martyrdom simply a case of persecution and subsequent execution? How does ‘voluntary’ martyrdom differ from suicide? Though Amundsen (1989: 100-116) is primarily concerned with the philosophical, theological and ethical implications of martyrdom, the distinctions he draws are equally valid for our purpose. Amundsen offers four distinct possibilities a Christian might be confronted with under persecution:

1 denying Christ (apostatizing)

2 fleeing possible martyrdom

3 acquiesce to martyrdom when the only escape is option 1

4 seeking, provoking or volunteering for martyrdom.

Even without reliable figures, the statistical possibility of cases spread across these four options, offers a real challenge to apologetic sources as to the scale of persecution and martyrdom they would naturally claim. It would not therefore be too provocative when de Ste. Croix (p. 22) suggests that ‘the seeking out of Christians . . . need not have been nearly as vigorous as we might otherwise have assumed from the evidently large numbers of victims.’ De Ste. Croix makes the astute point (p. 20), that after all, ‘the essential aim was to make apostates, not martyrs . . . a governor who really wanted to execute Christians would be careful to avoid torturing them, lest, they apostatize and go free.’

VI

By way of a conclusion Barnes (1968: 50) says that ‘it is in the minds of men, not in the demands of Roman law, that the roots of persecution of the Christians in the Roman Empire are to be sought.’ Barnes is making the crucial point that despite the deficiencies of Roman public law, persecution was not a requirement of Roman law. I would argue contrary to de Ste. Croix, that the State (any variant, modern or ancient) needs as a precondition of its viability, loyalty from those living within its domain, and that the Christians might well have appeared to be a threat to the State.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Amundsen DW (1989)’Suicide and Early Christian Values’ in Suicide and Euthanasia, ed., BA Brody, Dortrecht.

Barnes TD (1968) ‘Legislation Against the Christians’ Journal of Roman Studies 58

(1971) Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study, Oxford.

Chadwick H (1990) The Early Church, Harmondsworth.

(1992) ‘The Early Christian Community’ in The Oxford Illustrated History of Christianity, ed., J McMannes, Oxford.

Chuvin P (1990) A Chronicle of the Last Pagans, tr. BA Archer, Cambridge MA.

Cicero (1951) De Natura Deorum, tr. H Rackam, London.

(1928) De Legibus, tr. CW Keyes, London.

de Ste. Croix GEM (1963) ‘Why were the early Christians persecuted?’ Past and Present 26

Dodds ER (1965) Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety, New York.

Frend WHC (1965) Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church, Oxford.

Janssen LF (1979) ‘Superstitio and the Persecution of the Christians’ Vigiliae Christianae 33

Jones AHM (1963) ‘The Social Background of the Struggle between Paganism and Christianity’ in The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, ed., A Momigliano, Oxford.

Liebeschuetz JHWG (1979) Continuity and Change in Roman Religion, Oxford.

Maine HJ (1913) Ancient Law, London.

Momigliano A ed. (1963) The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, Oxford.

(1975) Alien Wisdom: the limits of Hellenization, Cambridge.

Murray G (1929) ‘Pagan Religion and Philosophy at the Time of Christ’ reprinted in Humanist Essays (1964), London.

Sherwin-White AN (1966) The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford.

Sinclair TA (1967) A History of Greek Political Thought, London.

Tacitus (1989) The Annals of Imperial Rome, tr. PL Grant, Harmondsworth.

Walbeck FW (1957) Commentary on Polybius, Oxford.

Wilken RL (1984) The Christians As The Romans Saw Them, New Haven.


Polybius, Tyche and Causality in Historical Explanation

May 12, 2007

[Note: There are some formatting issues that still need to be attended to] 

Polybius believes that the historian’s task is to identify the causes of past events, making these events intelligible and therefore functional to an educative (practical and moral) purpose. This conception of historical activity has to a great degree informed historical thinking ever since and the term ’cause’ is a particularly entrenched term within historical discourse: the intuitive idea being that to identify a cause is to explain an event or state of affairs, the effect. The aim of this discussion is to examine Polybius’ conception of causality concurrently with modern Polybian scholarship on this topic.

We need first to offer some analysis of the concept of cause. To this belongs the dispute between the necessatarians and regulatarians. No particular analysis of the concept of cause commits one to the principle of causality – that every event has a cause. But obviously when someone invokes the principle of causality we’re entitled to ask what concept of cause they are using. First, we need to examine Polybius’ use of the term [insert Greek]. Walbank (1972: 158) contends that for Polybius, an [insert Greek] is ‘anything that contributes to the decision of the individual(s) responsible to make war.’ Cornford (1907: 59) suggests that in Polybius [insert Greek] is best rendered as ‘reason’ in the psychological sense. Allan (1965: 1-2) ascribes a more focused meaning to ‘include any dependence of one thing upon another, or derivation of qualities from it, without the special implication that the cause is prior in time. Clearly Allan is drawing a contrast with the deductive requirement of an efficient cause. For Polybius, aitia is in fact a tripartite composed of the elements prophasis, the ostensible grounds for war, the bona fide cause, and of arche, the initial action of a given war. Walbank draws the distinction between aitiai which are to be viewed as ‘external’ factors that lead to the aforementioned decisions, but do not include these decisions. Polybius’ application of his scheme could also include states of mind (he devotes a sizable amount of space to character assessment in 8.11-8.13), a psychological predisposition as in III. 7. 1, which he regards as an aitia of the war between Rome and the Aetolians. We should note that Polybius did not always invoke his tripartite scheme of aitiai and that its primary applicability was to the explanation of wars. Of course Polybius does invoke his causal scheme when analyzing the Roman constitution (VII. 2. 8-10), a point we will discuss later. Walbank (1972: 159) is in accordance with Momigliano’s view that Polybius’ conception of causality is rather superficial and simplistic.

What then is the purpose for the historian’s invocation of causality in historical explanation? It seems to me that historians hold the tacit and intuitive assumption that significant relationships between historical events must be causal thereby paradigmatically distinguishing between significant and insignificant causes. Causal relationships are viewed as the exemplary form of explanation, its efficacy in its extracting explanation from chance: a universal or general law is sought. There is no suggestion that Polybius sought to achieve a scientific character to his history. There cannot be a science of something as transitory as human affairs (Collingwood 1946: 35). Perceptive a view as this is, there remains in Polybius’ writing ambiguities and contradictions involving tyche and causality. The question that needs to be posed is this: does the historian have to invoke a ‘law’ to offer a plausible account of historical explanation?

Historians working from authenticated sources (documents, artifacts, speeches, eyewitnesses etc.) which survive in the present, from a no longer extant past, trying to comprehend the character of these unspecified outcomes of antecedent events to which they are significantly related, is an inherently “’inferential“’ enquiry. There is no appeal to a Hempelian deductive-nomological explanation. Those who seek such an explanation are in fact as Oakeshott (1983: ) points out engaged in a completely different sort of enquiry. Their purpose is to deduce the occurrence of an already specified kind of event alleged to have happened by relating it to the occurrence of already specified antecedent events, also alleged to have happened’. This relationship is recognized to be causal in virtue of a universal law which deduces that these kinds of antecedents without exception precede the kind of event whose occurrence is to be deduced. Such an enquiry would undermine and in fact be incoherent: why would the historian seek a cause for an already understood effect? Quite obviously this would be of no concern to the conditions of historical understanding. A causal status is often attributed to an action, if in its execution, the agent may be supposed to have ‘intended’ the outcome, which is thereby recognized to be a consequence. Allan (1965: 2) points out that the Aristotelian meaning of the noun aitia usually rendered as cause, also means ‘charge’ or ‘blame’ and is connected with the verb meaning to ‘impute blame’. Polybius’ characterisation of aitiai as whatever contributes to defining decisions in advance clearly needs some limits imposed on it. In terms of intentionality what shall count as an outcome of an action? In other words how are we to differentiate between action and consequence hinted at by Walbank with his external/internal distinction earlier? Feinberg (1968: 106-7) points out that an action can be described as narrowly or as broadly as one pleases, and this he terms the ‘accordion effect’. What he means by this is that we can usually replace any ascription of agency or authorship. Quite rightly, Walbank points out that such an enquiry reveals itself not to be concerned with cause and effect, but as an undertaking to establish responsibility or even blame. I think that Cohen (1987: 341) is correct in his view that there is an inherent ‘value’ judgment in what he terms ‘attributive causal explanations’ when in reality many wars are the result of a gradual build up of hostility on both sides. Properly speaking, such an activity could not be classed as the primary activity of historical explanation. Earlier I mentioned that in VI. 2. 8-10 Polybius seems to invoke an idea of causality in his analysis of the Roman constitution. Polybius is I think geniunely impressed by the political success of Rome and he attributes this adeptness to the Constitution. Moreover in III. 2. 6 Polybius seems to suggest that it was Rome’s victory in the Hannibalic War that caused Rome to conceive an ambition for world dominion. Though not explicitly said, Polybius certainly implies that after the victory of 241, the Romans conceived this aim and this began a continuous process and pattern leading forward from the conquest of Italy as set out in VI. 50. 6. Were Polybius to view the Roman constitution as the primary cause impetus of their success, a new problem would arise. Causality knows nothing of time, more so in historical time which tends to cover large intervals. And since it is not the historian’s business to seek ‘origins’, the word ’cause’ cannot signify some originating event or state of affairs. Given that the historian’s concern is to distinguish between significant and insignificant antecedents, the word cannot mean the total of all antecedents. Nor may it mean one such antecedent on the premise that had it not occurred, the occurrence of the subsequent events would be a logical impossibility. For example: the birth of Caesar being recognized as a causal condition of his crossing the Rubicon recalling Feinberg’s point on redescription through levels of regression. The Roman constitution therefore would fail to count as a genuine causal explanation for Roman political successes. However, Walbank accords with A Heuss’ view (Walbank 1972: 162) that Polybius is providing ‘a rationalized interpretation of Roman expansion in terms of how men are apt to behave, each episode contributing cumulatively to a single overall pattern of expansion’ which Polybius formulates in III. 32. 7. But as I’ve said previously, a rationalized explanation is not and cannot count as the historian’s task in explanation and on this point hold both Walbank and Heus to be incorrect in accepting this view as legitimate historical activity. I am not precluding that one cannot or should not project perceived similarities of human behavior. (see McClelland’s discussion 1975: 89-91) As McClelland points out, citing Nagel, such an approach is ‘pertinent to questions concerning the origins of his explanatory hypotheses but not to questions concerning their validity’. Walbank (1972: 162) cites P. Pedach’s claim that he doesn’t think that Roman power was internally or self generated. In other words there was nothing uniquely intrinsic to Roman power accounting for such spectacular dominion over the greater part of the known world. Rather power (Pedach personifies power) seeks logical order. Neither I nor Walbank, accept Pedach’s assertion. Walbank counters by saying that the second floor of a building only follows on the first because someone decides to continue to build there; and that surely the view that the stages in the Roman conquest are related to one another, in Polybius’ view, only as a logical consequence, cannot be reconciled with his references to the Romans aiming at world domination. I will resume this discussion later on. At this point we need to examine Polybius’ use of his concept of tyche which is intimately related to the above discussion. Walbank and even Sacks are quite correct in identifying a tension within Polybius’ conception of Fortune: how can a conscious, rational and deliberate attempt at world dominion be as a result of Fortune? If Fortune is not to be taken as chance in the vulgar sense, Polybius ascribes to the domain of Fortune that which is incalculable, capricious beyond the domain of human control (XXXV. 1-17). Quite clearly, any random influences and consequences would undermine Polybius’ pragmatike historia and nullify its educational purpose. But Polybius’ conception of tyche is not quite so banal. For him, tyche had a moral dimension in that common sense would suggest that life is composed of cycles much like Shakespeare’s ‘wheel of fortune’ in King Lear; that accepting that human affairs move incalculably in ‘cycles’, and when as bad fortune will inevitably come round, the reader of his history will be prepared to weather the vicissitudes of ill-fortune much like a Stoic. Walbank (1972: 63) believes some scholars have compared Polybius’ personified use of tyche with the Stoic conception of Providence (c.f. Collingwood 1946:36). But Polybius represents Fortune as a purposive power (1. 4. 4), yet elsewhere the rise of Rome is depicted as essentially something rational (1. 63. 9). As Walbank (1972: 64) perceptively points out, this transcendent and immanent apectival duality, is suggestive of a divine aspect. It may be that Pedach was hinting at the operation of a logos at work in Polybius’ conception of history which would be consistent with the ideas of rationality and Fortune running together. Walbank correctly identifies the crux of the matter. Polybius has confused what has happened with what was destined to happen and so invest the rise of Rome to world domination with a teleological character (1972: 64). This could be characterized by what is called in applied mathematics as the ‘gamblers fallacy’. That the sun has risen each day since the beginning of time does not logically entail that it will rise tomorrow (Wittgenstein) . Recalling the earlier discussion, what Polybius has done is to specify the antecedents, thereby undermining the proper sphere of historical explanation. This all embracing tyche or synoptic view (Walbank 1979: 27) gives the impression of a ‘unified’ universal conception to Polybius’ history, when in fact it is mere glue without which his whole scheme would disintegrate. Returning to the discussion of historical development we now come to consider Oakeshott’s thoughts on the matter. Oakeshott (1983: 94) characteristically offers a brilliant analysis of the problem which he calls the ‘dry wall theory’. Keeping in mind Pedach’s and Walbank’s account of historical development, Oakeshott believes that though historical events are not themselves contingent, they are related to one another contingently. When a historian assembles a passage of antecedent events to compose a subsequent, he builds what in the countryside is called a ‘dry wall’: the stones (that is, the antecedent events) which compose the wall (that is, the subsequent event) are joined and held together, not by mortar, but in terms of their shapes. The wall therefore has no premeditated design; it is what its components, in touching constitute. There is a circumstantial relationship, an evidential contiguity, not in terms of causality, family resemblance, design etc. These circumstantial relationships do not themselves constitute historically significant relationships.

So when a historian employs the language of causality, what he ought to be referring to is this contingent circumstantial relationship. A historical past, composed conceptually of contiguous historical events has no place for extrinsic general terms of relationship – the glue of normality or the cement of general causes’ – neither Polybius’ tyche, Pedach’s intentionality, Walbank’s interpretation of aitiai, nor a Hempelian deductive-nomological conditions are valid analyses for historical explanation. And further, Chance as an exemplar of the purely external, cannot be a genuinely causal relationship and is therefore insignificant. To reiterate: Oakeshott (1983: 83) writes that ‘when a historian invokes a notion of ‘causality’ what he is in fact doing is utilizing a rhetorical expression meaning no more than ‘noteworthy antecedents’ and no ‘law(s)’ are involved.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Allan DJ (1965) ‘Causality Ancient and Modern’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume XXXIX

Cohen H (1973) ‘Das Verstehen and Historical Knowledge’ American Philosophical Quarterly VOL 10 no 4

Cohen MF (1987) ‘Causation in History’ Philosophy 62

Collingwood RG (1946) The Idea of History, reprinted 1970, Oxford

Farrrington B (1946) Science and Politics in the Ancient World, London

Feinberg J (1973) Social Philosophy. Engelwood Cliffs, NJ

Gardiner P (1961) The Nature of Historical Explanation, Oxford

Green P (1990) Alexander to Actium: The Hellenistic Age, London

McClelland PD (1965) Causal Explanation and Model Building in History, Economics, and the New Economic History, Ithaca

Momigliano A (1991) Alien Wisdom, Cambridge

Oakeshott M (1983) ‘The fortuitous, the causal, the similar, the correlative, the analogous and the contingent’ in On History and Other Essays, Oxford

Sacks K (1981) ‘Polybius on the Writing of History’ Classical Studies VOL 24

Samuel AE (1988) The Promise of the West: The Greek World, Rome And Judaism, London

Strachan-Davidson JL (1913) ‘Polybius’ in Hellenica, ed. E Abbott, London

Walbank FW (1972) Polybius, London

Walbank FW (1979) Introduction to Polybius’ The Rise of the Roman Empire, tr. I. Scott-Kilvert, Harmondsworth

Walbank FW (1981) The Hellenistic World, London


Thucydides as a ‘Scientific’ Historian?

May 10, 2007

[There are still some formatting and character issues to be resolved in the following text]

That the question which is the subject of this discussion was posed at all, primarily reflects the concerns of the modern and only secondarily those of Thucydides. The possibility of a ‘scientific’ history while certainly suggestive in Thucydides is very much a modern construct embodying several elliptically formulated assumptions that need to be brought out and disambiguated.

Any suggestion that the question can be comprehensively answered within the scope of this discussion is to hold a superficial view of the epistemic problems involved. The question assumes that:

a) we already have a characterisation of historical explanation, that

b) we also have specified the nature of scientific explanation and that

c) there is consensus in understanding the relationship (the continuities and discontinuities) between these fields of enquiry.

The problem is further compounded by filtering Thucydides uncritically through these assumptions; we need to retrieve Thucydides from what modern scholars “assume” to be Thucydides (de Ste. Croix 1972: 3). Of course we should not “judge” (Finley 1972: 29) Thucydides solely from a modern perspective but it would be incoherent not to engage in rational reconstruction. The problem lies in commentators failing to “specify” the nature of modern inquiry yet blithely thinking it appropriate to evaluate Thucydides on these terms. Thus unavoidably I highlight the issues of a), b) and c) on which my two pronged analysis depends: an analysis of the modern Thucydidean scholarship coextensive with an analysis of Thucydides. Thucydides’ distinctiveness as a classical historian lies in his rudimentary appreciation of the epistemological dimension of historical inquiry, and it is this aspect that has continuing resonance for the philosophically minded modern historian.

The question of Thucydides’ prima facie “scientific method” divides into two possibilities. Firstly, does Thucydides employ the kinds of explanatory models that scientists now use? For example, the deductive-nomological model (Hempel 1962), stressing the need for reference to universal laws in our explanatory accounts. Perhaps Thucydides intuitively believed that some such laws could be discovered if we consider the following well known extract (I: 22) from his History of the Peloponnesian War: “It will be enough for me, however, if these words of mine are judged useful by those who want to understand the events which happened in the past and which (human nature being what it is) will, at some time or other and in much the same ways, be repeated in the future . . . my work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate public, but was done to last forever”. This excerpt is by the strongest implication suggestive of an appeal to the criteria of scientific character, i.e. law-like, premised on the immutability of human nature. The second question that presents itself is whether Thucydides avoids bias and “subjectivity”, and tests his evidence, to the extent that we now require of (and expect from) a professional historian, in light of his limited discussion of methodology as laid out in I: 20-22? In I: 21 Thucydides does not claim to offer conclusive evidence, rather ‘better’ or ‘reasonably accurate’ evidence and it is against these claims that we need evaluate the question of bias and subjectivity. We have to consider the deeper claim that historical enquiry as such (regardless of who conducts it – Greek or modern) is infected with subjectivity to such a degree that to talk of historical ‘objectivity’ has no place in the discussion. With this strategy in mind the structure of the discussion is as follows: Section II: The continuities and discontinuities between historical and scientific explanation; Section III: Evaluates Thucydides’ “subjectivity” in light of his own concerns and in light of Section I; Section IV: I offer some concluding remarks.

SCIENTIFIC EXPLANATION

 I don’t think it is helpful, nor indeed possible to offer an essentialist definition of “scientific”, however we can identify typical features. Using Lindley (1978: 97) as my guide I list the following features of scientific features: deductively drawing conclusions from hypotheses, explaining events or classes of events, confirming theories by observation and experiment, disconfirming, (or disproving) theories by observation and experiment, generalizing from observation and experiment. I think that non-scientists would recognise items two and five as the more typical characteristics of scientific activity. So what does a modern scientific explanation look like? Lindley (1978: 102-9) identifies four requirements for a scientific explanation: deductive connection; truth; empirical content; reference to universal law. Appealing to universal laws we might get a Hempelian explanation of this form:

1. Always (or necessarily) if conditions C1 . . . CN obtain, then an x-type event occurs

2. Conditions C1 . . . CN obtained/ will obtain

 _____________________________________

3. An x-type event occurred/ will occur.

This is the deductive-nomological model; nomological because it contains a lawlike statement, ‘Always (or necessarily)’ and deductive because 3. follows logically from 1. and 2. We should notice a problem raised by JB Bury. His point is that Hempel-type laws or probabilistic generalisations – of which Bury himself is quite ready to accept exist – are liable to ‘cross’ in non-lawlike and non-probabilistic ways (cf. Hempel 1962 on probabilistic-statistical explanation). To illustrate this point Bury (1930: 62) offers the following example: “The appearance of the microbes which caused the plague . . . causing among other effects the death of Pericles . . . had its own definite chain of causes, but this sequence had nothing to do with the sequence of events which led to the war . . . the microbe had no interest in the war . . . the political effects of the plague were a contingency.” It must, however, be admitted that the deductive-nomological model is an ideal that for the most part not even science can meet. More often in practice, a scientific theory is an inference to the best explanation. The Hempel model offers in a bold and clear manner, with conceptual economy and richness, a model that best accommodates the idea of ‘laws’ and ‘evidence’ and as such it should be viewed as an ideal. To apply the deductive-nomological model to historical explanation we need laws of history. Marx’s laws of history were overall trends or ‘patterns of behaviour’ (de Ste. Croix 1981: 27) rather than Hempelian ‘Always (or necessarily)’ laws. It is only the vulgar Marxist (or Marxist detractor) that makes claims for ‘iron laws of history’, supposedly derived from Thucyides’ holding a fixed view of human nature, something we’ll look at in greater detail in section III. We should note a problem concerning deductive validity as applied to historical inquiry. Goh (1970: 408-9) marks this problem in making the distinction between supporting and covering laws. Essentially, one needs a covering law connecting the conditions with the event, otherwise the deuction has a missing link. With history being inferential activity, there’s no necessary connection between the laws and the conditions; so they can’t yield a conclusion. So even were we able to describe the conditions leading to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war: the growing strength of Athens (I: 23: 6); the Spartans feeling threatened by this growth; the Megarian decree forbidding trade; the personal qualities of Pericles, and so on, I would still be no nearer to knowing what the relevant supporting or covering laws would look like. Is it a matter of not happening to know the laws which in principle could be found, or are there deeper reasons why no such laws are available in the social sciences?“’

Suppose then, that we relax the nomological element into the modified form:

Probably, if conditions C1 . . . CN, an x-type event occurs. This reformulation replaces strict, exceptionless laws with probabilistic generalisations. It also cancels the deductive aspect of the model. So we are back to history as an inferential inquiry.

HISTORICAL EXPLANATION

There are two particular and inextricably linked epistemological problems (among others) that confront historical explanation: the non-existence of the past and the uniqueness of historical events Past events happened, but the past does not exist. Thucydides does not deny that there was a series of events that comprised what is called the Peloponnesian War, but the events existed in space and time which creates a problem for knowledge and truth. But in the case of the past, the ‘evidence’ is in principle uncheckable against what it is supposed to be evidence of. That’s because what it’s supposed to be evidence of, no longer exists – namely, the past. Thucydides was well aware of this problem. In I: 1 he says, ‘. . . I have found it impossible because of its remoteness in time, to acquire a really precise knowledge of the distant past or even of the history preceding our own period. . . ‘ Thucydides understood that historical perspective was limited by the fallibility of memory and that beyond the confines of living memory, historical accuracy was bound to become increasingly tenuous. If we cannot in principle check the past as evidence of itself, or in other words create a repeatable experiment to verify our hypothesis, then the second problem that then arises is the de facto uniqueness of historical events, for in the absence of testing how else could we prove otherwise? How can the required generalisations be derived to offer the sort of explanatory accounts we set out to find?

SCIENTIFIC HISTORY

I have to be fair in saying that I doubt whether so-called “scientific” historians are making the claims of scientific activity as we’ve discussed; it was important to examine what strictly speaking constitutes scientific activity so that we are not blithly making unsubstantiated claims. There are two dominant views each with their respective strengths and weaknesses that have given rise to the polarised discussion of whether history is sui generis (Berlin 1980: 131), the view most often held by the idealists, or whether history is a branch of science with its own special procedures which enable it to pass beyond common-sense in the search for regularities and uniformities, perhaps best termed as Wissenschaft. I doubt whether there is a single procedure properly called scientific method, something self-consciously applied by all and only scientists. Each science has its own methods. The idealist claim that when a historian invokes ‘scientific’ history all one really means is “accurate” history, has no force (Thucydides’ makes the weaker claim to offer a ‘more’ accurate history I: 21); what competent historian would seek to refute such a self-evident claim. Dover says (1994: 257) that even when he was at school the question of whether science was a history or art was a weary topic.

THUCYDIDES AS SCIENTIFIC HISTORIAN

There are three sources that together have encouraged the view of Thucydides as ‘scientific’ which I will deal with, beginning with the least contentious. The Sophists, who leaving aside Plato’s pejorative view of them, did create an intellectual climate fostering the exercise of man’s rationatory powers through argument and persuasion, is reflected in Thucydides’ attempt at offering competing accounts and claims of the protagonists in his History. De Ste. Croix (1972: 13) is concerned that the uniform style of the speeches with their distinctly sophistic polish would have been beyond the understanding of the [insert Greek]. The second ‘scientific’ influence on Thucydides and most often pointed to as conconclusive, were the existence of his contemporaries of the Hippocratic ‘school’. They offered an empirical approach to events. The detailed account of the disease which plagued Athens reflected Thucydides’ concern to document the situation so that the reader might recognise the symptoms. But as de Ste. Croix (1972: 31) points out, alerting the reader to recognising the disease is not to suggest that the disease can therefore be anticipated and avoided. It is more a case of accumulating wisdom and experience in a general way needed by the reader who was most likely to be participating in the day to day running of the [insert Greek], an idea that Polybius was later to take up in his [insert Latin]. The medical analogy of diagnosis and of prognosis should therefore not be taken too literally by the modern commentator. It is Thucydides’ view of human nature that has most contributed to the idea of Thucydides as a ‘scientific’ historian. From Collingwood onwards it has become the accepted widom, an orthodoxy that has uncritically permeated the work of others: a view that I’m most anxious to dispel. That a writer makes assumptions about human nature should not invite the ascribtion of scientific. Liberals and Marxists do just that – their political philosophies run on the supposed immutability or mutability of human nature. Thucydides’ view of the immutability of human nature, [insert Greek], does not entail a vulgar notion of scientific determinism but is best viewed in a looser sense of ‘the same or similar to’ (de Ste. Croix 1972: 32). Only the vulgar Marxist, de Ste. Croix not being one, would make the fatuous claims for ‘iron laws of history’. This scientism manifests itself in Collingwood’s notion of psychological history which he attributes to Thucydides – ‘the father of psychological history’ (1946: 29-30). He writes: “Now what is psychological history? It is not history at all, but natural science of a special kind. It does not narrate facts for the sake of narrating facts. Its chief purpose is to affirm laws, psychological laws. A psychological law is not an event nor yet a complex of events: it is an unchanging rule which governs the relations between events.” Cornford (1907: 59; 64) many years earlier had already surmised that a typical feature of ancient historians was to ascribe causal explanation solely in terms of psychological causes. Collingwood’s and Dilthey’s process of re-enacment by which the historian empathetically enters into the state of mind of the person whose action he wants to explain might seem to lend support to Thucydides’ intention: for example, Thucydides’ avowed intention to capture an idea of ‘national character’ as in III: 82 (the Athenians) and in I: 68-72; 80-85 (the Spartan character). De Ste. Croix (1972: 5-6; 31-32; 1981: 27) is absolutely correct in suggesting that it is ‘patterns of behaviour’ or trends as we mentioned in section I, that Thucydides is concerned with. What de Ste. Croix fails to do is offer a convincing refutation of this quasi notion of ‘law’, a task I now undertake. There is a tension in Collingwood’s idea. In trying to understand Pericles’ action I want to understand this particular person’s specific action; I am interested in the unique, not in the general. I gain no help, and seek no assistance from appeals to probabilistic generalisations about the tendency of this type of person to do this type of action in this type of situation. It does not alter the fact that Pericles wasn’t a ‘Periclean’ type person who fought in a ‘Potidaean’ type battle. McClelland (1975: 90-91) asks, then how do we gain knowledge of the dispositions of others and knowledge of how people with those dispositions are likely to behave?: . . . that the answer would seem to involve the perception of similarities and the organisation of those similarities into generalisations of varying degrees of specificity. If the historian grants this latter point, he denies the basic methodological precept of both Dilthey and Collingwood, that one can pass directly ‘from the facts to an understanding of those facts with no reliance upon generalisations’. Collingwood’s Thucydides is a nomological Thucydides, a view that is untenable (cf. Dray’s ‘rational explanation’).

THUCYDIDES AS OBJECTIVE HISTORIAN

To be objective is to ostensibly be scientific and could not be coherently discussed had we not already specified the paradigmatic nature of scientific knowlege and its relationship to historical knowledge. Charges of historical subjectivity – of the subjectivity of historical inquiry – usually proceed in two stages (Martin 1979: 49). First, an attempt is made to show that historical inquiry necessarily carries a value component – that all historical judgments are necessarily determined by value judgments. Secondly, value judgments are held to be incapable of justification since there is no evidence in virtue of which one judgment of that kind is more justified, that is, more worthy of belief, than some other judgment of that kind which is incompatible with it. Consequently, the charge of historical subjectivity will be defeated if we can show either that: ç¤ it is not the case that all historical judgments are necessarily evaluative, or that evaluative judgments are not necessarily subjective For the purposes and constraints of this paper, we’ll confine ourselves to examining the idea that all historical judgments are necessarily evaluative. This is certainly a major idea that people have in mind when they talk about subjectivity and we’ll look at it in relation to Thucydides. Critics of historical objectivity claim to find three evaluative elements in historical inquiry (Dray 1957: 250): ç¤ selection of items for historical investigation evaluation in causal explanation ç¤ evaluation in action description In I: 21 Thucydides offers an explicit and unambiguous statement of the distinction he makes between mythology and ‘factual’ history, a thinly veiled attack on Herodotus. However, we find at the close of Book III Thucydides devotes a significant amount of space to the Homeric Hymn to Apollo when Thucydides explicitly has said that mythology is not a ‘truth-bearer’, that is the kinds of things that can be true or false?, the candidates being ‘what is said’; beliefs; and knowledge, which by definition cannot be false. He says: ” . . . I do not think that one will be far wrong in accepting the conclusions I have reached from the evidence which I have put forward. It is better evidence than that of the poets, who exaggerate the importance of their themes, or of the prose chroniclers, who are less interested in telling the truth than in catching the attention of their public, whose authorities cannot be checked, and whose subject-matter, owing to the passage of time, is mostly lost in the unreliable streams of mythology.“’ Thucydides’ intention cannot be faulted even from a modern perspective (Oakeshott 1933: 74): “An imagined past, a past of myth, may, for some purposes, be valuable and significant; it may for example, have an immense and beneficial control over belief and activity; but it is a past alien from that of history.” I would argue that it is a failing both on Thucydides’ part and on the part of the modern commentator (Collingwood 1946: 28-34; cf. de Ste. Croix 1972: 5-6) that Herodotus’ project is misconstrued. Given that Thucydides is using Herodotus as a methodological foil we need to briefly examine their points of convergence and divergence. Herodotus and Thucydides both share a concern for the fallibility of conscious memory (the act of recalling) for the transmission of past events but for different reasons. In the opening sentence of Herodotus’ Histories he says: ‘ . . . (his) Researches are set down to preserve the memory of the past by putting on record the astonishing achievments . . . ‘ For Herodotus, the qualititive dimension of memory was its breadth, not its criterion of truth. For Thucydides and the modern to evaluate Herodotus’ project even on the loosest definition of historiography is to completely misunderstand the nature of the Herodotean project. Herodotus’ recorded stories may or may not be true but his project was to record stories that formed the fabric of an inherented cultural tradition. He does not naãÈvely believe all he hears (II: 123; VII: 152) and it is not clear to me whether it is the veracity of the stories themselves that is doubted, whether it is Herodotus’ recording of the stories without his embellishing them that is doubted, or whether or not he shouldn’t be in that line of business at all (Burns 1972: 28). Thucydides was implicitly critical of Herodotus for downgrading fact in preference for emphasis on artifice or entertainment. That would be a cogent criticism were Herodotus claiming to be writing ‘factual’ history, a claim he never makes. Perhaps viewing Herodotus as an anthropologist of sorts (Burns 1972: 10) best captures the nature of his project. I use the term anthropologist in its loosest sense akin to explorers and travellers such as Marco Polo, discovering the diversity of mankind, even if their ‘discoveries’ were not entirely empirical. This view is consistent with Herodotus’ assertion in II: 123, repeated again in VII: 152 (cf. 8: 8; 3: 116; 4: 25): “’ Anyone may believe these Egyptian tales, if he is sufficiently credulous: as for myself, I keep to the general plan of this book, which is to record the traditions of the various nations just as I heard them related to me.“’ Keeping these thoughts in mind we now turn to Thucydides’ speeches which have generated a great deal of scholarly dispute. In I: 22 he sets out his famous ‘method’: “ . . . I have made use of set speeches some of which were delivered just before and others during the war. I have found it difficult to remember the precise words used in the speeches which I listened to myself and my informants have experienced the same difficulty; so my method has been, while keeping as closely as possible to the general sense of the words that were actually used, to make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation. He goes onto explain that with so many contradictory accounts through impartiality and the natural limitations of human memory, the truth was very difficult to divine. He ends I: 22 with the famous appeal for his work to be of relevance in perpetuity, premissed on the notion of a fixed human nature, [insert Greek], which we looked at earlier. It is the ambiguity of the phrase ‘keeping as close as possible’ that has been the source of so much dispute concerning Thucydides’ ‘proclaimed’ objectivity. It is not my place to adjudicate the correct rendering of [insert Greek] (judgement, opinion, intention in Liddell & Scott 1993; purport, sense, meaning: von Fritz; upshot: Walbank both cited in de Ste. Croix 1972: 8-9) or of [insert Greek]. Many commentators find it difficult to resist the conclusion that the judge of ‘what was appropriate’ was Thucydides himself and that this is a devastating blow against Thucydides’ claims for factual history. Surely as long as the ‘main thesis’ (de Ste. Croix 1972: 10) or the ‘upshot or gist’ (Walbank 1965) is communicated Thucydides’ intention will have been met. Jebb (1913: 253) suggests that the first thought that would occur to Thucydides would be, ‘What were the best arguments available? rather than, ‘What would have the agent himself have used’ subject to qualification on how well the speaker was known to Thucydides. Jebb (1913: 256) does however suggest that ‘there is every probability that he had heard most or all of the important discussions which took place in the Ecclesia between 433 and 424 B. C.’ and that Thucydides would have had access to a full and accurate account of the speeches he may have not witnessed for himself. Pompa (1993: 14) echoes this point that given the public nature of an event such as a war and the public nature of the actors speeches etc., there is little reason to doubt the veracity of events that took place in the public domain. 

CONCLUDING REMARKS

It is my contention that the key to a sound understanding of Thucydides in particular and historical explanation in general lies in accomodating the insights of both the idealists and the so-called scientific historians but not allowing these insights to contrive a fictitious Thucydides. We cannot escape that: history is on one level a distinct discourse, primarily because history is what the evidence obliges us to believe, not what actually happened’ (Oakeshott 1933: 112) and thus in the absence of another history Thucydides’ history is the history of the Peloponnesian War. As for the claim that Thucydides is most vulnerable to charges of ‘subjectivity’, this can be countered in two ways:

First, it’s more of a case of commentators not being sensitised to the epistemological problems of historical explanation, being easily being drawn in by Thucydides’ suggestive ‘scientific’ language, then, unfairly setting him up as a straw man.

Secondly, as for the charge levelled against Thucydides that he is merely a conduit for Periclean ideology, that can be met by taking the Marxist line that any intellectual enterprise, is subject to and functional to the dominant ideology of that particular society, more so in Thucydides’ case given Pericles’ unparalleled dominance within Athenian society. To vulgarly apply the assumptions of science to history is to be as bad a ‘historiographer’ as it is to be a bad ‘scientist’, and ends up doing neither. Thucydides, then, should be exonerated from the fallacious charge of being unscientific or indeed of being scientific, a view that has arisen from a vulgar notion of scientific/ historical explanation. Thucydides’ profound and lasting insight was his identification of the epistemic problem of the tenuousness of distant history. Seen thus, Thucydides in the context of his time was as good a historian as any good modern historian in the context of our time.

NOTES

1 Patrick Gardiner writes in his The Nature of Historical Explanation (1961: xi): ‘. . . (the question) “Is history a science?” is a question dangerous in its simplicity, particularly so because to call some branch of study scientific is frequently a means to giving it an air, if not of glamour, then at any rate of respectability. And all too often bold attempts to give a straight yes or no answer to the question, supported by reasons, end up in verbal disputes amounting to little more than alternative linguistic recommendations.’ Gardiner goes on to offer the corollary: ‘The question: “What is the nature of historical explanation? . . . implies that, provided a careful enough search is conducted, a clear and distinct idea of what historical explanation really is may somewhere be found, and, with labour, brought to light. This thought no doubt originates from Thucydides’ famous statement in I: 23: 6 about the origins of war. De Ste. Croix (1972: 5-6) is equally critical of modern (English) Thucydidean scholarship for failing to clarify and locate Thucydides’ History within the broader problems of historiography, for example, in attributing to Thucydides a search for ‘laws’ in the vulgar sense rather than his having an interest in historical events.

2. Though de Ste. Croix is characteristically provocative, his diagnosis is spot on. He fails, however, to offer arguments that match the force of his diagnosis.

3. Popper held that we should aim, not to confirm or corroborate, but to refute of falsify hypotheses; a counter-instance carrying more weight than a confirmatory instance.

4. see The Philosophy of Social Science, ed. A Ryan, Oxford (1973) particularly Ryan’s introduction pp. 4-5.

5. Several of the great philosophers of history were idealists – Croce, Collingwood, Dilthey but I will take Oakeshott as the preeminent representative. Suffice to say, that as an idealist, the nature of truth has to be coherence (the coherence theory of truth not to be confused with the coherence theory of knowledge) and each ‘mode of experience’, i. e. the historical, the practical and the scientific are intellectual constructs, each capable of “’generating conclusions to itself“’. Therefore history would be considered sui generis as would science (see Oakeshott 1933). For a detailed and balanced account of the coherence theory of truth see Ralph Walker’s The Coherence Theory of Truth, London & New York (1989).

6. de Ste. Croix (1972: 6 note 4) cites MI Finley among others.

7.  In his “’Preface To A Critique Of Political Economy“’, Peking (1976), Marx talks of the Ancient world as being one of the epochs comprising the process of dialectical materialism. For the most sustained modern treatment see GA Cohen’s Karl Marx’s Theory of History: A Defence (1978), Oxford and his ‘Functional Explanation, Consequence Explanation, and Marxism’ Inquiry 25.
 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Berlin I (1980) “The Concept of Scientific History” in Concepts and Categories, ed. H Hardy, Chicago

Burns AR (1972) ‘Introduction’ to Herodotus’ Histories, tr. A de Selincourt, Harmondsworth

Bury JB (1930) ‘Cleopatra’s Nose’ in Selected Essays, ed. H Temperley, Cambridge

Collingwood RG (1946) The Idea of History, reprinted 1970, Oxford

Cornford FM (1907) Thucydides Mythistoricus, London

Dover K (1994) Marginal Comment: a memoir, London

Dray WH (1957) Laws and Explanation in History, Oxford

Finley MI (1968) Aspects Of Antiquity, London

Finley MI (1972) ‘Introduction’ to Thucydides’ History of the Pelopponnesian War, tr. Rex Warner (1954), Harmondsworth

Froude JA (1864) ‘The Science of History’ in Short Studies on Great Subjects, London

Gardiner P (1961) The Nature of Historical Explanation, Oxford

Gaselee S (1939) ‘Ancient Greek Scientific Ideas’ Proceedings of the Classical Association Vol XXXVI

Goh ST (1970) ‘Some Observations on the Deductive-Nomological Theory’, Mind

Gomme (1945) A Historical Commentary On Thucydides, Oxford

Hempel CG (1962) ‘Explanation in Science and History’ in Frontiers of Science and Philosophy, ed. RG Colodny, London, reprinted in Explanation (1993), ed. DH Ruben, Oxford

Hornblower S (1987) Thucydides, London

Jebb RC (1913) ‘The Speeches Of Thucydides’ in Hellenica, ed. E Abbott, London

Lindley R (1978) ‘Scientific Explanation’ in What Philosophy Does, London

Martin R (1979) ‘History and Subjectivity’ Ratio 21

McClelland PD (1975) Causal Explanation and Model Building in History, Economics, and the New Economic History, Ithaca NY

Momigliano A (1958) ‘The Place of Herodotus in the History of Historiography’, History XIII

Momigliano A (1971) ‘Popular Religious Beliefs and the Late Roman Historians’  Studies in Church History 8, reprinted in Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1972) ‘Tradition and the Classical Historian’ History and Theory 11, reprinted in (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1974) ‘Historicism Revisited’ Mededelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afd. Letterkunde, NR 37: 3, reprinted in (1977), Oxford

Momigliano A (1979) ‘The Origins of Universal History’, presented at the University of Chicago and in the Christian Gauss Seminars in Criticism at Princeton University, reprinted in On Pagans, Jews, and Christians (1987), Middletown Conn.

Momigliano A (1981) ‘History and Biography’ in The Legacy Of Greece, ed. MI Finley, Oxford

M (1933) Experience And Its Modes, Cambridge

Oakeshott M (1983) On History And Other Essays, Oxford

Pompa L (1993) ‘The Possibility Of Historical Knowledge’ Aristotelian Society, Supplementary Vol LXVII

Ryan A (ed.) (1973) The Philosophy of Social Science, Oxford

de Ste. Croix GEM (1972) The Origins Of The Peloponnesian War, London

de Ste. Croix GEM (1983) The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World, London

Walbank FW (1985) ‘Speeches In Greek Historians’ in Selected Papers: studies in Greek and Roman Historiography, Cambridge


Review Essay: Oakeshott’s Lectures in the History of Political Thought

May 6, 2007

“Political Experience”

A copy is available direct from publisher’s website.