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3fn ilemoriam
JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN
1817 189I
Requisitus in Academiam Caelestem
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
1894
Copyright, 1894,
By WILLIAM E. LINCOLN.
All rights reserved,
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
This volume is published as a memorial of my father, but it is
not a memoir, for this I did not dare attempt. I have endeavored
only to select and edit such of his writings, public and private, as
seemed most characteristic and appropriate. The manuscripts
were intended solely for his own eye, and were written hastily
at night after hard days' work, and with many alterations and
interlineations. The proofreading demanded what I do not pos-
sess, — a fund of learning, full and accurate, and akin to his own.
This has compelled very slow progress for almost two full years,
and an amount of hard work and study which I had not imagined,
and which found me " not prepared." Many times on many
pages have I wished that even for a moment I might turn to him
for the clear explanation I well knew he could give of some place
that seemed extremely hard to me. In the printing of Latin
words, following some of the earlier of his published papers, diph-
thongs have been printed with the ligature, and some other old-
fashioned methods have been used, which now I could not alter
even if I would. The detection and correction of a number of
errors in the stereotyped proofs is due to assistance kindly ren-
dered by my friend and classmate Professor William Carey
Poland, and which I gratefully acknowledge. I wish also to
thank the many friends to whom I am indebted for information,
and especially to thank Professor George P. Fisher, D. D., for
his appreciative and scholarly Memorial Address.
The number and variety of persons with whom my father was
personally or intellectually acquainted may be seen to some extent
in the Index of this volume, — names of contemporaries men-
tioned by him being given, as far as possible, in full. I have
ivil5ge55
IV
often felt in the moments — all too few — which I have been
permitted to pass with him in his old age, that during a life spent
in teaching the lore of the ancients to the young, he himseK had
been learning constantly by mental companionship with his pupils
the secret of youth. This characteristic seems to me to be dis-
cernible in the masterly likeness of my father which the alumni
of Brown presented to the University. It is my hope that in the
pages of this Memorial Volume also may be seen not alone his
accurate scholarship and wide culture, but his genial nature and
devout spirit, and, drawn by his own pen, his portrait of himself.
Inasmuch as the greater part of my father's life was dedicated
to Brown University, I feel that I cannot do otherwise than dedi-
cate to the alumni of Brown, who in more than a half century of
classes have been his pupils, this memorial of his life. This vol-
ume is the most enduring monument within my ability to erect to
his memory, and I believe it is also the most useful one to the
college which he loved so well. Upon the front of Sayles Me-
morial Hall are engraved the simple and fitting words, written by
my father, " FiLio pater posvit." I had never suspected the
" limae labor " which he had given to this short sentence until
after his death, when I found among his papers a half sheet cov-
ered with other mottoes and beginnings of mottoes which he had
written and erased and emended and rejected. I therefore feel
that it will be a quite excusable plagiarism if, in imitation of his
words, I inscribe upon this page this sentence, so expressive of my
feelings, patri filivs posvit.
WILLIAM ENSIGN LINCOLN.
Pittsburgh, Pa., January 1, 1894.
• FA t^
CONTENTS. p^c^Ll
!• PACK
Portrait of Professor Lincoln (^tat. 60) .... Frontispiece
Memorial Address, by Prof. George P. Fisher, LL. D. . . i
II.
"Notes of my Life" 22
Diary of Student Life, 1833-1834 . . . . . . .27
Diary at Columbian College, 1836-1837 34
Diary at Newton Theological Institution, 1838-1839 . . 46
Diary of Student Life in Germany, 1841-1842 ... 61
Letters from Europe, 1841-1844 67
Diary and Letters, Europe, 1857 114
III.
The Herkomer Portrait (Mtat. 69) Facing page 150
An Introduction to Goethe's Faust (1868) 151
Gladstone's Juventus Mundi (1869) 185
kome and the romans of the time of horace (1870) . . 208
The Platonic Myths (1872) 232
The Relation of Plato's Philosophy to Christian Truth (1873) 259
Plato's Republic (1873) 273
Roman Travel and Travelers (1874) 296
The Poem of Lucretius (1875) 315
The Theory of Lucretius (1875) 337
The Life and Teachings of Sophocles (1876) .... 356
Roman Women in the First Century of the Empire (1877) . 378
Tacitus (1878) 402
Galileo and the Inquisition (1879) 427
Dean Stanley on Baptism (1879) ....... 456
Professor Tyndall's Belfast Address 461
Froude's C^sar (1880) 464
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (1881) 484
The Religion of the Romans (1882) 603
Old Age (1883) 624
James Clerk Maxwell (1884) 644
The Historian Leopold von Ranke (1889) 668
IV.
Appendix 686
Index 627
MEMOEIAL ADDKESS ON THE CHARACTER AND
SERVICES OF JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN.
Delivered Tuesday, June 21, 1892, in the First Baptist Meeting-
House, Providence, by Professor George P. Fisher, LL. D., of Yale
University.
Once more we have entered this ancient sanctuary, to many of
us full of the memories of by-gone days. We have come back to
the scenes of our youth; but where are the men to whom we
looked up as our teachers and guides, who foUowed our departing
steps with their blessing, and honored us with their lasting friend-
ship ? Vanished are the faces that once, when we returned to these
college anniversaries, looked on us with an almost paternal kind-
ness ! Silent are the voices whose familiar tones haunt the memory
as echoes from afar ! We rejoice in the growth and prosperity of
the institution where our youth was nurtured. Yet there recur to
us, unbidden, the poet's words : —
" It is not now as it hath been of yore : —
Turn whereso'er I may,
By night or day,
The things that I have seen I now can see no more."
We feel the truth of the saying that even the objects of nature
about us
" Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality."
It is true that when we meet our college classmates, we fall under
a strange and pleasing illusion. Holmes illustrates in one of his
humorous poems how the intervening years disappear. All titles
of honor are forgotten, all acquired gravity dispelled. Again we
are boys, transported back to the moods of feeling that were ours
when we recited and played together, and life had the brightness
of a holiday. But even in a gathering of classmates, more som-
bre thoughts arise when the roll is called, and they close their
ranks to fill up the gaps made by those who have fallen by the
way. When we have occasion to look on our fellow graduates in
'ly^Y'i: i //, ' : MEMORIAL ADDRESS
a body, in their long gradation from the youngest to the oldest,
we behold as in a picture the changes wrought in the progress of
the years. We see how the stages of human life follow one an-
other in their order of succession, — each imprinting its char-
acteristic stamp upon form and feature, and equally upon the cast
of thought. At one end of the procession are the youngest, with
their diplomas in their hands, light-hearted, peering into the fu-
ture, eager for the race. At the other end are the oldest, with
no surplus vivacity to expend, halting, perhaps, under the burden
of years. It is the contrast so vividly pictured in the lines of
Schiller : —
" Youth with thousand-masted vessel
Ploughs the sea at morning light ;
Age, in shattered skiff escaping,
Calmly drifts to port at night."
I have been led into this vein of remark by the circumstance
that Professor Lincoln, the eminent scholar whose merits and
whose long service to the University we are met to commemorate,
is the last of the company of teachers who constituted the Fac-
ulty when the class to which I belong was in college. Only one
of them is now living, and many years have passed since he left
the institution. The last link that connected myself and my con-
temporaries with the corps of instructors here has now been re-
moved. When I was honored by the invitation of the Faculty to
deliver the address to-day, my first impulse was to decline the
request, partly, I confess, from an instinctive desire to avoid a feel-
ing of sadness which the associations of the time and place, and
the thronging recollections of the past, could not fail to awaken ;
but, mainly, for the reason that, as it seemed to me, one of the
younger pupils of Professor Lincoln, who had been more conver-
sant with him in the later years, might be better qualified to do
justice to some aspects of his character and work. But I was
moved by a sense of loyalty to the University to comply with the
call of the Faculty ; and I was influenced in so doing by a fact
which may have had something to do in prompting their choice, —
the fact, namely, that I was a pupil of Professor Lincoln at the
very beginning of his academic career. This fact must be my
apology if personal reminiscences should mingle at the outset m
the remarks which I have to make respecting him and his work.
Professor Lincoln commenced his duties as Professor of Latin
in the autumn of 1844, when my class was just entering upon the
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 3
Sophomore year. Let us pause for a moment to glance at the
Faculty, as the Faculty was then composed. At the head of the
company of teachers was Dr. Wayland, then but forty-eight years
of age, although he was thus early referred to in the talk of stu-
dents as " the old Doctor." Unaffected in manner, there was yet
that in his looks and bearing which bespoke a kingly man. His
strong personality cast a spell upon all who approached him. His
love of truth, his deep sense of right, and his independence of
the bonds of party, were a lifelong inspiration to his pupils. How
easily do we recall his portly figure, as he walked to or from his
college room, his head bent forward, with a slow gait, as of one
absorbed in thought ! Next in age to the President — being
about three years younger — was the beloved Caswell, grave
and genial, — genial and grave in an equal proportion, — whose
benignant spirit was never ruffled by a gust of passion. Then
followed Professor Chace, keen in perception, strict in the dis-
charge of official duty, never holding a loose rein, equally expert
in the analysis of a chemical compound and in decomposing a
state of consciousness into its elements of thought ; and Professor
Gammell, the polished critic, the sworn foe of vulgarity in char-
acter and manners, as well as in style, devoted in his service to
all who could be drawn into sympathy with his ideals of culture.
With these was associated a much younger man, our faithful
teacher of Greek, Professor Boise, the only one of the number
who survives. Into this group of men — we can see them now as
they sat together on the platform of the old chapel — Professor
Lincoln was introduced as a colleague.
How well he was equipped for the place will appear if we con-
sider his course of preparation for it. He was born in Boston on
the 28d of February, 1817, and was consequently at that time in
his twenty-eighth year. The occupation of his father, Mr. En-
sign Lincoln, was that of a printer and publisher. He was a man
of more than ordinary intelligence, of perfect uprightness, and of
earnest piety. Although a layman and in business, he was li-
censed to preach in the Baptist communion, to which he belonged.
Professor Lincoln in brief " Notes " of his own life, which I have
had the privilege of reading, recalls with tender feeling the death
of his mother, which occurred when he was only four years old.
This bereavement brought him into closer intimacy with his
father, of whom he says : " My dear father was one of the best of
men, always cheerful and kind, with a wonderful equableness of
4 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
temper. I never heard him speak petulantly or angrily ; but his
grave and troubled look, if I did wrong, was enough to break me
into penitence. . . . How loving he was at home, and how I
loved to be in his lap in the evening and hear him talk ! . . . His
example and life have gone with me through all years as a con-
stant guide and helper in all temptation and trouble. ... I used
to go with my father out of town when he went to preach for dif-
ferent churches. How many miles I have driven him out of Bos-
ton and back again, and how good and thoughtful he was in talk-
ing to me ! " Mr. Lincoln was fitted for college mainly at the
Boston Latin School, under masters, famous in their day, among
whom were Gould, Dillaway, Leverett, and Dixwell. On the list
of his schoolfellows are the names of Henry Ward Beecher, Dr.
George E. Ellis, Judge Devens, and Dr. Edward Everett Hale.
He entered the school when he was between eight and nine years
old. The course ran through five years, but he completed it in
four. At the anniversary, he had assigned to him the delivery of
a Latin poem of his own composition. To quote his own account
of it, — "I remember Mr. Leverett said some very encouraging
words to me about the poem. I have often recalled the working
over that poem in my room at home. And yet it was not work
exactly ; it came to me quite beyond all my expectations. I had
had good teaching, and had the quantities of words and syllables
quite accurate, and words and phrases came to me pretty easily,
and I made out thirty-eight lines, I remember, and got through
the delivery pretty well." Surely here is an augury of future
proficiency in Latin. It would almost seem, from his simple
account, that he
" Lisped in numbers, for the numbers came."
Being only thirteen years old, he was too young to be sent to col-
lege. Then followed a year in the High School, and then a fifth
year in the Latin School, at the end of which, as being at the
head of the class, the valedictory, and the Franklin medal with
it, were awarded to him. His teachers besought his father to
send him to Harvard, whither they said all the valedictorians be-
fore him had gone. But his father's religious affiliations were
with Brown. He was a friend of Dr. Wayland, whose fame was
extending, and with it the reputation of the college. So to Brown
he was sent, entering the Freshman class in the autumn of 1832.
A sore grief to him was the death of his father, at the end of the
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 6
first term. He makes grateful mention of the comfort and sym-
pathy that he received from Dr. Caswell on his return from the
sad funeral rites. Of his college days he writes : " I was a boy and
full of vivacity, and found many companions and friends." In
his Junior year, he tells us, he was not so diligent in his studies,
but rallied and did good work in his Senior year. He graduated
with honors in 1836. He kept, through all his college tempta-
tions, the purity of his earlier years, always avoiding the society
of the vicious. After graduation Mr. Lincoln spent one year at
Washington, where he held the post of tutor in Columbian Col-
lege. The work there was in some respects trying, but it initiated
him in the practice of teaching. Then came two years — years,
he informs us, of " good wholesome study and progress " — in New-
ton Theological School. During the second year at Newton, he
came into close relations with Dr. Sears, afterwards President of
this college, a scholar of remarkable abilities and acquirements,
who had made himself familiar with the modern German learn-
ing in theology, especially in the department of church history,
in which he was a proficient. Of Dr. Sears, Mr. Lincoln says : he
" was a very stimulating teacher, and kindled in me a zeal for
learning and scholarship and progress in everything." No doubt
this year was an epoch in Mr. Lincoln's intellectual development,
opening before him new ranges of thought and investigation.
From Newton he was called to Brown, in 1839, and here as tutor,
during the next two years, in association with his former instruc-
tors, his habits of teaching were formed. This period was fol-
lowed by his residence abroad for three years, a most important
era in his experience, for which the preceding years, including his
time of study at Newton, had well prepared him, and to which he
always looked back with the utmost thankfulness and pleasure.
Two years he spent as a student in Germany, the first at Halle,
and the second at Berlin. The third year was mostly devoted to
travel, the winter being passed at Rome.
In Germany, while his attention was given to philology, he did
not drop his theological studies. At Halle, there was at that
period a cluster of eminent teachers. There Mr. Lincoln was
brought into contact, in the lecture-rooms and in social life, with
Tholuck, Gesenius, Julius Miiller, Leo, Erdmann, Rodiger, Bern-
hardy, — most of them men of world-wide distinction in their sev-
eral branches of learning. These men, Mr. Lincoln says, " were
great for me, giving me broader, larger views than I had ever
6 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
had of study and attainments, and showing me what and how to
study." The second year was spent in Berlin, where he studied
philology with Boeckh and Zumpt, and church history with the
illustrious Neander, and where he profited by the presence of
Ranke, Schelling, and many other inspiring teachers. His in-
structors include names that are identified with the progress of
modern learning. In the list of his foreign teachers it was Tho-
luck, I think, with whom he was best acquainted. After his year
at Halle, where he saw much of this distinguished theologian, he
traveled with him in the summer, for two months, in Switzerland
and northern Italy. Tholuck was then a foremost leader of the
evangelical reaction against the Eationalism of that time. His
mind w^as brilliant, remarkably versatile, unceasingly active, stored
with vast and various acquisitions. Seldom is a theologian so
gifted with imagination and eloquence. His lectures and dis-
courses in the pulpit, open as they are in some respects to criticism,
were always irradiated with flashes of genius. His conversation
was full of spirit. He loved the society of students, and made
them his companions. Few men have excelled him in the power
of kindling the minds of the young. Ten years later than the
date of which I am speaking, I knew him well ; and even then,
although prematurely old from excess of labor, his attractive power
was very remarkable. Apart from Mr. Lincoln's testimony on
the subject, we might be sure that a close intimacy of such a
teacher with such a pupil, including months of travel, could not
fail to be in the highest degree awakening and instructive. The
mention of the teachers of Mr. Lincoln in that land of scholars,
and of the particular branches that he studied, conveys no ade-
quate idea of the atmosphere that he breathed, — the collective
influences of literature and art that left on him an impress never
to be effaced. In one of his published essays he refers to the rep-
resentation of the play of Antigone that he witnessed at Berlin,
on the occasion when, under the auspices of that patron of letters,
Frederick William IV., this tragedy, translated into German, was
reproduced on the stage, with the aid of " all the resources of his
capital in learning and scholarship and musical genius." Looking
back to that scene, after a long interval, Mr. Lincoln writes : " It
was an imposing spectacle to behold ; there was a wealth of Men-
delssohn music to dehght the ear, and yet those sights and sounds
have long since faded from the mind." . . . But " even now there
seems to be seen that stately figure of Antigone, and her voice
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 7
seems to be heard, pronouncing her faith ' in the unwritten and
unchanging laws of God,' and her purpose to abide by that faith
even unto death."
In the autumn of 1843 Mr. Lincoln spent some time at Geneva,
engaged in the study of French. Then he repaired to Rome,
where he remained for the winter and a part of the ensuing spring,
studying the classical authors in the midst of the scenes and relics
that breathe new life upon their pages. He attended weekly the
meeting of the Archaeological Society on the Capitoline HiU,
meeting there a gathering of students that included Grote, Preller,
William M. Hunt, our distinguished historian Mr. Parkman, and
many other kindred spirits. Leaving Rome, he tarried for brief
intervals in Paris and London, reaching home in the autumn, in
time to commence his work as assistant professor of Latin, — his
promotion to the full professorship taking place at the end of one
year's service.
Three years he had spent under circumstances in the highest
degree propitious for his intellectual development, gathering up
all the while stores of knowledge. The things of the spirit are
more precious than material treasures. I count it no extrava-
gance to say of this young American scholar that, like the Roman
conquerors of old, with whose achievements he was so familiar, he
had come back with the spoils of kingdoms, and ascended the hill
sacred to learning, to bring them to the door of his Ahna Mater.
The class of which I was a member had been instructed in
Latin, in the Freshman year, by a refined gentleman and very
competent teacher, Mr. Henry S. Frieze, who died in 1889, after
a long and honorable service in the University of Michigan. Dur-
ing the year the news had reached us that a new professor in this
department was to be installed in office in the next autumn. No
small curiosity existed as to what manner of man he would prove
to be. Our first impressions were favorable. The professor,
when he appeared in the class-room, had the air and manner of
one who was not a stranger to the world of men beyond the col-
lege walls. There was missing a certain constraint that college
officers in those days naturally wore in contact with their pupils.
For the intercourse between professor and pupil was less frank
and more conventional than at present. There was much more
surveillance over the students. The exercise of authority was
more visible and continuous. Mr. Lincoln's manner was not
wanting in self-respect, but was unconstrained. Then he early
8 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
showed, on a certain occasion, an openness and a disposition to
put faith in the class. We represented to him, and with truth,
that he was giving out too long lessons. He, at once, with the
utmost grace and good-nature, said that he would shorten them,
and kept his word. It was evident that he did not think of a col-
lege as a prison where the greatest possible amount of work was
to be exacted from reluctant inmates, and where any remonstrance
deserved a rebuff. Then there was an occasional flash of humor
to enliven the hour. For example, when we were on the opening
passage of the " Ars Poetica," where Horace protests against in-
congruous descriptions and imagery, illustrating his point by like
absurdities in painting, and apostrophizes an artist who plumed
himself on his skill in depicting a cypress, and hence brought that
tree into the picture of a shipwrecked sailor striking for the land,
— our teacher looked up, and remarked with a smile : " He was
great on cypresses ! " But what struck us from the first, and im-
pressed us always, was the fact that, although an accurate linguist,
and never careless of the niceties of the language, he was vastly
more. He was the interpreter of his author in a far deeper way.
The words were dealt with as the windows through which to dis-
cern his thoughts and sentiments, and to gain access to his inmost
life and spirit. Moreover, under this inspiring guide, we were
brought into a living relation to the conditions under which the
author wrote, and to the whole life of antiquity. Here, to use
one of Carlyle's phrases, was no mere gerund-grinder. There was
genuine historical feeling and literary taste and insight. To some
at least, it was a discovery that Roman men and women had any
other occupation than to furnish the raw material of Latin gram-
mars and dictionaries. Classical instruction in this country has
passed through a number of phases. There was a time when there
was a certain relish for the Latin authors, especially, — for the
Greek authors were little read. It was common to garnish public
addresses by quotations — a little hackneyed, it might be — from
Virgil and Horace and the orations of Cicero. But in the instruc-
tion given in school and college, the grammatical groundwork
was for the most part sadly defective. At length there sprung up
a reform in this particular, owing in a considerable measure to
the influence of German scholarship. One result of this reaction
against the loose methods that had prevailed was an absorbing
devotion to grammar and lexicon. Classical instruction was re-
solved into a linguistic drill. The slovenly teaching in nearly all
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 9
the preparatory schools might have been alleged as an apology for
this grammatical fanaticism. College professors have been handi-
capped by being compelled to travel over the ground which had
been negligently traversed before. In truth, a minor part of the
blame is to be laid at the door of the colleges. The great defects
of education in this country have been in the first sixteen or sev-
enteen years of the boy's training. Nevertheless, I believe that
the opposition to classical studies is due about as much to the
spiritless way in which they have been taught as to the urgent
demands made by the modern languages and the new sciences.
As if the poets, orators, and philosophers of antiquity simply
wrote exercises in parsing ! How could a scholar care anything
for the contents of a literature when he was forced to spend all
his time in breaking through the shell ? It is a case where " the
letter killeth." The distinction of Professor Lincoln lies in the
enthusiasm which he himself felt, and, as far as possible, imparted,
for the authors whom he interpreted, and his living interest in
the many-sided intellectual and social life of which the ancient
literature is the expression. In a word, Mr. Lincoln was, in the
best sense of the word, a man of letters. Even when he jour-
neyed, he was apt to take a Greek or Latin writer with him, for
his familiarity with Greek as well as Latin authors was constantly
growing.
My impressions of Professor Lincoln at the beginning of his
work in college are confirmed in letters written to me by several
of my college friends and contemporaries, graduates in later
classes. President Angell writes : " He was brimful of scholarly
enthusiasm. He was at work on his edition of Livy, and we who
were at once set to reading that author soon caught something of
the zest of the editor. His ardent interest in whatever author the
class was reading was contagious. There was something wonder-
fully vital and inspiriting in his teaching. ... I remember that
I used to think that the Latin poet (Horace) could have had no
more genial or appreciative companion in his Sabine house. Pro-
fessor Lincoln had a nice literary sense, which especially fitted
him to guide us young pupils in the study of the odes of Horace.
I am sure some of us first awoke to the real perception of poetic
beauty." In the same vein. Dr. Murray, the Dean of the Faculty
at Princeton, writes : " He loved the authors he taught, and he
sought earnestly and successfully to be an interpreter of them to
us. . . . The brilliant passages from Livy, the graceful odes from
10 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
Horace, the weighty sentences of Tacitus, were sure to elicit from
him striking comment. I do not think any of his classes could
ever forget with what interest he would dwell on the closing pas-
sages of the Agricola." The Hon. Edward L. Pierce, after re-
marks equivalent to the foregoing, adds : " His voice was most
attractive. In our Freshman year (1846-47) he read to the class
Macaulay's Lays. His reading inspired me, and I then made my
first acquaintance with Macaulay. . . . He [Professor Lincoln]
fully enjoyed his work, altogether content with it, — never indif-
ferent or perfunctory."
As Professor Lincoln was, at the beginning, in the presence of
his classes, so he continued to be to the end, but with increasing
attractiveness and power. In his earlier years, it is said — for I
never observed it — he was sometimes caustic in dealing with the
dull and careless. But college teachers, as they grow older, espe-
cially if they come to have children of their own, are wont to grow
more lenient, and gentle in their rebukes. One of his later pupils
and a colleague remarks respecting him : " He became more
patient and enduring as the years went on, and though he could
let no error pass uncorrected, he was content with rebuking care-
lessness with some dry, humorous criticism, the sting of which did
not rankle in the mind." Professor Poland proceeds to speak of
his assiduity in the correction of all the exercises in Latin compo-
sition, which were often piled upon his table, and his quickness to
recognize and appreciate whatever merit he discerned in them, or
in any of the work done by his pupils. When there was a moral
lesson to be drawn from the author, he never failed to point it
out. " To him," says Professor Poland, " the classics were the
' Humanities,' and he taught them in that spirit, and used them
as means to develop in his students a noble and refined ideal of
manhood."
I wish now to speak of Mr. Lincoln as a man of letters,
independently of his relation as an academic teacher. Fortunately
he has left behind him ample proofs of his capacity as a writer.
His editions of Livy, Horace, and Ovid, from a linguistic point of
view, were, as I am assured, fully abreast, and even in advance
of, the standard of scholarship at the time when they were issued.
But their characteristic merit is on the aesthetic side. His literary
perception and his felicity of style are conspicuous in the pre-
liminary lives of Horace and Ovid, and in the quality of the
notes appended. But the power of Mr. Lincoln in the department
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 11
of authorship is seen especially in a number of essays which
he contributed to periodicals. The subjects on which he wrote
indicate the bent of his thought and the direction of his studies.
Several of these essays were first read at meetings of the Friday
Club, a society of cultivated gentlemen which, for many years,
met frequently for literary converse and social enjoyment. I will
not stop to dwell on an early article of Mr. Lincoln in the
" Bibliotheca Sacra," which is purely of an historical character. It
presents an elaborate picture of ancient Roman life. The Papers
which I should single out as of cardinal value are the Review of
Mr. Gladstone's Juventus Mundi, and the essays on the relation of
Plato's Philosophy to Christian Truth, on the Life and Teach-
ings of Sophocles, and on Goethe's Faust. The four themes —
Homer, Sophocles, Plato, Goethe — are adapted to serve as a test
of his ability to appreciate the highest productions of human
genius and to unfold the secret of their power. I am confident
that these essays must elicit, both as to matter and form, the
cordial admiration of all discerning critics. They are not simply
rich in thought and beautiful in diction. They are pervaded by
a spontaneous enthusiasm. There runs through them a flow of
eloquence, never transcending the bounds of good taste, which
bears the reader along, as on the crest of a wave, from beginning
to end. Let me briefly touch upon certain literary characteristics
of the author as they are disclosed in these essays.
One is struck with his broad conception of the end and aim of
classical studies. They are prized, not merely because they bring
us face to face with the ancient peoples providentially chosen to
be the founders of European civilization. Their use is made to
extend much farther. It is evident, to quote Mr. Lincoln's own
language, in " those tastes for all that is beautiful and ennobling
in ancient letters, which grew up insensibly in the season of
youth, under the propitious influences of place and books, and
teachers and companions ; the lingering witchery of eloquence and
song, which first caught the ear and led captive the soul; the
enthusiastic admiration and love for the great writers of antiquity,
which with so many scholars was first awakened in that spring-
time of intellectual life, and cherished in its subsequent periods,
the grace of manhood and the solace of age." But this is not all.
Far from it. Classical studies, it is affirmed, may do far more
than quicken the mind and discipline the taste. Speaking of
" the comparative method " that is winning so large results in
12 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
every branch of study, our author predicts even grander discoveries
to be achieved by it. " As we think of its onward career," he
says, " we seem to see its studious followers, in brilliant succession,
even as the runners in the ancient torch-race, handing along the
lights of science by the successive stages of their course of
research, the eyes and energies of all bent upon the ultimate goal,
— the knowledge of one united race, of the vast and varied
interests of one common humanity. It is indeed the unusual
human interest inspired by this method of study that makes at
once its worth and its charm, and gives it a hold upon all
thoughtful minds, like the spell of a fascination." Under this
head, he claims for philological studies, in which the method was
first exemplified, that they "are the true Humaniora^ truly hu-
mane and humanizing studies." In another place he distinctly
sets forth what he considers " the ultimate end " of classical
studies. " Not alone," he says, " to form a basis for mental
discipline and culture, by furnishing models of consummate excel-
lence in thought and expression, are these studies designed. The
true and ultimate end is a moral and religious one, — the knowledge,
gained by a deeper and maturer study of classical antiquity, of
the place and function of all ancient philosophy, letters, art, life,
in the providential order of the world in preparing the way for
the entrance of Christianity into human life and history." Holding
this comprehensive view, he felt earnestly that culture and religion
must be united in the objects of study and investigation. " We
are craving," he says, " in these modern Christian days the fusion
and union of religion and culture ; and how we miss it often in
the best teaching of the pen and the voice, culture lacking the
inspiration of religion, and religion failing to take up and master
the resources of culture." It was natural that he should direct
his attention with a fervent interest to comparative religion, and
to the relation of the other religions of mankind to Christianity.
While insisting firmly that Christianity is the supreme, absolute
religion, he is a champion of broad and liberal views concerning
the origin of religion, and as to the defective systems that have
sprung up beyond the pale of the Christian Kevelation. In the
review of Gladstone, Mr. Lincoln, carrying his agreement with
him on what is called " the Homeric question " farther than most
scholars at present would sanction, dissents from his author's
opinion that the Olympian religion, and the other Gentile religions
with it, are the remains of a primitive divine revelation. He
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 13
advocates what he pronounces "a more excellent way" of ac-
counting for the phenomena. He finds the solution, not in a
supposed primitive revelation or tradition, but in "a primitive
faith," — a faith implanted in the very constitution of the human
soul, and so not only anterior to all religious instruction but
essential to the reception of it, whether it come from a natural
or a supernatural source. Elsewhere, as we might expect, he
repudiates the old, crude way of thinking, which consigned the
Greek and Roman religions, without discrimination, to the realm
of superstition and falsehood. " We might as well," he exclaims,
"go back to the notion that Greek and Latin were somewhere
developed out of Hebrew." Cherishing these catholic ideas, it is
no wonder that, with so many kindred souls, he is attracted to
Plato, the philosopher whom he designates as one who stands, on
the broad page of history, — even as he is depicted in Raphael's
picture of the School of Athens, — with uplifted hand, " pointing,
not Grecian sages alone, but all thoughtful minds, above the
world of matter and sense, to a world of spirit, to a world of
ideas as divine and eternal things, and the true home of the soul
as a spiritual being." Nowhere are the affinities of Platonism
with the Christian faith, together with the regulative supreme
place that belongs to the religion of Christ, set forth in a more
interesting style than in this Essay of Professor Lincoln, the ripe
fruit of a generously cultivated, sympathetic, and religious mind.
The articles on Sophocles and the Greek drama and on Faust,
taken together, are fine illustrations of Mr. Lincoln's literary
ability and of the variety of his accomplishments. The one takes
us back into the atmosphere of Athenian life ; the other leads us
into the midst of the intellectual ferment of the present day.
In dealing with Faust, the masterpiece of modern tragedy, he
presents us with a lucid and glowing exposition of the argument
of the play, and with a penetrating inquiry into its motive and
underlying ideas. A sentence or two upon the opening " Prologue
in Heaven" will indicate the elevated and spirited tone of the
entire essay. " We are lifted," says the author, " in imagination
to the courts of heaven, to the very presence-chamber of the Lord.
In those heavenly hosts that throng around in shining ranks, and
in Mephistopheles, who comes also to present himself before the
Lord, we seem to touch at their very springs, in the invisible
world, the powers of good and evil, which are to invest with their
mysterious conflict of agency the life of a human being on earth.
14 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
The voices of archangels utter forth in adoring, jubilant song the
high praises of God ; the sun rounding his appointed course, and
ringing out his rival accord in the music of the spheres ; the pomp
of the swift-revolving earth, its brightness of day alternating with
awful night; the foaming ocean heaving up its broad floods, —
these, and all His sublime works, past comprehending, are glorious
as in time's first day."
Professor Lincoln read, at different times, before the Rhode
Island Historical Society, papers on Tacitus, Marcus Aurelius,
and the historian Ranke. Among his papers read to the Friday
Club were essays on Rome and the Romans in the time of Hor-
ace, Travel and Travelers among the Ancient Romans, Lucretius,
Galileo and the Inquisition, Fronde's Life of Csesar, the Roman
Religion and its Relations to Philosophy, Old Age, as described
in Cicero's treatise, Plato's Republic. These titles illustrate the
nature of the topics to which his mind naturally turned.
A man like Mr. Lincoln would not be likely to take a narrow
view of the scope of college education. In these latter days there
have been those who have been disposed to act upon the theory,
even if they have not openly espoused it, that the design of a pub-
lic institution of this nature is simply to furnish to applicants the
different sorts of knowledge at a stipulated price. The responsi-
bility of the college teacher, it is implied, ends at this point. A
somewhat larger view is taken when it is admitted that to stimu-
late the intellect, to spur the mind to reflect and to undertake
independent researches, is embraced in the function of an aca-
demic professor. Yery different is the old conception, still cher-
ished in this place, that in the critical period of youth, when the
nature is plastic, the forming of character should be included as
a distinct object in college education. " The attainment of know-
ledge," says Daniel Webster, " does not comprise all that is con-
tained in the larger term of education. The feelings are to be
disciplined, the passions are to be restrained, true and worthy
motives are to be inspired ; a profound religious feeling to be
instilled, and pure morality to be inculcated, under all circum-
stances." Long ago Plato wrote in the same strain. Besides the
education that fits one for a particular occupation, there is that
education, he says, " which makes a man eagerly pursue the idea]
perfection of citizenship, and teaches him how rightly to rule and
how to obey. This is the only training which, upon our view,
would be characterized as education ; that other sort of training.
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 15
which aims at the acquisition of wealth or bodily strength, or
mere cleverness apart from intelligence and justice, is mean
and illiberal, and is not worthy to be called education at all."
No one who knew Mr. Lincoln was left in doubt as to his convic-
tions on this subject. There is another truth relative to the method
of education which, owing to the growth of colleges and the
multiplying of the number of students, is in danger of being dis-
regarded. The ancient teachers, Socrates and the other masters
of Greek philosophy, set a great value upon the personal con-
verse of the teacher with the disciple, and upon the educating
influence dependent on this personal tie. The Great Teacher
of mankind exemplified this principle. Whatever advantages
may arise, a serious loss is incurred from bringing together a great
concourse of pupils without a proportionate increase in the number
of teachers. The students are known as a body, but not as indi-
viduals. The inestimable benefit of a direct interchange of
thought and feeling with the instructor is lost. I am sure that
the graduates of Brown with whom I was acquainted in my col-
lege days appreciate this benefit to the fullest extent. The
classes taught by Professor Lincoln then, and in later times, will
gratefully testify that he was not unmindful of the opportunities
for doing good through the channel referred to. His personal
influence did not limit itself to intellectual guidance in friendly
conversation. The student who stood in need of religious coun-
sel, especially after the college was deprived of the pastoral coun-
sels of Dr. Wayland and Dr. Caswell, felt free to resort to him.
For a considerable time, the annual receptions of the College
Christian Association were held at his house.
During Professor Lincoln's long term of service as professor,
extending over a period of forty-seven years, he visited Europe
three times ; first in 1857, for the sake of his health, when he
was absent for six months, again in the summer of 1878, and
finally ten years later, when he was absent for a year. From
1859 to 1867 he was released from a portion of his work on
account of the insufiiciency of the stipend paid him by the col-
lege ; and during this interval superintended, with gratifying
success, a school of young women in Providence. The ladies
who were taught by him are warm in their appreciation of the
manner in which he incited them to study from the love of know-
ledge, and of his readiness to solve all difliculties clearly, while
he showed them also how to solve them for themselves. While he
16 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
carried forward the school, he still instructed the Senior class in
college, and furnished a substitute for the other classes.
This chronological statement, and what has been said before
of his work as an instructor, are quite inadequate as a record of
the extent of his labors in behalf of the college. For thirty-six
years he was a member of the Library Committee, and for twen-
ty-six years wrote its annual reports. He edited the annual cata-
logues, first in conjunction with Dr. Wayland, and afterwards
alone for about thirty years (1855-1884) ; and in connection with
Mr. Guild he prepared the Alumni Catalogues, with one exception,
from 1846 to 1886. He loved the college, and because he loved
it he never ceased to plan for its advancement. When tempted
by enticing offers to go elsewhere, he refused them. Our older
colleges, let me add, have been built up by means of a like spirit
of devotion and self-sacrifice on the part of their professors. They
have not been willing to sink to the rank of mere hirelings, ready
to obey the call of the highest bidder. They have considered their
calling to involve something more than to meet their classes with
due punctuality, and to draw their salaries with a punctuality
even more strict. They have given themselves to the institution
which they have served. They have engaged heart and soul in
unceasing endeavors to promote its honor and welfare. Whatever
tended to strengthen it, they have rejoiced in, as if it were a- per-
sonal gain ; every misfortune that befell it, they have deplored, as
if it were a personal loss. If, in the changes of the time, a new
order of things is to arise, let us at any rate do honor to the men
who have been examples of so noble, unselfish a spirit.
It would be strange if, possessing the admirable qualities to
which I have been led to refer. Professor Lincoln had not com-
bined with them a singular charm in the intercourse of friendship
and social life, — a charm that was never lost. In reference to
this winning side of his character, I shall content myself with cit-
ing the words of President Angell, who in this relation knew him
so well : " Only a short time before his decease, he sent for me
to come to his room, and received me with his old cheerfulness and
brightness, though he was very weak. That youthful and com-
panionable spirit which never deserted him was still there. How
all his life he cheered and irradiated every company into which
he came ! What a host, what a guest he was ! How welcome he
was at every dinner table ! No one in these last years who wit-
nessed his exuberant flow of spirits and looked upon that face
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 17
could have guessed that he was reaching the term allotted by the
Psalmist to man."
I may not omit a reference to Professor Lincoln's interest in
the cause of religion, in connection with the communion to which
he belonged, and to his exertions in this cause. For twenty-five
years, beginning in 1855, he performed the duties of superintend-
ent of the Sunday-school in the First Baptist Church in this city.
For many years he was president of the ecclesiastical society
worshiping in the First Church. From 1869 to his death he held
the office of deacon. He attended with great regularity the meet-
ings of the church, and one who knew him well in this relation
informs me that " if anything special was to be done, — if, for
example, money was to be raised, — Professor Lincoln was the
man to do it." His religious activity was not confined within
the borders of the city of his residence. He acted as president,
for a number of years, of the Rhode Island Sunday-school Union,
and delivered an address to that body. Without aspiring to
prominence, his willingness and his capacity made him a leader
in Christian work of this nature.
During his long connection with the university. Professor Lin-
coln enjoyed the respect and esteem of his colleagues in the Fac-
ulty. He was for many years the senior professor. Whenever a
special committee was appointed to consider a matter of impor-
tance, he was pretty sure to be a member of it. There were times
when his influence in the management of affairs, although never
obtrusive, was of necessity predominant. At other times, when a
degree of self-assertion might have been deemed excusable, he
averted discord by contenting himself with the quiet expression of
his opinions and the quiet performance of his duties. A factious
temper was foreign to his nature. Thoroughly familiar with the
traditions and precedents of the institution, he was frequently
able to speak the decisive word on controverted questions of pol-
icy. I am informed that, although he uniformly leaned to the
conservative side, he was always ready to listen and to yield to
good reasons. In his later years there was a perceptible increase
of his appreciation of the physical sciences as a means of intellec-
tual development. I am assured, on the best authority, that in the
deliberations of the Faculty " he never became excited nor lost
his temper in argument, but was always considerate and courteous,
however strongly he urged his views." One who has had much
experience in Faculty meetings can easily imagine how those
18 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
assemblies miglit be brightened by the presence of one whose
conversational gifts, in which a genial humor played so prominent
a part, never failed to give pleasure.
Professor Lincoln was in sympathy with the undergraduate life
of the university. No man is really fit to deal with college boys
who has not something of the boy left in him. Emerson, referring
to advantages and titles to respect that belong to men who are no
longer young, quotes an observation of Red Cloud, that " sixty
has in it forty and twenty." Happy are those in whom these
components that go to make up the full siun have not lost their
vitality ! I believe it is Coleridge who defines genius as a union
of the feelings of childhood with the powers of manhood. A very
inadequate account of genius ; but surely he is to be pitied in
whom the feelings of childhood and youth are smothered by the
weight of advancing years. Professor Lincoln, had he lived in
old times, when students were governed overmuch and trusted too
little, would never have become one of that class of obtuse or
morose college officers who confound exuberant spirits with moral
depravity. The modern zeal for athletic sports did not spring up
until the later period of his life. He was far from looking on
this new development with antipathy or lukewarmness. He be-
lieved in the wholesome influence of these out-of-door contests.
He took pleasure in watching the ball-games, sharing in the gav/-
dium certaminis, and rejoicing when victory perched on the col-
lege banner. In his honor, the field where the games are played
received the name of Lincoln Field. His interest in undergraduate
life was manifested in other ways. For example, the performances
of the musical societies had in him a delighted listener. He was
not one whom prolonged study could metamorphose into a book-
worm. He was not one whom the hearing of recitations shrivels
to the dimensions of a mere pedagogue. His spirit grew, not less,
but more buoyant with the lapse of time. He preserved the ardor
of youth to the end of his days.
It is not strange that as he grew old tokens of honor and love
from students and graduates were poured in upon him. On re-
peated occasions his appearance at annual gatherings of the alumni
was the signal for a well-nigh unexampled outburst of enthusiasm.
In connection with the fiftieth anniversary of his graduation, a
full-length portrait of their teacher, by an artist of extraordinary
merit, was given by the graduates to the college. In honor of
him, for the benefit of the university, a fund of 1100,000 was pre-
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 19
sented to the institution by the alumni, — an almost unique proof
of esteem to be conferred during the lifetime of a person thus dis-
tinguished.
I have no need to dwell on the religious character of Professor
Lincoln. He held fast to the essential doctrines of the Christian
system which have been the faith of the Church in all ages ; but
he was no polemic. He was not one of those in whom religion
assumes the appearance of an excrescence upon character. With
him religion was a pervading sentiment, leavening the spirit and
manifesting itself in a daily course of duty and self-sacrifice. He
spoke from the heart in the sentences that close the essay on
Faust : " The cry of the soul for light has nowhere found a clearer
utterance in modern literature than in the Faust of Goethe. . . .
But only from the experiences of those who have learned in the
school of Christ, and have been enlightened and renewed by divine
grace, do we reach, in its positive form, the great truth that man
was made for God, and only in Him can find fullness of blessing
and peace. How does this truth shine out in the writings of Au-
gustine, who, after having traversed the whole world, and consulted
all its oracles, and found them dumb to his anxious question,
' Who will show us any good,' heard at last a voice as from heaven,
speaking out of ' the lively oracles ' to his stricken and contrite
spirit, ' Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and
wantonness ; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ,' and in that
voice found entire response to the cravings of his soul, and by its
guidance reached the crowning experience of perfect and enduring
peace, in the knowledge of God as revealed in Christ and by
Christ, and in his love and service." Familiar with the ancient
authors, Mr. Lincoln loved to recall passages in them that illus-
trate or corroborate Christian truth. I may be pardoned for
referring to a letter which he kindly wrote to me, occasioned by
something I had published on the subject of faith and revelation.
The letter is under the date of March 22, 1890 ; " the Lord's
day," he says, " on which my ill health keeps me in doors." He
speaks — I quote his language — of " the difiiculty which Chris-
tian people have sometimes in clinging to a believing trust in
God's love, and in the Saviour's love as revealed in the gospel. It
is so true that one's sense of unworthiness often hides in dimness
or even in darkness the precious truth of the divine mercy and
love in Christ." Then he alludes to the need of increasing one's
faith by the habitual contemplation of Christ's life and character.
20 MEMORIAL ADDRESS
and by prayer. I had made use of the maxim, " It is hard to
forgive those whom we have injured." This brings to his mind
at once a series of parallel sayings from Latin writers ; one from
the Agricola of Tacitus, one from the Annals by the same author,
with an analogous statement from Seneca's treatise on anger ; to
which he adds a reference to Lucretius, where a superficial mod-
ern notion as to the origin of the belief in a world of spirits is
anticipated. In this way did the unsought recollections of the
scholar mingle with devout reflections.
Our assembling to-day testifies to the loss which this academic
community has suffered in the death of Professor Lincoln. It is
not for me to enter within the circle of domestic grief. I speak
now of the public loss that ensues when such a man grows old and
departs from the earth. How much enters into the making of
such a man ! Propitious circumstances connected with birth and
ancestry ; streams of influence from so many different sources, in
their combined effect ; care expended by relatives and teachers ;
years spent in assiduous efforts to prepare for usefulness ; inter-
course with many men in different lands ; the reflex action of long
communion with books ; accumulated results of observation and
experience, of culture, of inward conflict and self -discipline — how
much is required to make such a man what he is ! Thoughts like
these help us to estimate aright the loss that is suffered when his
activity among men comes to an end.
It is well, however, at the same time, to bear in mind how much
goes forth from such a man during the period allotted to him by
divine Providence. Who shall measure the total effect of his
presence and example, of the instruction that he has imparted, of
the impulses that he has communicated, to successive generations
of young men at times when mind was growing and character was
forming ? The good accomplished by a Christian scholar in the
course of a long career is to a large extent intangible. From its
amount, as well as from its nature, it passes the limit of possible
calculation.
Our departed friend takes his place on the roll of the honored
sons and servants of this university who have finished their work.
The memory of them is the priceless heritage of the college. The
great money-makers of the land may found their universities.
They may be doing well ; even though it were sometimes wiser to
build on good foundations laid of old by the fathers. But there
is one thing their millions cannot buy. Age it is impossible to
ON JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN. 21
purchase. The store of recollections that gather about an ancient
seat of learning, money avails not to procure. Brown University
antedates the national government under which we live, and the
war of revolution that paved the way for it. The mention of the
name of the university calls to mind a long array of noble men
who have gone forth from her walls to win distinction for them-
selves and to confer blessings on the land and on the world. And
to-day, while we miss from the ranks of her teachers a leader
revered and beloved, we do it in the consciousness that one more
jewel has been set in her crown.
NOTES OF MY LIFE.
Written by Professor Lincoln, Friday Evening, May 28, 1886, 8 to
11, IN A Feeling of Presentiment.
I WAS born February 23, 1817, in Boston, No. 9 Myrtle Street.
Of this house my earliest remembrance is of the death of my
mother, when I was four years old. In that back parlor they took
me to her bedside, many people standing around, and I remember
that pale, heavenly face (as if I saw her now) as I looked at her,
and heard her feeble voice amid the hush of the whole room of
people. Ah, if I had only had the nurture of that saintly woman
during my boyhood and youth !
I went to school to Mrs. Jacobs, on Myrtle Street, — a worthy
woman and kind, good teacher. I remember the room, her table,
and the little desks around. She was George Sumner's aunt, and
George was a schoolmate with me. But I used to go home every
afternoon with a sick-headache, and they gave me what they called
picra ; it was ttlkp6l indeed. My father had my aunt Becky, as we
called her, to keep house, whom I remember with affection ; and
my aunt Betsey (afterwards Mrs. Childs) I remember, too, who
used to be often at our house, and who was very good to me. My
dear father was one of the best of men, always cheerful and kind,
with a wonderful equableness of temper. I never heard him speak
petulantly or angrily ; but his grave and troubled look, if I did
wrong, was enough to break me into penitence. He was for all
my childhood and youth the model of a Christian man, and to my
maturest thought he is so now in memory. Ah, how loving he
was at home, and how I loved to be in his lap in the evening, and
hear him talk ! Ah, it was a treasure of good to us all to have
such a father. Thank God, above all else, for him. His example
and life have gone with me through all years, as a constant guide
and helper in all temptation and trouble. We were, on the whole,
a happy family, and our one sister Sophia was the pride and love
of us all ; and when she became a Christian girl, what a Christian
she was, though I always thought her faultless before. My bro-
thers I loved very much, though we younger ones had our little
NOTES OF MY LIFE. 23
quarrels, some of which I keenly remember to this day with
shame. William and Joshua I was with more than the others, —
William so thoughtfully kind to me, and Joshua so generous and
affectionate. Henry and Heman were younger, and I used to try
to help them in little ways. Oliver was away a good deal, at col-
lege, and elsewhere. I used to go with father out of town when
he went to preach for different churches. How many miles I have
driven him out of Boston and back again, and how good and
thoughtful he was in talking to me !
I went to school from Mrs. Jacobs to Israel Alger, the man who
made the grammar, — Alger's Murray ; a good teacher, intelligent
and kind ; then to Nathaniel Magoun, also one whom I remember
with respect. I remember I got a silver medal there at the end of
my school period, when I was between eight and nine years old.
But my best school-days were at the Latin School, where I went
in 1826, when I was nine years old. Joshua went with me, but
he did n't like it very well, and so he induced father to let him go
to the High School, and so I went to the Latin School alone. I
loved Latin and Greek, even the grammars. My first lesson in
Latin I recited alone to Mr. B. A. Gould, dear, good man as he
was, and so kind to a little shaver like me. He patted me on the
head and said, "A good lesson, my boy, very good. Go on so and
you will do as well as your brothers " (Oliver and William, who
had been there before me). Mr. F. P. Leverett, too, I remember,
who taught me Greek, and in the last part of the course, Latin,
too, — a classical man in scholarship, and manner, and tone, and
style every way. I got on very well in my studies, though I do
not remember feeling my lessons as tasks, except writing compo-
sitions. These I wrote slowly and carefully, but rather prosily, I
think. I went through the usual five years' course in four years,
as a little division of us were promoted, and got through early. I
was thirteen when I was ready for college, and at the anniversary
day had a Latin poem, in 1830. I remember Mr. Leverett said
some very encouraging words to me about the poem, and pleased
me very much with his praise about the rhythm and diction of the
poem. I have often recalled my working over that poem in my
room at home. And yet it was not work exactly ; it came to me
quite beyond all my expectations. I had had good teaching, and
had the quantities of vowels and syllables quite accurate, and words
and phrases came to me pretty easily, and I made out thirty-eight
lines, I remember, and got through with the delivery pretty well.
24 NOTES OF MY LIFE.
Then for a year I went to the High School, as my father thought
me too young to go to college. There I had Mr. S. P. Miles and
Thomas Sherwin. The former, especially, I remember as a very
gentlemanly, and at the same time a strict and earnest man. But
I had some faults of character that year which, by God's blessing,
I was cured of when I began seriously to think of religious things,
and to try to practice what my dear father was always teaching
me, and yet teaching more by his life and example than by words.
Then I went back to the Latin School, and stayed a fifth year. I
remember that I was that year at the head of the class, and the
monitor up in that upper room in the schoolhouse on School
Street. Mr. Dillaway was the principal, and Mr. Dixwell sub-
master. I had the valedictory at the end of the year, and enjoyed
writing my farewell, though I was grievously disappointed by
being sick in bed when the great day came round. They brought
me up my Franklin medal, and hung it up before me, where I
seem to see it now. How Mr. Dillaway and the school committee
importuned my father to have me go to Harvard ! So father used
to tell us, when he would come home to dinner, how they came to
the store, and said it was never the case before that the valedicto-
rian went anywhere but to Harvard. But Dr. Wayland was at
Brown, and rising to fame, and raising the college ; and Dr. Way-
land and father had become well acquainted in Boston ; and then
it was a Baptist college, and so to Brown I went. I remember
that I was baptized by dear Howard Malcom, in Federal Street
Church, on a Sunday, October 7, 1832, and then went to Provi-
dence, and was examined for admission, on Monday. At that
time we traveled by stage-coach, leaving Boston at five A. M., and
arriving at noon. I was examined by Professor Elton and Tutor
Gammell, in Professor Elton's room, and I thought it was a very
easy examination. A Latin School every-day lesson had much
more in it. I roomed the first year with my cousin, Henry Wiley,
in No. 20, University Hall, but at the end of the term I lost my
dear father. I got the news of his illness too late to see him alive
and have his parting blessing. Ah, what a grief that was to me
when I reached the door of my father's house, — that dear home
which had been such a blessing to me, — and found the carriages
just going to the church for his funeral ! Ah, that day of my
boyhood's deep grief I never can forget. But he left good words
for me, which I have always carried in memory. " Tell him to do
well ; the Church expects much of him." When I got back to
NOTES OF MY LIFE. 25
college, how good Dr. Caswell was to me, who had his room next
to mine. I have alluded to this in my discourse upon Dr. Cas-
well. About my college life : I found the studies very easy
through the first two years, though I did not neglect them. But
I was a boy, and full of vivacity, and found many pleasant com-
panions and friends, and in Junior year did not study hard to keep
up in scholarship. But I never had any vicious habits in college.
I never drank wine the whole four years, and indeed for many
years after, and never went with vicious men in college. But I
did not give myself with full vigor to work, and I had nobody like
my dear father to say a word either of warning or encouragement
to me, though I never really neglected my lessons, and in Senior
year studied with much interest and with progress. I might have
done much better. But they were days of young joy and delight.
Steph Shepard was my dear good friend. How attached I was to
him, and am still ; and what good times we had over in that W.
H. Smith house on Angell Street (next to Dr. Caswell) in our
Senior year !
After college, one year at Washington in Columbian College as
teacher, first in the preparatory school, then tutor in the college,
which, though trying, was useful to me ; then two years at Newton
of good, wholesome study and progress. The second year, with
Dr. Sears, in theology, was very improving. Dr. Sears was a very
stimulating teacher and kindled in me a zeal for learning and
scholarship and progress in everything. Then, in September,
1839, I went back to Providence to be college tutor for two years,
in which my habits in teaching became firmer. From there, in
September, 1841, to Europe, where I studied in Germany two
years, and then spent one year in travel, studying, however, all the
while. My German studies at Halle with Tholuck, Gesenius, Ju-
lius Miiller, Leo, Erdmann, and Bernhardy, and Rodiger, were
great for me, giving me broader, larger views than I had ever had
of study and attainments, and showing me what and how to study.
Then the winter in Italy, especially at Rome, was of immense ser-
vice. (In Berlin, Neander, Hengstenberg, Ranke, Boeckh, Zumpt,
Schelling, and many others, were full of inspiration for use in
their several studies.)
Tholuck I not only respected and admired, but loved, — a learned
man, a most inspiring teacher, full of Geist^ but of Gemuth^ too,
and a truly Christian man. My journeying with him in southern
26 NOTES OF MY LIFE.
Germany, Switzerland, and upper Italy, as far as Milan and the
lakes, was of immense service to me, as I have shown in my jour-
nal and note-book.^
1 The journal or note-book containing the account of this journey has been
lost.
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERr-
SITY, 1833-1834.
On January 21, 1833, just before the beginning of his second Fresh-
man term at Brown, Professor Lincoln, then in his sixteenth year, began
to keep a diary. This, as he states upon its first page, he undertook
with the hope " that I may be enabled by the blessing of God to record
the feelings which I may have from time to time.'' The last entry is
dated July, 1839, when he was a student in Newton Theological Semi-
nary. This diary throws light upon the early development of his char-
acter, and is full of encouragement to any one who may be striving now,
as he was in his boyhood, to live a Christian life in college. Therefore,
although upon the inner cover is written, in his youthful and as yet but
partly-formed handwriting, the inscription, " Privatae res et propriae," it
seems appropriate, and in accord with w^hat his own wishes would be,
to present some extracts.
This boy, who on October 8, 1832, entered Brown, brought fresh from
the baptismal font into his college life all the joy of a newly converted
and sincerely consecrated heart. But on the first page of his diary is
this record of a great sorrow : —
" I cannot help thinking of the difference between my present
situation and that in which I was placed at the commencement of
the last term. Then I was beginning my college course with glad-
ness of heart, blessed with an inestimable parent, who was ever
bestowing upon me his affectionate and wholesome counsels ; one
to whom I could always apply for instruction and advice ; who had
ever endeavored to impress upon my mind the importance of the
possession of ' fixed religious principles,' of a love to God, and an
interest in the Redeemer. But now it is entirely different. I
come back to college mourning the loss of this dear parent, and
feeling bitterly my need of his paternal advice. Oh, how precious
is that promise, ' When father and mother forsake thee, then the
Lord will take thee up.' "
At an age when few boys now have progressed farther in education
than the high school or preparatory academy, this boy has entered col-
lege life, and, looking beyond college life, longs for " more zeal for God
and decision in his cause ; " for growth in " character," and for " holiness
28 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY.
of heart, purity of motive, and fixedness of purpose in the service of
my Lord and Saviour." He early records the prayer, afterwards so
wonderfully fulfilled, "If it never should be my happy lot to preach the
gospel, may I be enabled in the capacity of a private Christian to win
souls to Christ by my life and conversation."
The following very brief entry occurs Saturday, February 2, 1833 : —
" Joined the Philermenian Society connected with the college."
Through all his life he loved this grand old debating society. While
he never depreciated its more youthful rival, The United Brothers, the
Philermenian Society had the warmer place in his heart. It was here
that he essayed to speak and to debate before his fellow-students. The
manuscript he prepared for one of these debates is still in existence. In
it he maintains that " Manufactures are advantageous to our community,"
and enforces his arguments under all possible heads and subdivisions*
In such discussions he doubtless found healthful interruption to those
too rigid and introspective moods of mind wjiich appear in his diary, as
when on many pages he laments his " besetting sin of levity " and his
" light-mindedness." Doubtless what he was led to distrust as evils were
almost entirely the proper social cravings and happy overflowings of a
vigorous young nature. There are in these portions of the diary clear
intimations that his sound judgment discerns that the sin to be avoided
is not " frivolous conversation with some classmate, or doing something
wholly useless," but neglect of opportunity to do good to some one, or by
seeming indifference to fail in duty. We may feel sure that " levity "
and " light-mindedness " and such like atrce curce lost their power to vex
when he crossed the Philermenian threshold. Some time in the sixties,
after these two venerable societies had been continued in existence for
some years for the sole purpose of the hauling upstairs unlucky Fresh-
men at the annual " rushes," and after their hallowed homes had been
invaded by the " Hammer and Tongs," Professor Lincoln gave his ap-
proval to their disbanding. But it gave him more of a heartache than
people knew, and he always treasured his Philermenian badge.
The following appears in the diary, Wednesday, May 15, 1833 : —
" Joined the Society of Inquiry to-night by a relation of my
experience, and have certainly reason to bless God that I have at
length been enabled to come out and join this society. The thoughts
of joining have troubled me somewhat ever since I entered college.
I dreaded to get up in the chapel and relate to the students of the
upper classes the exercises of my mind."
This quaintly phrased record is suggestive of decided changes in the
religious life and language of undergraduates. Is there any real gain in
the loss of such old-fashioned sturdiness ?
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY. 29
Sunday, May 26, 1833, he writes : —
" Took a class in a Sunday-school. 'T is quite an interesting
class and I think that I shall keep it, and if I do, I hope that I
may commence in the true spirit of a Sunday-scjiool teacher,
anxiously desirous to be useful."
In his after life he could look back upon the fulfillment of this prayer
in connection with his long service in the Sunday-school of the First Bap-
tist Church of Providence.
Thursday, June 20, 1833, the diary contains this passage : —
" Providence has to-day been honored with a visit from Presi-
dent Jackson, or rather with a call. He arrived in the morning
and was welcomed cordially by the citizens, and was brought into
the city in a barouche amidst the shouts of the spectators. In
the afternoon he came up to college attended by his suite, one of
whom. Governor Cass, made an extemporaneous address to the
students, which was received with great eclat. In allusion to the
President, he remarked that 'his whole visit has been but one
procession.' I suspect that this is not far from the reality, and
although proper respect ought by all means to be paid to the Chief
Magistrate of our Republic, yet I fear that many things have
been done with this object in view which in the estimation of an
holy and righteous God are highly criminal. I fear that many
expenses have been incurred in order to render his visit pleasant,
whose direct tendency is to inflate the heart of man with pride,
and lead him to forget that he is but man. I should earnestly
hope that this might not be their effect in the present case, but
still I think that that man must have a spirit of fervent piety
and the deepest sense of his own nothingness in the sight of his
Creator, who can receive without injury such distinguished marks
of honor as have been paid to General Jackson. Oh, that it may
have a good effect upon his mind, and lead him to see the empti-
ness of the applause of men when compared with the approbation
of God and one's own conscience."
Words like these from a hoy of sixteen would sound very odd in these
days, yet if Jackson's mind had been tempered with somewhat of this
strict loyalty to God, and more given to measuring self by the divine pat-
tern, who can say what might have been the gain to our country.
In October, 1833, he writes thus : —
" A year ago this month I made a public profession of my
faith in Christ, and first sat down with the children of God to
30 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY.
commemorate the dying love of the Lord Jesus. Then, how trans-
porting were my feelings, how ardent my professions of attachment
to the Saviour and his cause."
A marginal note appears upon this page written in his mature and more
faniiliar hand.
"October 7, 1832 (Sunday), I was baptized by my pastor,
Howard Malcom, in the Federal Street Church, Boston, and the
next day went to Providence and was entered as a Freshman. -—
October 8, 1882,-50 years ! "
An entry January 10, 1834, reads as follows : —
" Started from Boston at twelve o'clock, after having enjoyed a
very pleasant vacation, and arrived at Providence in safety at six
p. M. Found my room in rather a cold and desolate condition, but
soon contrived to make it comfortable. I think that I have re-
turned to college with new resolutions concerning my future reli-
gious course. ... I am convinced that, with the assistance of
God, it is possible for a student to enjoy religion while in college,
and 1 am resolved hereafter to strive constantly for the attainment
of this object. Indeed, I think that I should feel unwilling any
longer to remain in college, to make so slow advances in religion
and to exert so feeble a religious influence as I did during the last
year. . . . Had a conversation this evening with three of my
classmates who are pious, on that subject which relates to our best
interests. Was gratified to find that their feelings with relation
to the future were similar to my own. We unitedly resolved to be
circumspect in our ways this term, and to strive daily to live near to
the Saviour. Oh, may the resolutions which we made be strictly
performed ! Eetired at ten o'clock."
How strange it sounds to-day for any one to speak of himself as
" pious." Yet the first disciples seem to have felt no mock modesty in
calling themselves "saints." Will it come to pass as modern culture
advances that Christians will feel it over-boastful to call themselves " con-
verted," and even perhaps be chary of calling themselves " Christians "
at all ? However this may he, the resolutions of these four young men
were kept, and the diary throughout this year is rich in the records of a
great revival.
January 14, 1834. "Commenced a practice of meeting with
three of my classmates who are pious (A. N. A., W. L. B., and
S. B. R.), three times a week for religious conversation and
prayer."
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY. 31
January 18, 1834. " Had a religious class-meeting in my room
this evening, which was exceedingly interesting. Two or three of
my irreligious classmates were present. Felt more anxiety for
their conversion than I ever before felt, and was enabled to pour
out my soul in supplications for this object with greater earnest-
ness than I ever before exercised. Oh, may the Spirit of God
* convince them of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment to
come,' and sweetly force them into submission to the Redeemer.
Oh, how little interest have I manifested hitherto for them!
May my conduct and influence henceforth be entirely different."
January 20. " Had a conversation with my friend and class-
mate X to-day about his eternal interests. Oh, what a
happy thing it would be if he should become pious ! What an
extensive religious influence he might exert ! "
Saturday, February 1. " The religious class-meeting was filled
with interest. Five or six irreligious members of the class were
present, among whom were my friends Z and X .
Oh, I do think I long for their conversion, and I am determined
to labor for the accomplishment of this object."
Wednesday, February 19. " An excellent meeting in the chapel ;
quite full ; interesting remarks from Dr. Wayland ; my friend
Z present. After meeting went with him to his room and
had a conversation upon the great subject of religion. Rejoiced to
hear him acknowledge that he had thought much more upon the
subject this term than he had ever done before, and to hear him
express his determination to seek religion with his whole heart.
He told me, too, which should certainly encourage me much, that
his impressions were owing in a great measure to an apparent
increase of religious feeling in me, and to my conversation and
company. Oh, I shall never forget my feelings when he told me
this. I cannot describe them."
Thursday, February 20. " Had a walk to-day with my friend
Y , who has within a few days met with a change. He is
a member of the Senior class and rooms very near me. He told
me, much to my joy (although I would at the same time desire to
be humbled on account of it), that he was first led to think seri-
ously of religion by observing my religious appearance this term."
Friday, February 21. "Had a conversation to-day with my
friend V on the great subject of religion ; found him very
anxious indeed. How gloriously has the Holy Spirit already
begun to work ! "
32 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY.
Saturday, February 22. "Very interesting and solemn day,
the beginning of good days for Brown University. A meeting
was held in the chapel in the afternoon for the special purpose
of giving an opportunity to the religious students to relate their
exercises of mind, that it might be found out what was the general
state of feeling and what was the prospect concerning a revival.
" In the evening a religious class-meeting at my room. Several
present who are unconverted. One of my class (U ) arose,
and declared his determination to seek religion."
Monday, February 24. " Heard with great joy that my friend
and classmate X , with whom I have so often conversed, and
for whom I have this term felt much anxiety, last night came to
the serious and solemn determination to seek religion."
Wednesday, February 26. "A very interesting meeting in
the chapel. One student, Q , a member of the Senior class,
who was recently brought into the fold of Christ, arose and
addressed the meeting, and with great earnestness entreated his
fellow-students to attend to the subject immediately. My friend
Z this evening indulged for the first time a hope in the
mercy of God."
Thursday, February 27. " Day of Prayer for Colleges. Has
been as happy a day as I have spent in college. Meeting in the
chapel at ten o'clock, and ten of the students successively arose
and related the recent gracious dealings of God with their souls.
Also a class-meeting at one o'clock, and also at six o'clock. My
friends Z and X were among those who spoke in
the chapel. Oh, how much need have I for gratitude that they
have been converted."
Saturday, March 1. " Rather unwell to-day, very violent head-
ache which completely unfitted me for my studies. Attended a
very full and interesting class-meeting in the evening. Tutor
Gammell came in and made some very pertinent and profitable
remarks. Had a conversation this forenoon with my classmate
O . He seems to be ' almost a Christian.' He sees the
way and knows clearly his duty, but will not come up to its per-
formance."
Monday, March 3. "Am confined to my room by a slight
illness. Awoke yesterday morning with a very oppressive head-
ache and something of a fever. Called in a doctor at noon, and
this morning feel much relieved. During the day and especially
just before the time of my evening devotions, had some distressing
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE AT BROWN UNIVERSITY. 33
doubts and fears relative to my adoption into the family of Christ.
The thought that I had been deceiving myself and others was for
a few moments indescribably painful. But after coming to God,
and telling my feelings, and earnestly entreating Him to lift upon
me the light of his reconciled countenance, I felt much relieved.
My fears were dissipated, and the Saviour appeared precious to
me. Here let me erect my Ebenezer and say, ' Hitherto has the
Lord helped me.' But still I have not that full assurance that
my heart is renewed, and that I am indeed a child of God, which
I desire to possess. When I look forward, and imagine myself in
the last agonies of death, I cannot but indulge in some anxiety
lest I may not be prepared for the society of heaven."
March 14. " To-day heard the joyful news that my friend and
classmate T was under conviction for sin. In the evening
he sent for me, and I found him humbled in the dust on account
of his sins. Oh, I bless the Lord for this fresh token of his
goodness ! I had long been laboring and praying for this."
March 16. "Had a conversation with S . He appears
entirely careless."
March 19. " Class-meeting at noon to pray for the recovery of
S , who is lying upon a bed of sickness, perhaps of death."
March 27. "Met this evening with those few of my friends
with whom I have been accustomed to meet for prayer and mutual
disclosure of religious feelings. Was obliged to acknowledge that
for myself I had been less circumspect and more inclined to levity
for two days past than for a long time."
Monday, March 31. " The meeting in the chapel this evening
was very solemn and interesting, as might well be expected from
the circumstance of its being the last of the term. This has been
a happy term in all respects."
However strange some of these old-fashioned reHgious phrases may
sound to modern ears, they are evidently the expression of one who, with
a heart thoroughly in earnest, gave himself to God in his youth, and
having kept the faith steadfastly through manhood and old age, is now
" enjoying the society of heaven."
EXTRACTS FEOM PROFESSOR LINCOLN'S DIARY
WHILE INSTRUCTOR AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE, WASHINGTON, D. C,
1836-1837.
During Professor Lincoln's Junior and Senior years at Brown his
diary fell into disuse. Some pages are missing, as if he had become
dissatisfied with what he had written. The next entry in the diary is
dated Columbian College, Washington, D. C, November 29, 1836, when
he begins " once more to keep a journal that I may keep a sort of watch
over my mind and heart." His entrance upon his life's work of teaching
was anything but encouraging.
"I ascended this College HiU on the night of the 25th of
October, in accordance with an engagement made two or three
weeks ago to take charge of the Preparatory Department connected
with the Columbian College. Drove immediately to Dr. Chapin's^
and was received with kindness by himself and family. After a
night's rest, at nine o'clock, was shown to the scene of my pedago-
gial labors. Ma conscience ! what a place did I find it ! Won-
der, amazement, and a frightful host of the ' blues ' fell upon me
the moment my foot crossed the threshold, and my eye fell upon
the 'place. I shall never forget my posture and look of survey at
that queer moment. It was the upper story of a two-story brick
building. Its exterior might, with some latitude of language, be
pronounced decent. But what can be said of the ' inner man ' of
this peculiar locus. No one would have mistaken it for a school-
room. The dimensions of the room were about 30 x 25 feet. The
first thing that caught the eye on opening the door, and within
three feet of it, was a little, dirty box-stove, placed on a slight
elevation of brick-work, which from old age and hard wear had
become inclined to the ground at an angle of about 45°. From
this ran up a funnel in real zigzag fashion, and terminated in a
hole in the wall, which, being too large for its reception, was
ingeniously and neatly filled up in part by bricks, stones, etc.
The room had five glass windows and one wooden window. This
last was a large, square hole filled up by nailing up pieces of
plank on the outside. How much of a window such an invention
DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. 35
was, any one might easily determine. On the hypothesis of the
building having been intended for a stable, it would have made
an excellent place for the pitching in of hay, etc. ; and this
hypothesis, I now remember, is not imaginary, for such was in
fact the original design of this classical building. The furniture
was Very concise. One chair for the pedagogue ; several long,
huge forms, evincing by their looks that they had long been a
surface upon which the ' luckless wights ' might try the temper of
their knives, hacked up so horribly, fit only for fuel. The walls
in the infancy of time had been whitewashed, but now were any-
thing but white, — they were ' many colored,' like Joseph's coat,
and then a great smooch, telling plainly that the room had been
the arena of apple-fights and other schoolboy rencontres. On the
whole, then, this place had a touch of originality about it. So
much for the mere physical objects in this attic. Here I found
also fourteen or fifteen young chaps, awaiting the approach of
their new teacher. I looked over their faces with considerable
interest, but saw nothing particularly striking about any of them.
By a paper left me by the former teacher, I found out their
names and the ' Order of Exercises.' I went to work, and in the
course of the day dispatched about twenty recitations or more,
besides being bothered to death by continual questions in arith-
metic, Latin, Greek, etc. After giving them a very short lec-
ture I set the urchins free, and by the act freed myself from
what seemed to a novice like myself a worse than Egyptian
slavery. However, though most perplexing, it was a good mental
and moral exercise. My patience, judgment, self-confidence, and
confidence in the general sense of the word, were all tried in this
one day. To take the lead in such a way, even in so small a
school, really tried me pretty severely, and though by a sort of
dissembling I might have appeared to feel at home, yet I was
conscious of feeling very diffident. Shame on this diffidence ! it
must be overcome. Every moment seemed to bring in some new
trial of judgment, and though the occasions of the trials might
have been trivial, yet the exercise was salutary. So much for the
school. My condition in other things I find not very comfortable ;
things wear an uninviting aspect in general. Dr. Chapin's family
are agreeable and very kind, and I am acquainted with one student
to whom I am indebted for efforts to make my new conditions
agreeable ; but all else — Oh, dear ! "
The journal now indicates that he found need of keeping " a sort of
36 DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.
watch " not only over his heart and his mind, but over his temper, and
records other "exercises" in addition to "exercises of mind," — of a
new sort.
" I have had squally times in my little school. The little scamps
imagined, I suppose, that they could handle me and behave them-
selves as they pleased. At any rate, some have tried it, but 'have
found, I hope, by this time that, though they have a little fellow
over them, they must sail according to his directions. I have
passed through scenes v^^holly new and vexatious, but on the whole,
I think, very profitable. It is strange how little I have known
about matters and things ; how little about human nature ; how
long have some of my faculties been unemployed. I have waked
them up of late and made them do some good service. Among
the few in my school I have found some of the hardest characters
I have ever had to deal with. For so young persons they combine
more bad traits than any perhaps I ever met with in my school-
days in the same number. Their moral character is very bad.
They will lie and swear just as they will drink water. Their
disposition is bad, — great lovers of low mischief and of making
trouble. As for study, it is a thing among the things unknown
to them ; they have no conception of its nature, nor any desire for
such knowledge. I soon picked out two or three of them, and
had my eyes upon them. In one forenoon I had to whip pretty
considerably one of them, and break a ruler over a second. In
the afternoon of the next day, the third met with his fate, which
he had been long courting. Indeed, I have been told since that
he wanted me to call him out, for he wanted a chance to try his
powers with me. If it was so, his courage evaporated when the
time came. He came out, mad as a piper and with his fists
doubled. Not seeing this, however, I just took a pretty whalebone
stick I had with me and laid it over his back with considerable
activity, until he began to beg, and promised me that he would
behave himself. This mortified him exceedingly and at the same
time enraged him. He did not dare do anything, but kept still.
After school, when outdoors, surrounded by the school, he insulted
me, and actually walked behind me, and muttered something about
fighting me."
These incidents led to the expulsion of the two worst hoys, and their
mother then paid a visit to the school to express her disapprobation. The
result is thus recorded : —
" She then made a low and unladylike expression, which dis-
DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. 37
gusted me and the school. I couldn't stand this, and, turning
round, told her that neither she nor any one else should talk so in
that school ; that she was no lady, and had no business to disturb
me and my school. This brought the matter to a crisis ; she mut-
tered something and retreated, and thus the curtain dropped.- I
could not have desired a better termination of the affair for my
own sake, as it was plain to the whole school that she had only
disgraced herself, and by the subsequent looks and whispers of
the boys, I saw that the thing had come out just right. By this
time my school became quiet, numerically inferior, but only so. I
plucked up courage and went ahead."
But the school did not go ahead ; and before long came to wreck on
financial breakers. In order to secure scholars, inducements were held
out of such a nature that " those who attend are of no pecuniary advan-
tage." As the inevitable result of this " strange and foolish plan adopted
some time ago, which I have n't the patience to put down here," the
school came to a sudden end. The president and the professors now of-
fered him "their influence" to get him another school, or an office in one
of the government departments. This last suggestion had no attractions.
" I told him I should n't like it as well as teaching ; indeed I
should n't at all ; 't would be dangerous, I fear, in many respects.
Perhaps I ought to return to New England and enter Newton
Institute. How near I came to entering it at the regular time ! I
did not dare, and yet wanted to. I was on the brink of going
when the offer of this Preparatory Department came. I must say,
I reluctantly consented, as some of my best friends advised it
strenuously. After all, would it not have been rash to have gone
to Newton? It is a mighty undertaking; a mistake would be
dreadful. Oh, for wisdom and divine light ! Oh, for more active
and deeper piety, and love to God and men ! "
The way, however, unexpectedly was opened for him to remain, and,
as he says, " by a master-stroke I am elevated to the rank of tutor." This
proved to be a much more congenial position.
" I like my present much better than my last employment. It
is altogether more pleasant and more useful. I am obliged to
revive old studies and acquire a more intimate familiarity with
them than while in college. The exercise of teaching is also an
excellent discipline. Of course I must form a habit of exact think-
ing and speaking, else I could not make myself intelligible nor
throw light upon the subject. The very nature of my situation
imposes a degree of self-confidence and decision, so that my char-
38 DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.
acter may in this way acquire strength. Besides, a thousand
things compel me to the formation of many good habits. I really
hope, with the assistance of God, I may be able to conduct myself
aright and to the satisfaction of all parties concerned."
Pending his " elevation " from principal to tutor, he found opportunity
to see something of the political world.
" Have been to the Capitol to witness the opening of Congress.
My impatience to see the senate chamber filled with senators was
extreme. I had been into the chamber two or three weeks before,
but though everything was splendid and gorgeous, yet the scene
wanted life; it wanted spirit, that which makes it the Senate,
the presence of the members. It is but a tasteless, vapid affair,
to see the senate chamber when empty ; as dreary and desolate
as a banquet hall after the joyous revelry has ceased and the com-
pany departed. But now I was to see the thing itself, of which
the former had been a dim shadow. What strange and varied
feelings ran over me as I entered the gallery and looked down
upon the senators exchanging their glad salutations with, each
other after their separation. I soon found out their names, and
then watched them with eager interest. I looked in vain for
Webster. Calhoun and Preston were also absent. I saw Van
Buren, the president-elect. From his dress and bearing no one
would ever suppose him to be fifty-four years old. His dress and
manners in general are rather finical. I was ratber surprised at
his reception. He came in, and for a time ' stood alone ; ' after-
wards went round and saluted the senators, friends and foes, with
like cordiality. I watched in particular his meeting with Judge
White. 'T was amusing to see these rival presidential candidates
and antipodes in politics embrace externally^ like bosom friends.
I wonder how the stern old judge looked and felt within^ to see
the lady-president slide up to him ' and greet him with the phrase
of fashion ' with all the grace and refinement of a Brummell. By
the way, White is the queerest-looking figure I saw there. His
form is not tall, and very slender, even to fragility, and his head
fairly triangular, his hair gray with age, and flowing down his
neck in ocean profusion. Compared with Van in appearance, he
would remind you of a stern old Roman in the days of Rome's
primitive simplicity. 'Twas good to see Henry Clay enter the
hall, and to witness the reception he met with. The moment he
entered he was fairly surrounded by senators. His tall, erect
DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. 39
figure towered above them all, reminding one of ' ^neas^ os hw-
merosque deo slmilis.^ How instinctive and fervent the homage
to lofty talents ! What spectator in the gallery did not rather envy
Henry Clay, though unsuccessful in the race for the presidency,
than Martin Van Buren, even at that moment in the meridian
of political success, the president-elect of the United States ?
" Saw also the famous Benton, the ' Jupiter Tonans ' of the Sen-
ate. He has a huge, mammoth figure, and rolls it about as though
he were ' monarch of all.' He seemed to be well received, and to
exhibit in his movements more of the gentleman than I expected
to see in him. I had been told he was always writing something
or other, and, sure enough, he went at it forthwith, as though it
was the middle of the session, before the senators generally began
to think of such a thing. — ' Laborious idleness ! '
" Was disappointed in not seeing Calhoun and Preston. Rives
of Virginia was present, who succeeded John Tyler, and was ' in-
structed ' into his seat to vote for Benton's Expunging Kesolution,
while Tyler resigned, from unwillingness to obey such instructions.
He is a man of middling stature, and has rather a youthful ap-
pearance ; nothing striking in his countenance ; said to be a
man of fine talents, and already talked of as the leader of the Van
Buren party in the Senate, if he remains, and also as a member
of the next Cabinet, and even as the successor of Van Buren !
" Saw Van Buren take the chair and call the House to order ;
no important business.
" Passed from the Senate into the House. What a change ! 'T is
like passing from the stillness of the lake to the roar of the ocean.
I have been into the Massachusetts House, and thought that had
a look of disorder about it, but this is certainly worse. Members
with their hats on, talking, walking about, etc. The speaker and
the gentleman upon the floor alone reminded you that the body
was in session. These seemed to be the only persons interested.
I found there was no such thing as distinguishing members in
such a dense mass. Saw old John Q. Adams. It seemed odd to
see an ex-president jostled about down there among the ' vulgus.^
The old man looks bright and keen as ever. He is certainly an
extraordinary man ; probably a man of more learning than any
other in the United States, — certainly in political learning, for
he has been in politics from his cradle upwards. It has been the
element in which he has lived and moved. His face is certainly
intellectual. There is a darting, acute look about it, which indi-
40 DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.
cates intellect. Yet this does not seem to proceed wholly from the
eye ; the countenance as a whole is certainly intellectual. Strange
that an ex-president should become a member of the House ! It
is republican perhaps, but yet there is an incongruity about it.
He is a man of such surprising activity of mind, and so deeply
interested in politics, that it is probably a great relief to him to be
in his present place. If he would stay at home and write a his-
tory of the times or something of that nature, would he not be
doing equal service to his country and to the world ?
" I wanted to see Wise of Virginia, who made such a figure last
winter. He was pointed out to me, but was so far off that I
couldn't distinctly see him. Peyton of Tennessee, his stanch
friend, was by his side. Was n't much pleased, on the whole, with
the House. 'T is too noisy, — nothing but confusion. 'T is a real
relief to get out of such a stormy place."
What a vivid description this is of old-time giants ! And what matu-
rity of mind does it show in this ex-principal of the Preparatory Depart-
ment, and as yet unknowingly the tutor that is to be ! It is, therefore,
something of a surprise to turn the page and read the record, —
" Thursday, February 23, 1837. This day I am twenty years
old! What an appropriate point to make a full and solemn
pause, and to indulge in sober, rational, religious reflection ! What
a time to review the past and thoroughly to inspect my mind and
heart, my whole character ! Such varied and numberless thoughts
and emotions rush in upon me that I know not where to bestow
my attention."
At this mature age of twenty he examines his intellectual life, going
back to his youthful days in college, and passing upon himself judgment
which, if impartiality consisted of severity, might be considered impartial
in the extreme. His reflections have some bearing upon the matter of
elective studies.
" How has it been with my mind the past year ? In this respect
it has been to me an interesting period of life. As the time of
graduating drew near, I became sensible of a gradual change in
my views and feelings. I began to think of the past and of the
future, to examine how I had been preparing my mind for some
active profession. Many of my studies were more interesting and
occupied more of my time and thoughts. I began to see the folly
of some of my former habits of study, and to form others. My
college life hitherto had been but frivolous and vain, — anything
DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. 41
but the life of a student. I did n't think enough of the objects
of study. Things which I liked I attended to, and those which
I disliked I neglected, except so far as was actually necessary.
What notions had I been cherishing ! About writing I had toler-
ably correct ideas, and paid some attention to it, but if I had done
ten times as much 't would have been better. I almost wish I had
entered college two years later. I should not have been such a
fool. As it is I have lost about two thirds of a college life. I
attended to so many ten thousand things having nothing to do
with college, merely because I wanted to^ that I neglected studies
of great imporlpnce. When it was too late, i. e., just at the wrong
time, I began to wake up. The time came on, and I graduated.
It is strange, passing strange, what new notions all at once seem
to come in upon me about myself, about others, about knowledge,
a profession, life, — everything. Whatever acquisitions I had
made seemed to be a mere cipher. So much — everything —
seemed to be done, and so little time to do it in, that I was lost.
My reading and reflection began to be new employments. My
former purposes were all trifling, and I almost despised them.
Specially about history I felt ignorant, about the characters of
other times, the minds and habits of great men. A thousand his-
tories and objects of study occurred to me, and I wanted to devour
them at once. Oh, we cannot well conceive till we feel it our-
selves, what a sensation of freshness, of life, comes over a young
mind when it really begins to look forth and survey its rich and
widespread inheritance. Hitherto it has lain in a sort of dreamy,
chrysalis state, conscious of the surrounding light only by fitful
gleams ; but now it seems to spring forth at once into an en-
larged, active being, and to range abroad uncontrolled, and with
glad delight over its boundless and glorious world. At such a
time one begins to get sound, elevated views. Many of his former
notions and habits sink to very nothingness. Those ideas which
were formerly but dimly and partially correct now begin to ex-
pand, and at once he becomes sensible of a burning thirst for
knowledge. Most of all, at such a time, does one feel his consum-
mate ignorance. He is impatient of acquisition, — to be put in
immediate possession. He would know more, and more, and more;
he would know all. I have felt much like this. I have much to
do, and would be about it. If God sees fit to spare my life, I
would endeavor to use aright whatever faculties He has given me,
— to push them up to their highest point. And yet there is so
42 DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.
much to do, and I have done so little, and have so abused my
mind thus far, that I am almost discouraged. Still, I take delight
in reading, writing, and study ; and in such employments my life
will probably be spent. I hope my desires are pure, my motives
right in the sight of God. I know that in such things I do not
enough consult his glory. But for the future how am I to live ?
I hope and pray, better in every way. I would live more like a
sober, rational, responsible being, — a Christian. In God alone I
would trust for strength. In myself I have no confidence. Oh,
may the next year, if I live, testify to some advancement ! "
Upon this, his twentieth birthday, he also reviews his religious experi-
ences, and writes : —
" The past year has been to me in many respects one of the
most important of my whole life. Changes have been wrought in
my condition, and also seemed to be working in my character, of
an interesting nature. In the course of it I have passed the
most important and pleasant of my college life, have graduated,
and since been engaged in the business of instruction, — all im-
portant points in a young man's life. How has it been with my
heart the past year ? Have I made sensible, delightful progress ?
On this subject I am certainly obliged to confess to myself and to
my Heavenly Parent that I have been fearfully remiss. I look
back, as I ever have done, with regret and shame. It is true I
have sometimes sought the mercy-seat, and there found peace and
joy in communion with God. I have sometimes taken great
delight in religious exercises. But then when I remember how
foolish and unfaithful I have been, and deficient in love to God
and active, self-denying piety, I feel ashamed and sad. ... In
everything I have come short and been an unprofitable servant.
The great secret of my miserable piety in college is, that my de-
votional habits were not sufficiently fixed ; my religious character
was not firm enough. I feel sure it was my desire to be a grow-
ing Christian, but I did not pursue the object with those regular,
prayerful, repeated efforts which its greatness demands, and must
have. During the interval between graduating and coming on
here, I think I had more enjoyment in religion. My situation
made me thoughtful and solemn. The question, Am I to preach?
then came up with full force. This question has engaged my
thoughts at intervals all through college, and indeed before the
period of entering college. But it was always to me such a tre-
DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. 43
mendous subject that I could never think of it with a view to im-
mediate decision. The time for decision seemed far in the pros-
pect and I delayed. But there was no escape after leaving col-
lege, — it must come up. I felt I could decide it only by getting
nearer to God. Earthly aid was pleasant and in a degree useful,
but altogether insufficient. A thousand difficulties seemed in the
way. I tried to get near to God in prayer, and to some degree
succeeded. I enjoyed prayer very much and loved to throw my-
self before God and beseech his wisdom to instruct and guide me.
I became quite satisfied it was my duty to prepare for the minis-
try. Then came up the question, When ? Though it seemed pre-
mature, yet I was nearly on the point of going to Newton, when
the offer of the Preparatory Department here decided me to wait
a year. The subject has been with me ever since. I never dare
to acknowledge my positive intention to go to Newton next fall,
but I probably shall. With all my weakness and inability per-
haps I ought to do so, in reliance upon God and in the firm con-
viction that He will prepare me for usefulness."
As he entered college immediately after his conversion and baptism,
it would appear that his first impressions as to the ministry must have
antedated his public profession of religion.
Among Professor Lincoln's papers was found a brief memorandum
headed " Religious Experience, Winter of '31-2," when he was fifteen
years of age, and before he had entered college. This is of special in-
terest since it indicates that just as in the case of his father, Ensign Lin-
coln, his religious impressions, if not his conversion, dated from early
childhood, and that he, like his father, in young boyhood habitually
sought to be alone with God. This disjointed memorandum is without
date, but from the handwriting appears to have been written while he was
a student in Newton, and quite possibly at some hour when he was ex-
amining his earlier life in its relation to his call to the ministry. It
reads as f oUows : —
" Grown remiss in duties, cold, negligent ; had backslidden ;
school, studies, amusements ; was expected to make profession ; im-
prepared, began to look back, examine present state. As I ex-
amined, began to doubt. Was at same time filled with fears and
distress. Things went on for several days; prayed more, read
Bible more and religious books ; found that with present feelings
could not believe myself a Christian. At any rate if I was, had
no religious enjoyment. Began to pray earnestly for forgiveness ;
that I might know if I was a Christian ; that I might be con-
44 DIARY AT COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.
verted now, if never before. Views of law of God ; my own sin-
fulness and guilt clearer, more deep and distressing than ever
before. Remember how Bible looked to me as I sat alone one
day in my chair brooding over my condition ; looked compact,
solid, just so ; could be no different. So I felt the law of God
to be ; it condemned me ; it could n't do otherwise. I could n't
alter it ; I must bear it. My gloom and distress awful from day
to day, week to week. No pleasure in anything, home, school,
company, anything. Went about mourning ; most of the time
was alone in my room. Praying all the time ; prayed at school
(down cellar at school). Used to love to go to bed to get to
sleep ; felt a dreadful weight upon me when I woke up ; hated
to move. Was not willing to trust to Christ ; to give up all
works of my own, confess myself nothing, Christ all my right-
eousness. When I prayed, desire was rather to be freed from
agony than to be forgiven and made holy. With all this con-
nected much confusion of mind ; sometimes when alone so con-
fused did n't know what I was thinking about, nor what to ask in
prayer. Seeing picture in little book at store of little children
in a posture of prayer, seemed to show me at a glance how to
come to God, what to do. Instantly applied it to myself ; looked
to God ; felt happier," etc.
The next entry in the diary records the carrying out of his conviction
of duty.
"Left Washington, October, 1837. Received invitation to
return and spend another year.^ After some reflection felt I
must go to Newton. Entered Junior class at Newton. Felt it to
be what I had always anticipated, a very solemn step. A theo-
logical student ! A candidate for the ' ministry of reconcilia-
tion ' ! Within a few years of being a pastor of some branch of
the church of Christ, with the responsibility of leading immortal
souls by instruction, exhortation, and prayer to the Lamb of God !
How much need for laborious, prayerful, incessant effort I Who
is sufficient for these things ? I know not how some persons can
look forward with such complacency, I have thought sometimes
almost carelessness, to this great work."
^ At the considerably increased salary of $250 per annum and board.
EXTRACTS FROM PROFESSOR LINCOLN'S DIARY
WHILE A STUDENT AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION,
1838-1839.
He begins anew his diary at the beginning of his theological studies
with thoughts as follows : —
" Newton Theological Institution, June, 1838.
" Have determined to recommence the practice of keeping a
journal. I have felt ever since I relinquished it, at intervals, the
need of it, both in respect to my progress in study and in piety.
The practice induces habits of watchfulness and self-examination,
as well as promotes system. I shall not make it strictly a reli-
gious diary, as I should greatly fear the effects upon myself of
attempting such an object. I fear it would insidiously generate
pride and a sort of self-deception. I will make it a repository of
such things concerning my progress, not merely in religion, but in
all other matters, which shall seem to myself sufficiently interest-
ing and important for preservation. The last entry in my journal
had reference to the fact of my leaving Washington in October,
1837, and entering the Institution here. I am now just com-
mencing the summer term. Have commenced, I hope, with some
increased enjoyment in religion, and with more ardent desires
than I have ever before experienced for making large attainments
in knowledge and mental discipline. God in his providence saw
fit to afflict me four weeks before the close of the last term with a
disease in my eyes, so that for the last three months I have been
unable to study. I hope I have tried to discover and learn the
lesson which He designed to teach me in this providence. My
time was employed, I hope, in profitable reflection. I endeavored
to look back upon the past to ascertain what progress I had made.
In some respects, at least with reference to the nature and method
of my studies, I think my eyes were opened for the first time in
my life. By ascertaining the little I had already done, and what I
needed to do, and by trying to discover and group together what
objects seemed on the whole most worthy of strenuous effort, my
46 DIARY AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION.
mind was led into a new train of thought and new resolves. Col-
leges and instructors may do much to prepare the mind for action,
but even the best cannot do all, and perhaps the most important
things. Horace, or some one else, said well, that every one must
be his own artifex. Till the student himself, by progress in age,
comes at length to gain some just views of the nature, objects, and
vast extent of study, and is filled with an irrepressible ardor for
high attainments, the most exalted privileges are lavished upon
him in vain. Would that my own views were more correct and
expanded, and my ardor in study tenfold deeper and purer. Let
me press forward.
" My feelings concerning the ministry are much the same as ever.
My fears concerning my fitness are often distressing. My hach-
wardness in action^ always my greatest obstacle, more painful to
me than words can possibly describe. This, added to the appre-
hensions of my friends, — and, I am suspicious, their uncharitable
opinions; not uncharitable, because not blamable, but opinions
formed without the requisite data, — troubles me often excessively.
I ought to be more forward and active, and yet I feel that I
can't, and therefore feel not that I ought. And yet I am unfit-
ting myself for the future. What shall I do ? Can I be a min-
ister of the gospel ? Those who know me best speak confidently
that I can and ought.^ Besides the above I need more piety, much
more piety. Oh, for more love to Christ, the grand spring of all
piety and devotion to God. I have enjoyed religion considerably
since I have been here. I do love Christ, and his service. Saviour,
' thou knowest that I love thee.' And yet what wretched evidence
of my love ! Can I love Christ and have so little of his spirit, and
be so little engaged in his service ? Can He take any notice of
such a fitful, glimmering light ? Oh, Saviour, make me thy de-
voted disciple. Accept of my affection and my whole soul, un-
worthy as the offering is."
1 In 1839, when he was offered a position as tutor in Brown University, one
of his stanchest friends wrote to him thus : " If you enter Brown as a tutor
you will never be a minister. I want you to be a clergyman. It is what you
are built for, and what the Creator intended for you. You speak of your
youthful appearance, as if that was an objection. It is the mind that makes
the man. Let people feel you and they won't care whether you are ten feet
high or four feet, whether *■ bearded like the pard ' or smooth as a Sybarite. I
am confident that if you do go there, you will be a professor in a few years,
but you will never be a minister."
DIARY AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION. 47
Twice during his stay in Newton he was interrupted in his studies by
trouble with his eyes. On June 28, 1838, he wrote his first sermon and"
" enjoyed the exercise very much."
November 26, 1838. " Preached yesterday for the first time to
a little congregation at Needham. Felt better than I expected and
was more at ease than I could have hoped. Still the scenes were
so strange, and my sense of inability such, that I did not much
enjoy it."
On Thursday evening, February 7, 1839, he applied to the church for
a license to preach, and in the diary he writes : —
" Endeavored in view of that application to go over my views
and feelings, and reexamine my decision ; also to put together in
some shape the feelings through which I passed, just after leav-
ing college, in coming to a decision for the first time. For my
own convenience in future, will put them down in brief.
" First thing : I met as an obstacle a sense of. unfitness, men-
tally, morally, and in piety. Had felt it before ; have felt it to
some extent ever since.
"I. In respect to inclination,
" 1. An entire disinclination to any other profession. For med-
icine or law never had a particle of desire.
" 2. Felt some inclination for ministry, even considered profes-
sionally. Its subjects, immediate and collateral, best suited to my
prevailing tastes.
" 3. This inclination was stronger, when to the above was
added the idea of being useful. The gospel contains the most
glorious of all truth. Who would not desire to make it his busi-
ness to communicate it to his fellow-men ?
" II. In regard to providential circumstances. These were not
only not unfavorable, but were and always had been very pro-
pitious; health, youth, collegiate education, means of obtaining
theological education, — how highly favored !
" III. With regard to more direct point of duty,
"1. Was certainly bound as a Christian to serve God in the
best possible manner.
" 2. Was it not altogether probable I could be most useful in
the ministry ? It seemed to me it was.
"3. Besides, the destitution of ministers was proverbial —
churches praying for laborers ; societies laboring to raise up young
men, some kept back, contrary to their strong desires, on account
48 DIARY AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION.
of pecuniary difficulties. Nothing in my way, could I refrain
from saying, I ought to preach ?
" 4. Still it was an important matter, fearfully responsible.
God will not take anybody for his ministers. Endeavored, I
think in sincerity, to seek the direction of God in prayer. Found
some satisfaction ; enjoyed the exercise, enjoyed a rededication of
myself to his service. Felt satisfied that it would be my duty to
make preparations to preach.
" My feelings since have been materially the same, though I
have often been much depressed through a fear of inability.
Though I have often felt like shrinking back, yet I could never do
it conscientiously."
On many pages of the diary he records his deep feeling of insuffi-
ciency for the ministry. Doubtless a proper conception of his weakness
is desirable for any theological student, yet it would seem that it was ow-
ing in great measure to convictions of this nature that Professor Lincoln
did not complete the course at Newton.
In December, 1838, he writes : —
" Have suffered very much within a few days from despond-
ency and gloom. At times felt that I could scarcely lift my head.
The general cause, in addition to others, was an old one, and more
or less always operating, viz., my sense of disqualification for the
laborious duties of the ministry. The prospect, now so near
at hand, of going forth to this work is at times fearful in the
extreme."
At a later date he writes again : —
" I tremble to think of the short interval now remaining previ-
ous to leaving this Institution. I am not yet prepared for the
ministry. I shrink from its laborious, responsible duties."
Ajid again : —
" Have had many desponding seasons this term. Have been
afraid that my piety was sadly declining. No deficiency seems so
appalling as this, when I contemplate the ministry as my future
occupation in life. Have been troubled also at times concerning
matters of doctrine. The difficulties here are many and exceed-
ingly perplexing. Oh, for light from above, the Source of all
light and truth. When shall I see and know ; when shall I com-
prehend, where now I can only bow and adore ? Feel the need
more than ever of living near to God, of holding fast to the
DIARY AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION. 49
throne of mercy, lest I be swept away by doubts and skepticism.
Trust in God is a grace that needs continual and diligent cultiva-
tion. I do not feel enough interested in the spiritual welfare of
the world in general. Am too selfish in my feelings and thoughts
and prayers. Practical benevolence, the great field for the growth
of piety as well as of habits of usefulness, is not sufficiently cher-
ished. This last is a danger to which students are very liable
from the secluded life they follow."
To most of Professor Lincoln's friends and pupils these records of
early doubts and difficulties must be a surprise. His real vocation was
that of a teacher, and after a most practical and conscientious test as
to the matter of the ministry, he was the better able to devote his life
cheerfully and undoubtingly to the cause of education. He early had
found the cure for uneasiness in doctrinal matters : " I have felt some-
times, after some perplexity, a degree of calm satisfaction, by opening
the Bible and reading its plain affirmations. Here is solid foundation ;
no refined and wire-drawn metaphysics to split words and syllables and
do away with all language." To the end of his life he studied his Bible,
especially the New Testament in the Greek, and in later life in connec-
tion with Farrar's writings. His reference to the necessity and value of
" practical benevolence " in the development of a religious character was
not a mere abstract speculation. In all his after life that part of the
worship of God which consists of paying money to Him was a part of
his religion. After his death, when it became necessary to examine his
modest financial accounts, it was found that the largest single item of
expenditure had been that of religion and charity.
The last extract which will be presented here is one which is very
touching in its affectionate remembrance of a brother who had died not
very long before this diary was begun, and in its looking forward to the
happy reunion in the better world which now, after these many busy and
useful years, has taken place.
"February 23, 1839. The anniversary of my birthday, —
twenty-two years old ! A large moiety of the ' threescore years and
ten.' Perhaps I have already spent altogether the largest portion
of my life. I am sure it is a solemn season with me in all respects.
How swift the flight of time ! I am now at the same age at which
brother William had attained when he died. That name ! Wil-
liam ! How many recollections it awakens ! Like the memory
of departed music, pleading and mournful to the soul. His form,
appearance, habits, character, are all before me. Oh, if he had
been spared to this time I But such was not the will of God.
50 DIARY AT NEWTON THEOLOGICAL INSTITUTION.
At this late period I would not revive anything like a murmuring-
spirit. I can only cherish the fond hope that his spirit is in
heaven, in communion with the spirits of my dear parents and all
the redeemed, in the presence of the exalted Mediator. God
gTant that myself and the remaining members of our now par-
tially scattered family may have grace given us to ' endure to the
end,' to perform all his will, that we, too, at length ' may receive
the promise,' and be united no more to separate, ' a whole family in
heaven.' "
DIAKY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY, 1841-1842.
During Professor Lincoln's student days in Germany, before he became
Professor of Latin in Brown University, he wrote at intervals between
November 27, 1841, and July 3, 1842, a few pages of the nature of a
diary. This brief diary consists chiefly of memoranda of the more inter-
esting contents of museums and picture galleries and also of personal
matters, such as writing and receiving letters. But it also contains some
personal reminiscences of the professors and students at Halle and else-
where.
THOLUCK's opinion of GOETHE.
He did not like his works in general, because they went to
destroy all distinction between right and wrong. His " Faust " he
wrote in early life. In youth he was the subject of religious
impressions, and when he wrote this, he had not wholly shaken
them off. There was at that time a twofold conflict going on
within him. First, between simple faith and science ; he felt that
he had not a scientific ground for his faith, and was in doubt
whether it were practicable to secure it. Secondly, between faith
and the influences drawing him to sensual pleasures. Hence he
represents Faust carried about by the devil in search of all the
pleasures of the world, flesh, etc. Thus the book really grew out
of his own experience. In general Goethe never proposed any
distinct object to himself in his works. He wrote from an internal
necessity; he felt that he must write to relieve the inward fullness
which oppressed him.
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THOLUCK'S HOME.
December 24, 1841. Christmas! a German Christmas! Every-
thing is made of it here. Nothing but Christmas has been talked
of for a fortnight back, and now this evening it has begun in
right earnest. We have spent Christmas eve at Tholuck's, about
fifteen students in all. When we entered the haU it was a gay
scene indeed before us. A long table ran across, covered with
books, etc., presents, and at either end large spruce-trees, illu-
minated and laden with various little trinkets, sugar work, etc.
62 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
All round the table plates with names upon them, and the presents
from Tholuck and his lady. Besides other things, for every one
there were two great Christmas cakes. Two or three students
with Mrs. Tholuck and another lady were singing at the piano as
we entered, and Tholuck himself walking up and down the hall.
After the music Tholuck came up towards the table, laughing,
and told us to find our places ; and here, says he, are the places
for the American gentlemen. Hackett and I marched up forth-
with. And then a merry time ensued, every one examining his
own and his neighbors' presents. They were chiefly books, and
these simple and useful. On my plate I found a collection of
church songs. Hackett had Tholuck's address at the Reformation
festival. The Frau Rathinn, to put a joke upon me, had placed
in my plate a most whimsical confectionery man with a round,
merry face and a jolly, fat figure, dressed in large, old-fashioned
coat, red waistcoat and breeches, with a beer-jug under his arm,
and with a glass in his hand, in the act of drinking. The whole
thing was laughable and occasioned no little merriment. Another
table in the hall was set for a poor family, and covered with
articles of clothing and food, and they all came in, an old woman
and several children, and received them from Mrs. Tholuck. The
interview was concluded at about half past ten by Tholuck, by
reading the Bible, an address and a prayer, — the best part of the
whole. And then we lugged off our booty, huge cakes and all. I
had some hesitation, but did as the rest did, and, it being the
custom, nobody noticed it. But it was most ridiculous to say
good-evening to the Frau Rathinn with hands, arms, and even
pockets, full of presents. 'T was a rare chance for fun, and, in
my turn, I made the best of it.
tholuck's personal character and influence.
Sunday, January 8, 1842. A fine sermon from Tholuck. In
regard to the spirit of it, I could almost imagine myself listening
to a sermon in New England. Subject ; The Means for Private
Christians to Use in Building up the Church. Insisted primarily
upon every one's duty to cultivate with all diligence his own
spiritual character ; then to exert a religious influence in his
own circle, and thus the whole church. In the details he was
very practical, earnest, and religious. He seems to stand up here
like a great light in the midst of much darkness, bold, very bold,
and yet affectionate and kind. His labors must be blessed. In
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 53
tlie afternoon our two friends from Scotland, with Hackett and
myself, had our Sunday prayer-meeting together, which was very
useful to me ; has done me much good and I feel its effects to
be most refreshing and salutary. So good is it to find a few here
with whom one can converse on common religious topics of
Christian experience and unite in prayer and praise. We spoke
much of our relations here as Christians to students and others in
society with whom we might become acquainted. I have not
been careful enough thus far to exhibit the example of a Christian,
and to seek opportunities to introduce the subject and make some
religious impressions. I have suffered myself to be too much
absorbed in intellectual matters. A few evenings ago, at Tholuck's,
he alluded to this topic in relation to foreigners who had been
here, and made some remarks which awakened me to thought and
feeling with regard to my own remissness. He was surprised, he
said, that English and American Christians who had been here
had not more earnestly improved casual opportunities to exert
a directly religious influence. It put me at once upon self-
examination, and I could not but be surprised and ashamed that
within the last eight months here I had so sunk the Christian in
the student. In the evening took tea with Tholuck in his study,
as his lady was out of the city. He was unusually agreeable and
instructive in conversation, — spoke casually of his religious re-
lation to the late Olshausen. He was the means of the conversion
of Olshausen when they were at Berlin, Tholuck a student and
Olshausen a privat-docent. Olshausen used to laugh at him for
his pietism. Tholuck remonstrated, told him he knew nothing
about the matter, and urged him to serious consideration, the
result of which was his conversion. Also of a visit which he
made to De Wette when he was not long ago in Basle. In regard
to evangelical Christianity said De Wette was fluctuating, waver-
ing (^gebrochenes, Ja — Nein). After a conversation in regard to
the present theological controversies in Germany, De Wette told
him he felt the controversies to be going on in his own soul ; had
no firm resting - place ; spoke of Tholuck's recent review of his
" Commentary of the First Three Gospels ; " said he felt it to be
very severe ; was chiefly concerned that Tholuck would not allow
that he was a Christian ; said he believed a new spirit had come
into the world since the time of Christ ; this, Tholuck told him,
was very vague ; one must have a more particular faith than this
to be a Christian. With regard to miracles, he said, I believe in
64 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
animal magnetism, and of course also in miracles. He has a
religious wife, who, he said, was always urging him to practical
religion, so that the Pietism controversy was also daily going on
in his own house. Tholuck speaks of him as a man of much soul,
and also one who has had true religious impressions ; a favorable
indication that he is so sensitive in regard to the title of Christian ;
here he differs heaven-wide from Strauss, who scorns the name
from his very heart.
WEGSCHEIDER AND THE DECLINE OF OLD RATIONALISM.
January 10. Heard Wegscheider to-day for the first time,
the Coryphaeus here of Old Eationalism. He reminds me some
of our older New England Unitarians, e. ^., Norton, both in
intellectual character and way of using the Bible. A man of
dry Verstand, doing away with all mystery in religion, and be-
lieving only what he can understand, and explaining away the
richest parts of the New Testament. He seems a quiet, sober
sort of man ; rather pleasant delivery ; lectures right on, and
when the clock strikes, gets up and walks out. His day is gone
by. He had to-day only sixteen to hear him, which is not far
from the usual number. In his best days he has had hundreds
in his lecture-room. But that Zeit-Geist has passed away, and
with it his popularity.
AN INTERNATIONAL DINNER-PARTY.
January 26, 1842. To-day has come off a dinner in Halle on
the occasion of the baptism of the Prince of Wales. It was
started by an English gentleman residing here, joined in by the
other English here, and the " two Americans," and some of the
professors and citizens. Gesenius and Leo were the most active.
Tholuck present, Friedlander, Erdmann, Bernhardy, etc. It went
off with great eclat. Davidson toasted the King of Prussia and
with English honors ; then the Prussian song ; Gesenius toasted
the Queen of England ; then " God Save the Queen ; " Pernice, the
President of the United States ; Leo, the Prince ; and Hackett,
the University; speeches good, and well received; afterward
speeches from Friedlander in English, " Merry Old England ; "
Gartz, in English and German, " Leo, the Old Saxon ; " Rosen-
berger, " Gesenius, Leo, and Davidson." The wine flowed merrily,
"the flow of soul," too, and all were in excellent humor. Gesenius
and Leo spoke with each other for the first time for many years.
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 55
The former was lively enough, going all round the table, drinking
to " Old England ; " he had drunk quite enough wine. After
dinner, cigars, coffee, etc. ; then singing, German, English, Scotch,
and American. Leo and some round him kept up German ;
Eobertson and the rest of us the remainder. Von Reich wanted
Yankee Doodle ; thereupon I struck it up without the words^
because I did n't know them. Funny enough ! but everything was
going on so merrily that one could sing anything. He afterward
oame to me and got me to hum the melody to him, as he wished
to retain it in his memory. Leo struck up among others " Gau-
deamus." He sang also " Auld Lang Syne," " Scots Wha Hae,"
*' Merry May the Boat Row," " Duncan Gray," and others. We
got a crowd around us and made it go off merrily. There was a
singular mingling in my mind of these professors as I had im-
agined them in books, and as I found them here. It was odd
enough to me to sit between Leo and Tholuck and go halves with
them. Hackett was nearly opposite me, between Delbriick and
Bernhardy ; Davidson at one end, Gesenius at the other, Leo
exactly opposite Hackett. We broke up about eight P. m., six
hours in all. I shall not forget the farewell Gesenius gave us
young fellows as we crowded about him and bade him good-
night.
A SERENADE TO THOLUCK.
January 28. To-night I have just witnessed a very interesting
scene, illustrative of University life, worthy of record, a serenade
to Tholuck by the students. It has been elicited by the fact of
his having been recently created a Knight of the Red Eagle. My
lodgings being next house to Tholuck's, I have had a fine oppor-
tunity of seeing from beginning to end. The students and others
began to collect about eight o'clock in little knots about the street,
and the musicians and singers collected before the University
building, but a short distance from the professor's residence. The
music was for some time delayed, as the professor happened to be
not at home, and was at Gesenius' house on some University busi-
ness. He was sent for by the Frau Rathinn, and came as soon as
practicable. By this time the street in front of the professor's
house, and some ways both sides, had become quite thronged with
students and citizens. The windows of the adjacent houses were
filled with heads ; all were on the qui vive of expectation. Then
were brought into the streets, from Tholuck's, tables and candles
for the use of the musicians, and directly we heard the music and
66 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
procession from the University. As soon as the music com-
menced, the professor, with his pretty little wife, appeared from
above at one of the drawing-room windows. Their appearance
excited a general agitation through the whole dense crowd. My
heart leaped within me to think of the contrast between his pres-
ent position and that which he occupied when he first came to
Halle. Then he was compelled to bar his windows and doors
against the rude assaults of a tumultuous mob bent upon the most
open and violent demonstrations of their hatred of his theologi-
cal opinions and deeply religious character. By their insults and
persecution gladly would they have driven from their University
and city one of the ablest and most learned scholars, and one of
the kindest and humblest men, that Germany has ever known.
But time had passed away ; he had quietly but earnestly gone on in
his vocation ; he had lived down opposition, had won his way into
general esteem and love ; and there he stood quietly at his own
open window, looking down upon hundreds of German students
assembled to do him public honor. After one of the musical pieces,
suddenly the name of the professor, prefixed by his titles of honor,
came forth from a stentorian voice amid the crowd, and instantly
uprose from the whole multitude, once, twice, and yet again, louder
than ever, the enthusiastic shout. Long live Tholuck ! The effect
was sublime. It was a worthy tribute to genius and piety. Af-
ter more music the professor leaned forth from the window, and
amid the deepest silence addressed the students. He told them
the world abounded in crowns and badges of honor, but the only
earthly crown to which he aspired was the love of his students.
He reminded them of the controversial character of the times,
Halle, above all others, the scene of controversy. To-night he had
a proof that, notwithstanding, mutual esteem could be felt and
expressed ; a very happy, religious conclusion of his address, short,
good, every way apt and to the point.
A VISIT TO LEIPSIC AND ITS PKOPESSORS.
February 7. Have spent three days in Leipsic ; Jiospitaling in
the University. Heard Tuch in Theological Philology ; formerly
in Halle ; the present his first semester in Leipsic. Himself and
Gesenius personal enemies ("no mantel from such Tuch," — yes,
there will; such as "war niemal Ges(eh)en"). About twenty-
five hearers, on Genesis. Distinct, pleasant enunciation, manner
lively, interesting. In outward appearance quite spruce, a leetle fin-
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 57
ical, rings on his fingers not a few. Haupt, on Old Grerman. Mid-
dling size, stout-built fellow, face round and large, dark complexion,
and long, black hair. Most comfortably easy, at home in posture
and whole manner of lecturing. Only about a dozen present.
Then Wester mann, on Plutarch. One of the best in classics there,
but lecturing to half a dozen. Whole appearance that of a scholar,
manner wanting in animation. Wachsmuth on Koman History.
Was delighted with him ; seemed to be over forty ; in dress and out-
ward appearance quite simple, rather rustic ; seemed full of good
humor, and enthusiastically interested in his subject. Extempore
and very animated. Winer, — the learned Winer ! Not pleased
either with his outward appearance or manner of lecturing ; quite
indifferent in both. No one would be at all impressed by them.
Was lecturing on Protestant Theological Literature. Voice low
and indistinct, read every word and very fast, except a small part
which was dictated. His dress a little peculiar by a dress-coat
buttoned up tight to the neck. About a hundred hearers, utmost
attention. Most of the students either medical or law. Disgusted
with their general appearance and manners ; rude, ill-dressed, and
boisterous; came in eating apples, cake, etc., and smoking cigars,
— one fellow smoked all lecture time.
LITEKATURE, SUPPER, AND GESEGNETE MAHLZEIT.
February 17. Have been to-night to a Gesellschaft at Tho-
luck's, — ladies and gentlemen. Professors Witte, Blanc, Bern-
hardy, Ulrici, Pastor Dryander, etc. The first hour was occupied
in a familiar lecture from Witte, on Dante, to which we all lis-
tened as in a lecture-room, the ladies, meanwhile, sitting round the
room knitting stockings. After this followed a supper, which
was the main part, which occupied all the rest of the time. The
Frau Rathinn put me on her right, and a lady on my other side to
whom I had n't been introduced. The custom always here is to
put each guest's name on his plate, and every one is to find his
place for himself, of which trouble I was relieved by her Lady-
ship. I amused myself by talking English partly with Mrs.
Tholuck, and partly Deutsch with my other neighbor, but had to
keep my wits about me amidst such a hubbub of sounds. The
supper consisted of courses of fish and flesh, then dessert of
cake and confectionery, lastly bread, cheese, etc., wines, red
and white. The carving, I noticed, was not done by the master
of the house, but entirely by the guests. On Professor Witte, at
68 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
the left of Frau Rathinn, devolved the duty of carving a huge
turkey, which, after divers cuttings and slashings, he effected. The
legs he passed to Frau Rathinn to carve, of which I tried to
relieve her, though, from being awfully pressed for room between
the two ladies, 't was a difficult enterprise. Meats, etc., were all
passed from one to another, as I notice at dinners. The company
was very lively, even noisy, at table, — as much as I could do to
know what I was about. The whole broke up at about haH past
ten. There was much more formality in manners than with us ;
bowing intolerable, so many bows and so low. As we rose from
supper I noticed the whole room was suddenly in a bowing attitude,
and especially all making up their way towards the lady of the
house for that purpose. I took it for granted it was the parting
salutation, but found it had mere reference to the supper. One of
the professors came to me, and exclaimed, bowing low, Gesegnete
Mahlzeit^ — blessed supper ! I asked for explanation, and found
this was the meaning of all the uproar ; what nonsense ! In en-
tering the room and leaving there was a vast deal of bowing.
A QUIET DINNER AT PROEESSOR LEO'S.
March 18. Dined to-day with Leo. Two Wittenberg young
doctors, Voigt of the Paedagogium, Hackett, and myself. Leo
was very lively and entertaining. He seems much interested in
America and all its affairs, and intimately acquainted with the
geography, present condition, etc., of the States, especially the
western and the remoter territories. He showed me maps, pic-
tures, etc., illustrating the United States. Leo's wife was unusu-
ally agreeable and full of animation. I had a long talk with her,
and she seemed very much afraid Leo would take it into his head
to go to America. She would like to go herself for the journey
and see the country, but not to remain. She spoke of Prentiss
and Smith, whom she knew. Leo also remembered Sears. Leo
spoke very favorably of Alexander's Transcendentalism.
A READING CIRCLE.
March 21. To-night at a reading circle at Von Tippelskirch's,
a pastor in the vicinity of Halle. Tholuck, Muller, with their
ladies, and others ; conversation, reading, Southey's " Wesley "
translated, supper, etc. Miiller, for a man of his talents and posi-
tion, extremely retiring and reserved. He read " Wesley." Tho-
luck not so lively as usual. Tippelskirch, a man of good talents
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 59
and education, and warm, genuine piety. A parish of about 2,000.
He says they are an irreligious, immoral people. His predecessor
was a man of bad character. Tippelskirch's wife is a very good
and cultivated woman, and of noble family, — a countess, — very
quiet and reserved. He was in Italy five years, chaplain to the
Prussian embassy. He knew Chace in Rome, and spoke of his
baptizing an English gentleman there. These circles are very
common here.
VACATION TOUR ON FOOT THROUGH SAXON SWITZERLAND.
^TAT. 25.
May 24, 1842. Just returned from a tour with a party of stu-
dents to Dresden and the Saxon Switzerland, — in student's style,
on foot. The chief articles of equipment were a knapsack, large
enough for all that is absolutely necessary, a loose linen blouse, or
smock frock, — a common article of dress on the Continent, — a
cane, and a pair of stout, easy shoes. But a no less indispensable
arrangement is a pipe, with an accompanying stock of tobacco,
which many an American student would regard as a luxus^ an
application, however, of a favorite expression in a German stu-
dent's vocabulary, which he would pronounce a gross perversion
of language. With a party as large as ours, too, a student's song-
book is never left behind, and is a constant source of delight.
The journey to Dresden we made by railroad, the distance being
too great and the road too uninteresting for walking. We reached
Dresden in the evening, and paraded up through the Neu Stadt,
over the magnificent bridge by the Catholic church palace, through
Alt Stadt to the Kleine Rauch-Gasse, the rendezvous here for
students, especially from Halle, and a very good hotel. Next day
I went to the Picture Gallery, and spent there the whole morn-
ing, till it closed at one. The pieces there of Raphael, Correggio,
Titian, and Dolce are exquisite, the Madonna of Raphael a won-
der in art, — that heavenly face I can never forget. In the even-
ing I went to the Opera, a magnificent house, inside and out, the
decorations very splendid. The piece was " Robert den Teufel ; "
the singing of Robert, Bertram, Isabella, and Alice very fine ;
Isabella exquisite ; my first opera ; enjoyed it most exceedingly ;
but the dancing! The opera strikes me as a mixture. The
acting must always seem unnatural in connection with music and
song. This particular piece did not please me, the idea a most
general one, the conflict between good and evil in man, and indif-
60 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
f erently carried out. Next morning I went to church, first to hear
Ammon, the great Rationalist, the house full and sermon full of
stale moral maxims. Thence I went to the royal Catholic church
and heard high mass, — such mummery ! The church is con-
nected behind by a little covered gallery with the palace, through
which the king and royal family, all of them Catholic, though the
country is Lutheran, enter the church. I saw them at the bow-
windows above, at one side of the altar, their places entirely sepa-
rated from the rest of the audience. In the afternoon most of our
party started for the tour, myself and a fellow-student stayed be-
hind, intending to join them next day at Pillnitz. Next morning
at six we went by steam, a pleasant sail of an hour, to Pillnitz, the
residence of the king in summer. We mounted, on foot, the steep
ascent behind the palace, saw the ruins of the old castle, and
gained the Porsberg summit ; thence down through the Liebetha-
ler Grund, a very beautiful two hours' walk to Lohmen; drank
milk at a mill on the little stream, and between high, perpendicu-
lar rocks clambered up the ascent by steps in the rock through
Lohmen, and after a mile's walk came to the Uttewalder Grund.
On the way we joined a pleasant party of four fellows with a
guide, two young Prussian officers from Konigsberg, a Russian,
and a Pole. They were very much interested about England and
America, and we had some pleasant conversation with them.
Then came an hour's walk through the Grund, wilder, more ro-
mantic than the former, the passage often very narrow, between
high rocks, in one place only a few feet apart, an awful place,
called Hell, dark, low, roofed over by rocks, some of which have
fallen down and filled up the passage, then another cave, called
Devil's Kitchen. We came at length to the Bastei, the first place
of importance in the route, a huge mass, close by the river bank,
800 feet high. A good hotel on the summit and plenty of people
we found here ; music, drinking beer, all sorts of things going on
here, gentlemen, ladies, children, etc. Two or three parties of stu-
dents, and the singing went merrily. The view from the Bastei
was fine : the river below, then a cultivated country stretching away
and bounded by mountains, the Liiienstein and Konigstein the
chief, then behind the Bastei very wild scenes, high, single rocks
shooting up several hundred feet and separated by deep chasms.
We made our way down by steps in the mountain to a little place
called Rathen. And here we had glorious scenes, lots of students,
the party with whom we came, and the house already full ; such
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 61
running and roaring, such screaming for soup and food of all sorts
in the dining-hall, such snatching and claiming property when a
dish came in, and after all such arrangements for sleeping ! I
slept with my friend and our party of four in one room, three of
them on beds, the fourth on a sofa, and we on a pile of straw on
the floor, with one sheet, a narrow covering, and our knapsacks
for pillows. A memorable night that ! About twenty students
slept in the cockloft on straw, with a plentiful scarcity of pillows
and beds among them. We heard them singing and roaring long
after we got into our nest. Morning came, and the students were
off before us. We parted with our friends and then went on our
way through a pretty valley called Amsel Grund, to the Hockstein,
a rock running up on the side of the Elbe some 500 feet. From
the main road we reached it by a little footpath, and at the end
by a frail bridge, flung over a deep, yawning chasm, called Wolfs-
schlucht. The prospect was very beautiful, the green of the trees
below with the dark shade, and then the winding river and the
opposite castle of Hohnstein and the village. This in former
times was a stronghold of robber knights, this rock a sort of look-
out for the opposite castle. We made our way down to the river
through the Schlucht by a very narrow, steep passage, partly
steps cut in the rock, partly a rude ladder-work; then climbed
the steep ascent to the village. Here I satisfied my hunger and
thirst with fresh milk, cold meat, bread and butter, and had a
chat with a very pretty, rosy-cheeked, Hohnstein maiden. From
there we went onward and soon came to a place called the Brand,
where another fine view is afforded. Here we came up with a lot
of students, and joined them. A dusty, disagreeable walk we had
till we came into Schandau, about half past two, a considerable
town on the Elbe. Here we found a good house, and had a good
time, with coffee and cigars and pleasant talk. We found here a
party of ladies and gentlemen, whom we met on the mountain
bridge at the Bastei, a German pastor and wife with a pretty,
black-eyed, lively daughter of nineteen, and a gentleman and wife,
relatives, all going our way. We filled two coaches, and rode to
the foot of the Kuhstall, — here a miserable, artificial fall.
Thence, tug-tug, began our ascent, with the Kuhstall, the Little
and finally the Great Winterberg stretching away above us. The
Kuhstall is a singular natural arch some eighty feet wide and
nearly as high, through which, and on top of which, reached
through a narrow cleft in the rock, a mingled scene of rocks and
62 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
trees, rising and piling upon each other, is before the eye. From
here we raced down the hill through fields and forests to the foot
of the Little Winterberg. The singing of the students, with the
additional excitement of ladies in the party, was thrilling and full
of quickening effect ; in going down through narrow, rocky ways,
especially so where the voices bounded over each other and were
echoed through the valley and up the hills. The ascent to the
Winterberg was long and extremely fatiguing. The ladies made
it nobly, the little one always ahead. Finally we reached the
summit, about seven o'clock. A busy and stirring little world we
found here, some 1,700 feet above the Elbe, and the highest of
the range on this side the river, also a good hotel and well filled.
We got a room, with two others, in a little building adjoining the
hotel, ours affording a passage to another, where two more were
finally deposited by the chambermaid, after we were got to bed,
and I had been obliged to turn out and unlock the door and let
them in, with the cold air rushing in upon me, with my shirt on.
But going to bed was a late operation. The dining-hall was full
of people when we made our appearance, and we got seats where
we could, and made a hearty supper. After supper we got a table
on one side of the hall, with three Tyrolese girls behind us, with
guitars. We were soon joined by our lady party, and there sat
till eleven, with beer, talk, and singing, alternating songs with the
Tyrolese. The old pastor enjoyed it mightily, and the pastorinn
and her laughing, lively daughter, no less. Her little black eyes
sparkled about among us, and her tongue went glibly, I can well
testify. We all separated at length with a Gute Nacht^ and Avf-
wiedersehen next morning at sunrise, to see the king of day as-
cend over the Bohemian mountains, though for myself no other
idea was farther from my hopf than such a romantic vision. I
slept soundly, dreaming about steep hills, beautiful prospects, and
black eyes, and awoke refreshed about seven o'clock. Nobody
saw the sunrise, though some poor devils turned out and mounted
the cupola to greet an overclouded sky, and then turn in again
with a plague on all romantic notions and dreamings of sunrise.
But the clouds cleared away, the air was fresh and delightful, and
after breakfast down we went to the Prebischthor, on the whole
the most magnificent place in the tour, a huge natural arch, colos-
sal in dimensions, and running out into a deep, green chasm, and
surrounded by mountains, far and near. One single rock in soli-
tary majesty runs up in column form from the chasm below, as if
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 63
it disdained all communion with all its kindred, a singular sight.
The arch itself 120 feet high ; all the scenery around, from the
platform above the arch, is full of wildness. Thence a very de-
lightful walk, most of the way by a little stream, till we came at
length to an &,wfully hard-named place, Herrnskretschen. Here
myself and friend went up the river, and the rest down. We
parted with the pastor (after a general toast, *'^Aufgluckliche
deine,''^ started by himself) with an invitation to come and see him
at Bischofswerda, between Dresden and Bautzen, and a hope on
my part that we should meet again in America ! With the black-
eyed daughter I parted after great exertions, with no tears in my
eyes, and, I believe, tolerably at heart. Thence a pretty sail to
Tetschen, and from there a tedious, long ride to Teplitz, the fa-
mous German watering-place, especially of princes and nobles.
The town nothing remarkable, but the vicinity delightful. We
bathed at the city fountain, Stadt Badhaus, and drank some of
the water. Here we joined our whole party, who had had about
two hours' start of us all the way. From Teplitz on a fine warm
morning we marched out to Schlossberg, a little way out of town,
and a hard hill it was to climb ; the ruins of an old castle on top,
with the ditch around, and all the appearance of former strength,
and a beautiful panorama view. I waited behind with my friend,
with whom I had made most of the journey, and was finally left
entirely alone, as he concluded to go on to Prague with, a gentle-
man we met on the summit. So I had a long two hours', dusty,
sunny walk, over an unknown way, all to myself, to Aussig, on the
Elbe. I reached there just after the others, who had taken an-
other road all the way. Thence we took gondel and sailed down
river to Herrnskretschen, the last part by moonlight, a most beau-
tiful, charming sail. We sang the Ave Sanctissima, which ac-
corded exactly with the whole occasion. Late when we left the
boat, and after a late supper we were glad to get to bed. Next
morning we crossed the river, climbed up the steep bank, and
pushed on our way homewards. The most interesting object in
our long day's walk (rendered awful to me from the fact of hav-
ing bathed in the Teplitz hot water, and got sore feet from it on
walking) was the Konigstein fortress. Its lofty situation, some
800 feet above the river ; impenetrable strength, standing quite
alone and too far from any other height to be reached by guns,
and built upon a natural rock basis; its beautiful prospect, —
the river below, Lilienstein opposite, and the cultivated meadow
64 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
hemmed in by the river, which describes here a graceful bend ;
the well, 1,800 feet deep, cut down in solid rock ; all conspire to
make a place of extreme interest. It has never been taken, and
never will. Napoleon tried it by cannon from Lilienstein, but
could effect nothing. We walked as far as Pirna, and from there
took omnibus to Dresden, which we reached about dark. I stayed
another day in Dresden, half of which I spent in the Gallery, and
the afternoon in the Griine Gewolbe, — vaults under the palace
containing the collected treasures of the crown, and a most sump-
tuous collection, too ! But I was soon satiated ; precious stones,
diamonds, costly brilliant objects, how soon they pall upon the
sight ! What a contrast with works of divine art ! I took leave
of this beautiful Dresden with hope of seeing it again. A dusty,
disagreeable railroad ride to Leipsic, and thence to Halle, which
we reached at length, heated, fatigued, and sleepy. Ate a light
dinner at home, and philosophically spent the whole afternoon in
snoozing on my sofa. My windows were open all the time, so that
I got a dreadful cold, from which I have been suffering ever since.
Here must end my record of a very delightful tour.
Zum Andenhen der Sdchischen Schweitz !
AN ANTICIPATED TOUR WITH THOLUCK.
May 27, 1842. Spent the evening with Tholuck and the Frau
Rathinn ; no one else there ; their garden rooms most delightful.
Both of them in fine spirits. So after all he is not going to
Scotland. His doctor protests against it, and his wife too, and
himself yields that on the whole it would be imprudent. Well for
me that I had not set my heart to go with him. He has now
invited me to make the tour of the Rhine with him through
Switzerland over Munich and Augsburg. Just what I wanted. I
took him up in a moment ; told him I would go with him anywhere
on the Continent, and travel anyway he chose. (Must confess I
felt flattered at the manner in which himself and wife received
my reply. The latter quite broke out in exclamation and proceeded
to tell me how I must look out for the health and comfort of the
professor.^) This tour with Tholuck is just what I have wished.
I shall anticipate it with great delight.
^ In the diary these two sentences, probably from feelings of modesty, were
very carefully blotted out. The diary here ends abruptly, or, if it was ever
continued, the remainder has been lost.
DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY. 65
Tholuck recalls this Alpine trip in the following characteristic English
letter written by him from Halle, August 28, 1843, to " Rev. John Lin-
coln, Studiosus Theol. aus America : " —
" I am very glad that you have written to me before setting out.
Next Monday I must drive to Magdeburg, so that you would just
miss me if you should arrive that day. Let me request, therefore
as much as I can, to arrange your journey so as to arrive Satur-
day evening and right into my house. If you do not, you will
leave behind you in Germany a broken heart. I hope to be en-
abled to devote you a great part of the Sunday and to enjoy once
more in recollection with you the day of the Furca, the Gotthard,
Monte Cenere, and so on.
"You must absolutely devote to me this day. What would
Mrs. Tholuck say if you had left Germany without having he-
griisst once more that house where you will not soon be forgotten ?
I take it for granted that next Saturday evening the railroad will
bring you into my house and into my arms."
On a previous page, in Professor Lincoln's Notes of his Life, refer-
ence is made to this journey. Among his letters from Germany, on a later
page, may be found some description of a carriage journey, which, how-
ever, appears to have been a distinct and shorter excursion. A very in-
teresting account of this Alpine journey is found in Witte's " Das Leben
d. Friedrich August Gottreu Tholuck " (Band II. s. 473-478). From
this account we learn that Tholuck's companions were Wedler (for a long
time his amanuensis) and " two young American theological students, a
Mr. Hay of New York (?) and Mr. Lincoln of Boston. The last was a
Baptist, of whom Tholuck was especially fond. ' Oh, how I love that
nervous, humorous, intelligent boy,' he wrote once in his diany." The
journey was by carriage via Heidelberg to Switzerland. On the way
Tholuck was exceedingly ill, and almost wholly unable to sleep. Several
days were passed in Berne, where Tholuck, although weak in body,
preached with great power. At Interlaken the party visited the Lauter-
brunnen waterfall by night, and Tholuck was so refreshed by the Alpine
air that next morning they pushed on, arriving at evening at Grindel-
wald, and the next at the Grimsel Hospice. There they heard that Pro-
fessor Agassiz and Mr. Forbes were on the Upper Aar Glacier, engaged
in researches as to glacial phenomena. Next morning the party set out
at six o'clock with two guides, to climb to the glacier, 8,000 feet high,
each with a long staff. After an hour they came to the ice crevasses,
which one must leap over. Into one of these Tholuck sank his long
staff ; suddenly it slipped from his hand, and it could be heard as it fell
down into immeasurable depths. Tholuck would go no farther, but
66 DIARY OF STUDENT LIFE IN GERMANY.
returned with one guide, while the others continued, and were received
most hospitably by Agassiz in his hut on the ice. In the evening Agas-
siz descended to the Grimsel to meet Tholuck.
The next day the travelers proceeded on foot through the valley of
the Rhone over the Furca Pass. It was a rainy day, — stormy, horrid
weather, and Tholuck could hardly move, yet forced himself to go on.
The next day they walked over the Gotthard, and reached Giornice at
eleven at night. Here the crowded, dirty rooms proved so disagreeable
that Tholuck decided to go on at any cost, and a wretched little wagon, in
which they sat on cross-boards clinging to one another to avoid being
jolted out, brought them to Lugano. From Milan the return to Swit-
zerland was made by the Simplon. On the way the " Americans " had
gone on ahead, and Tholuck and Wedler turned off on a footpath which
appeared to be a short cut. Here they came to a chasm some 2,000 feet
deep, crossed by a round spruce-tree about twenty feet long, over which
they safely crossed, rather than return and seek the road they had left.
During all this journey Tholuck talked freely of practical religious
themes, as was his custom, with the guides, drivers, or others in whose
company he might chance to be. Doubtless Professor Lincoln had in
mind these instances of what may be called Tholuck's everyday theol-
ogy, when he mentions in his Notes and Diary and Letters the name of
Tholuck with so profound admiration and gratitude.
LETTEES FKOM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
HAMBURG CUSTOMS AND HABITS. — TRIALS OF BAPTIST MISSIONS.
{A Letter to ^'The Watchman")
Hamburg, September 24, 1841. Arrived in this city at about
one p. M., after a very pleasant voyage from London, of about
fifty hours, in the steamer Countess of Lonsdale. We were saved
the trouble and detention of a custom-house examination on land-
ing ; but were met on the steps of the wharf by a man of author-
ity, with book and pen and ink, who quietly asked our names,
profession, and business. Being quite unaccustomed to this pro-
cess, I felt instinctively tempted to ask in reply of what possible
concern all this was to him. But recollecting that this was but
the beginning of evils in traveling on the Continent, I at once en-
deavored to check all such improper tendencies. In my turn, I
gave him my name, told him I had no profession, and in regard to
business was on my way to Germany as a student. On the Con-
tinent, a traveler must submit with as good a grace as possible to
exhibit his passport vised by an indefinite number of ministers,
consuls, and police agents, every time he comes to a place that falls
within the limits of a new dominion. To an American, this sys-
tem of strict surveillance furnishes constant occasion to keep alive
within him the memory of his own country, where one may come
and go at will, without molestation, if he only pays his bills and
behaves like a quiet, gentlemanly citizen. But the reduction in
the rate of charges which he meets with on reaching the Conti-
nent is very agreeable to one who has just been traveling in
England. It is rather surprising how many little facilities exist
in England for lightening the traveler's purse, particularly in
regard to servants. It may be estimated that a single look from
an English servant costs about sixpence, and all other services are
quite in proportion.
Occupied the remainder of the day in walking about the city, to
observe its objects of interest. I had occasion to observe on the
streets some of the peculiarities of the place, of which I had be-
68 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
fore heard and read. Saw some of the hired mourners who are
employed for funeral processions. They were dressed in black,
with short cloaks, powdered wigs, and with plaited ruffs about
their necks. A stranger cannot fail, also, to be struck with the
appearance of the female domestics in the streets, when on an
errand to the market, or to perform some other house service.
They are dressed as if for some other purpose, with elegantly
worked caps, long kid gloves, and large, gay shawls. They man-
age to adjust this last article upon the arm, so as to conceal a
basket containing the articles they have just procured from the
market or elsewhere.
Saturday, 25. Called to-day to see Mr. Oncken, the well-known
missionary connected with our American Baptist board. Was
disappointed to find he was not at home. He is absent from the
city, on a tour connected with the mission, chiefly to organize a
church in Memel, Prussia, and one in Pomerania, both which have
been gathered under interesting circumstances. I gained some in-
teresting information from Mrs. O., in relation to the Hamburg
mission, and also the mission in Denmark. The civil authorities
in Hamburg desist, at present, from all measures of open vio-
lence. The delegation of English and American clergy seems to
have produced some salutary results. If it has not awakened tbe
thoughtful attention of the magistrates and people to the subject
of religious toleration, it has, at least, presented to them in a new
attitude the little band of Christians on whom they have poured
their contempt and denunciations, as well as inflicted civil pun-
ishment, by showing that they are connected in opinions, practice,
and sympathy with extensive Christian communities in other coun-
tries. But still the position of Mr. O. and his fellow-laborers is
only one of sufferance. The laws against them have not been
relaxed, nor altered in the least degree, and are liable to be en-
forced with the same rigor as before. The grand source of all
the persecution is to be traced to the established clergy. They
are opposed to this missionary movement by the prejudices of
education, their station, and by strong considerations of temporal
interest ; and all history proves that where serious spiritual errors
prevail in a community, such a clergy present the most deter-
mined and bigoted opposition to a reformation. They influence
the separate families of their congregations, and thus the whole
people. These ministers of Christ profess to behold with extreme
concern the religious efforts of Mr. Oncken and his brethren.
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 69
r
They ask among themselves, To what will all this lead ? These
men are invading the quiet, questioning the long-established insti-
tions, threatening to subvert the very structure of our church.
And associating the progress of truth and of the spiritual king-
dom of Christ only with the one form prevailing among them-
selves, under the protection of the state, they would fain persuade
themselves, and teach the people, that this innovating organiza-
tion is pregnant with the seeds of heresy and schism, and des-
tined, if not checked and crushed, to retard the progress and
even extinguish the existence of Christianity in the community.
It may be that these clerical gentlemen have yet to learn that this
divine religion may not be dependent upon any one particular
form, least of all, a state-established form ; nay, may flourish, and
win its best victories, even amid many forms.
The Denmark Mission continues in a very critical state. The
trial of the brethren has terminated unfavorably, as was feared.
They are condemned to a heavy fine, and commanded to desist
from their labors. To this they cannot submit, and have appealed
to a higher court, the highest judicial tribunal in the kingdom.
In the mean time, the missionaries are kept in prison. Here, too,
it is the priesthood who keep alive the flame of persecution. The
queen is said to be disposed to toleration, but is kept back by their
influence. Many of the people sympathize with the persecuted,
and one or two of the public prints espouse their cause. It is a
singular fact that the presiding ofiicer of the court before whom
the trial has already been held was removed, pro tem.^ from his
office, because it was known that he was a man of liberal opinions,
and it was feared that he would pronounce a decision favorable to
the prisoners. I have learned that he frequently visited them in
prison, exhorted them to constancy, and even avowed to the pris-
oners that his opinions and feelings were with them. The whole
subject has awakened general interest in Copenhagen. Whatever
may be the immediate results of this affair, it cannot be doubted
that a train of causes has been set in operation which will result,
sooner or later, in the more correct views of religious freedom and
the advancement of a simpler, purer Christianity.
26th. It has been Sunday here to-day, but not the Sabbath. The
distinction is quite necessary. To the exclusion of its peculiar
sacredness, the general idea of a holiday, partly in a religious and
partly in a secular sense, seems to be the one entertained here
with regard to this day. And, with the exception of England,
70 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
this is probably the case throughout Europe, both in theory and
practice. The general outward aspect of this city to-day would
remind a New Englander of a Fourth of July celebration, though
indeed he would miss those great Sabbath-school celebrations
which, of late years, have become such an important and delight-
ful feature in the festivities of our national jubilee.
Yet, on some accounts, this has been a day which I shall not
soon forget. It is more profitable and delightful to visit those
missionary spots and scenes which have gained a kind of sacred-
ness from long association with the " Monthly Concert " and the
" Missionary Magazine." It gives one some insight, as for the
first time, into the nature of a missionary life, and helps him, not
to laud in unfelt words, but to feel in his heart the blessings of a
more favored land, and especially the priceless value of a religious
freedom. To see a little band of the disciples of Christ gathered
together like the disciples in Jerusalem, " in an upper room," and
for a similar reason isolated in the midst of a great city, con-
temned, despised, threatened with fines and imprisonment, and
liable at any moment to be interrupted in the midst of their devo-
tions and dispersed by the civil authorities, is a spectacle which
awakens in one's mind a throng of interesting reflections, which
may have occurred to him before, but have never come home to
his bosom with that freshness and life with which they are now
invested. And who on earth can suggest any satisfactory reason
why such a moral phenomenon should be allowed to exist, espe-
cially in a professedly Christian city?
At nine o'clock I went to Mr. Oncken's house, to be present at
the services of his church. They are compelled by the laws to
meet in this private manner, though from their number it is very
inconvenient. They meet twice on the Sabbath, half the church
at a time. Found the room full, and people in the entry and on
the stairs. In the absence of Mr. Oncken, Mr. Kbbner officiated.
The services being in German, I could only catch a word here
and there, and understood but little. But still they were full of
interest. The natural language of the preacher and his hearers,
in connection with all the circumstances, was quite enough for the
mind and heart. Throughout, and especially in his prayers, Mr.
K. seemed pervaded with the truest earnestness. His eloquence
was of the heart, and his gestures, his expressions of countenance,
his whole frame, united with the voice in giving utterance to the
life-giving truth. And in silent attention, and apparently with
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 71
the fullest sympathy, his audience heard his words. It was of
itself an eloquent spectacle to observe the solemn earnestness visi-
ble on every countenance. It was good to be there. In a scene
so full of influences congenial to devotion, a spot which seemed to
afford unwonted nearness in prayer, one could but lift his soul to
God in humble thanks for the gift of the gospel, and in petition
for these his servants, who felt its rich blessings in their own
hearts, and in the midst of obloquy and persecution were seeking
to shed them abroad in the hearts of their fellow-men.
OLD-TIME RAPID TRANSIT. — JOURNEYMEN. — LEIPSIC IN FAIB
TIME. — GERMAN LANGUAGE AND GERMAN BEDS.
(A Letter to ''The Watchman:')
Hamburg, September 26, 1841. We leave to-night for Leipsic,
with the comfortable prospect of riding forty hours by coach,
night and day. By means of this conveyance, and the line of
steamers from London to Hamburg, one may go from London to
Leipsic in five days. And allowing fourteen days for a passage
across the Atlantic in one of the Cunard steamers, and one day
from Liverpool to London, it is thus possible to accomplish a
journey from the good city of Boston to the city of Leipsic, a dis-
tance of some 4,500 miles, in less than three weeks ! Verily, we
can get beyond the vulgar ideas of time and space without the
help of a spiritual philosophy !
Tuesday, 28. This conveyance goes by the German name of
Schnell Post (^Quick Post). Its rate of progress, however, does
not well correspond with its name, thus far at least, not more than
five miles an hour, and renders it not unworthy the name some-
times given it by the incorrect pronunciation of English travelers.
Snail Post. All the carriages, offices, and buildings belong to
the government, and are superintended by its officers. No one
can take a place without showing his passport, and having it vised,
and indorsed for the place to which he is going. The road we
have found generally good, in some parts macadamized. For
about thirty miles from Hamburg it passes through the Danish
territory of Lauenburg. The country affords good material for
macadamizing, in the boulder rocks of slate and granite which are
scattered over it and are said to be found, indeed, throughout
northern Germany. These boulders, from the fact that they do
not geologically belong to the country between the Elbe and the
72 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
Baltic, are supposed to have been transported from the mountains
of Norway and Sweden by some vast current of water, perhaps
the floods of the Deluge.
A person traveling on any one of these great roads in Germany
will become acquainted, by frequent personal observation, with a
curious custom which prevails throughout the country. He will
observe young men, travelers on foot, decently dressed, and always
having a stick in hand, knapsacks on their backs, and above all
pipes in their mouths. They are traveling journeymen, called in
German, Handwerhshurschen, It is an old rule that no appren-
tice shall become a master in his trade until he has traveled sev-
eral years, and exercised his trade in other countries. The prac-
tical intention of this is to give him some knowledge of the world
as well as information about his own craft as it is practiced in
other countries besides his own. When he starts on his journey
he receives a book in which he is to keep an account of his wan-
derings. Whenever he wishes to stop he applies to a master-
workman in his trade for employment. If work can be given him
he remains for a while ; if not, after a short delay, he journeys on.
Sometimes, when work is scarce, he is reduced to extremities, and
becomes an object of charity. Whatever inconveniences may
belong to such a custom, it is obvious that it may raise up a very
intelligent set of workmen. I have seen it stated, upon good
authority, that by this means tradesmen are not unfrequently en-
abled to speak three or four languages, and acquire a large stock
of general knowledge, and become well informed as to the state of
many of the countries of Europe. When his wanderings are
ended the apprentice comes home, and commences business as a
master-workman .
Wednesday, 29. At about nine A. M. we reached Magdeburg.
Here we gladly left stage-coach and proceeded to Leipsic by rail-
road, where we arrived at about four p. M. The business of get-
ting established in a hotel on the Continent is not so simple a
process as in England or America. All hotel-keepers are obliged
to submit to the police an account of the arrival and departure
of their guests. The " Stranger's Book " is brought to you for
the entry, not merely of your name and residence, but also for all
manner of things about your private affairs, which it is a study at
first to attend to with due order. Then your passport must be
sent to the police, a receipt given you, allowing you to remain a
stated length of time. At the end of this time, if you wish to stay
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 73
longer, you must have it renewed, and when you leave town it is
delivered back to the authorities, and your passport returned.
On going out to see the city, we found ourselves in the midst
of one of the great Leipsic fairs. It seemed as though all the
world had come to Leipsic, and, arrayed in their respective na-
tional costumes, were mingled together in the streets in a grand
masquerade. All the squares and streets were filled with booths
and stalls, in which were exhibited all kinds of goods. But I
searched in vain for books, and as I afterwards learned, for the
very good reason that there were none. The book trade is not
affected by these fairs, except that the booksellers are accustomed
to meet together for the mutual settlement of accounts. But a
long and tedious ride was a poor preparation for exploring such
a scene, and we were glad to make our way back to the hotel.
The first part of one's residence in a foreign country, when he
cannot speak the language, is full of little personal events which
will long abide in his memory. His experience is apt to awaken
a distinct recollection of the history of the Tower of Babel ; and
at such a time the whole affair seems to have been an extremely
unfortunate one. He is visited by an order of sensation quite
peculiar, and not unfrequently rather uncomfortable. It is the
worst sort of a quarantine. You are so cut off from rational,
kindly intercourse with your fellow-men, who seem to be moving
about you in a kind of panoramic show, that you might as well
have your abode on one of the desolate isles of the sea. But one
must be sure to keep in good humor, taking special care to laugh
a great deal, whatever befalls him ; and for the first few days,
even for the supply of ordinary wants, must rely upon his wits
and a phrase book. My friend, who is with me, and whose com-
pany I have enjoyed during the whole journey from Boston, has
remarked to me that there are two German phrases which one
ought to have as capital at the outset, namely : IcJi verstehe nicht
(I don't understand), and Wie heissen Sie das? (What do you call
that ?) He will be sure to find it to his account to make himself
a perfect master of these as speedily as possible. The latter is to
be used for making acquisitions, and the former chiefly for self-
defense, and to be pronounced with as much composure as you
can command, when a man takes the liberty to talk to you as
though you were a native, and sets up a distracting hurly-hurly
of sounds about you, as if you were in the midst of the machinery
of a New England steam factory. It matters not at first how-
74 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
ever familiarly one may be acquainted with the language in books.
This is an entirely different thing from being able to speak it and
to understand it when you hear it spoken. The ear must first
pass through its novitiate, and learn to distinguish the sounds
with readiness and correctness. Then one may make rapid pro-
gress, and then, too, no amount of previous knowledge comes amiss.
Everything becomes a source of instruction. There can be no
doubt that one can acquire a language in the country where it is
spoken, with vastly more pleasure, rapidity, and correctness than
at home. There can be no comparison between the cases. You
feel that you are really in contact with a language, a living lan-
guage, and not a mere collection of printed characters. Especially
is one constantly urged, and also furnished with numerous facili-
ties, to increase his stock of words, and not only to increase them,
which of itself is nothing at all, but to strive with the utmost care
to retain them in the memory. This is a point of the first impor-
tance in all languages, and hence the invaluable utility of frequent
reviewing. The principle of repetition, incessant repetition, can-
not be too much insisted upon in the study of languages. Only
the practice must be pursued intelligently, and with diligence and
interest, and not, as in some instances, as a mere lifeless, inane
form.
One of the most disagreeable things to a stranger, on first com-
ing to this country, is the German arrangement for a bed. To an
Englishman or an American this seems at first a very extraordi-
nary contrivance. It is a striking illustration of the inferiority of
the Germans in all practical matters, especially in all that con-
cerns the comforts of life. Indeed, there is really no word in the
language which fully expresses the English idea of comfort, I
had some previous notion of a German bed from a college account
of it, which I remember to have once heard, but I was not quite
prepared for the reality. As for curtains, or indeed any fixtures
whereon to hang them, these things are entirely extraneous to the
whole arrangement. Nor is there, properly speaking, any bed-
stead. The poor substitute for it is a low, boxlike frame, always
constructed for only one person ; and also, in all its dimensions,
evidently constructed with a democratic view to people of middling
stature, as that class is supposed to be in the majority. A tall
gentleman must find himself in very close quarters, and be obliged
to use some little ingenuity for the proper bestowment of his
whole person. Then the pillows are very large, and make a very
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 75
low angle with the bed, coming nearly half way down, as if, on
going to bed, one intended, on the whole, not to lie down at full
length, but only to put himself into a reclining, half-sitting pos-
ture.
But the most peculiar thing is that you not only have a bed
under you, but also one above you ; for a feather bed supplies the
place of blankets and all other articles of clothing. In sickness,
especially in case of a desperate cold, one of these things may
have an excellent effect in promoting perspiration ; and perhaps a
considerate physician might order two with advantage. But at
other times it is liable to the obvious objection of being rather too
warm, except in the coldest weather, and then, too, unless one is
of very quiet habits, it is liable to be kicked off, and leave the
sleeper in the utmost extremity, who, on waking, finds the tem-
perature of his body very rapidly sinking to the freezing point.
In very warm weather, if the bed keep its position during the
v^hole night, it is well if one escape suffocation. I have seen the
remark, quoted from Coleridge, that " he would rather carry his
blanket about with him, like a wild Indian, than submit to this
abominable custom."
LEIPSIC PUBLISHERS AND PROFESSORS.
(A Letter to " The Watchman:')
Leipsic, September 30, 1841. Through the politeness of Mr.
Tauchnitz, to whom we brought letters, we have become acquainted
to-day with most of the objects of interest in Leipsic. The name
of Tauchnitz is familiar to every student, as a publisher, especially
of editions of the classics. His establishment is one of the largest
in Germany. He is a man of liberal education and of the kindest
manners, and also a decidedly pious man. I remember to have seen
an allusion to his religious history, in a speech of Professor Sears
on the religious condition of Germany, delivered, I believe, at the
meeting of the Triennial Convention in New York, in '38. When
he first became a Christian, some ten years ago or more, his piety
gave so great offense to his father that he threatened to disinherit
him, though an only child. But the father not long after died
very suddenly, without having made a will, and his son came into
immediate possession of his estate. It could not have fallen into
better hands.
In St. Nicholas's Church, considered the finest in the town.
76 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
Luther preached his first Protestant sermon, at the introduction
of the Reformation. We saw, in a closet in the church, the identical
pulpit in which he preached. Leipsic is celebrated for its Uni-
versity, its commercial importance, and its interesting historical
events. The University, after that of Prague, is the oldest in
Germany, and was founded in 1409. Here, among sixty other
professors, and nearly as many privatim docentes^ are Winer, in
the department of theology ; and in the classics and classic history
and antiquities, Hermann, Wachsmuth, Westermann, and Haupt.
The library contains about 100,000 volumes, and the average
number of .students is 1,000. We find that it is vacation at present,
and the next semester will begin in about a fortnight.
Three fairs are held here during the year, in January, in March,
and in September. During this time, Leipsic is visited by people
from all parts of the world, sometimes to the number of 40,000 ;
in the year 1834 the names of 80,000 were entered on the books
of the police. The sales amount annually to more than fifty
millions of dollars. The sale of books is one of the most important
branches of business in Leipsic. Indeed, the whole book trade of
book-making Germany, which at present is flooding the world
with books at the rate of 8,000 per annum, is centred at Leipsic ;
and every bookseller in the country has an agent here. At the
March fair, the time of their annual meeting, 600 booksellers
sometimes meet together for the settlement of their accounts.
They have a large exchange building, where they meet for the
transaction of their business.
HALLE. — HIGH LIVING AT LOW COST. — UNIVERSITY LIFE. — PRO-
FESSOR AND MRS. THOLUCK. A BRITISH-AMERICAN WAR-CLOUD.
Here I am in the city of Halle, No. 147 Fleischegasse, alias
Butchers' Street (and yet no mean street, I assure you, for
Tholuck is my very next door neighbor), in my own study,
where I have been living for two weeks in real bachelor style, and
expect to remain till spring, and perhaps longer. Indeed, for my
tastes there is quite too much of the bachelor about it. My
dinner I get at a public place, and my breakfast and supper are
brought me by my hostess, or Philista^ as the students say, which
I eat all sole alone. Here on my left are now the remains of my
supper, — ah ! here is the PMlista herself, saluting me with her
'' Guten Abend ^ and coming for the dishes, leaving behind the
sugar, butter, etc., which I take care of myself. Just think of
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 77
me keeping my provisions in one of my drawers in my own room !
Is n't it a funny way of living for me ! She brings whatever I
order, keeps an account, and brings it in according to my request
every Saturday night. And for the curiosity of it, what do you
think these two meals have cost me for these first two weeks?
Just about $1.70 ! The meals are as good as I could wish, coffee
and bread and butter, and sometimes, when I am disposed to be
extravagant, eggs in addition for breakfast, and cake for supper.
This is certainly cheap living. For my dinner, at the first hotel
in the city, I pay about $4.32 per month. How they can board
people at this rate, I can't say. For my lodgings, a study-room
and a little bedroom attached to it, I pay at the rate of $22.00
per year. They are large enough, comfortable, and have re-
spectable furniture, the most important article a large, easy sofa,
which is as common with a German student as a rocking-chair
with an American. There is also a large sort of secretary with
drawers, writing-desk and private drawers, and book-case. Besides,
I have attendance, making bed, cleaning room, running errands,
etc., included in the above sum. I am living very busily and
very happily ; never more so, I assure you, in all my life. I
never was conscious of so much life, life of every kind, as now.
I will tell you how I pass my day at present ; you don't know how
systematic I am ! I rise at six o'clock, make my toilet (the chief
of which by the way an entire ablution from head to foot) ; then
a short walk, which I accomplish by seven ; then from seven to
eight, my coffee and reading German Bible ; then from eight to
twelve, study either in my room, or at some lecture, or with my
teacher, — in any case, study in German; from twelve to two,
exercise and dinner ; from two to three, don't do much but digest
my dinner, talking, lounging, etc. ; from three to five, study German
in one way or another ; from five to seven, walk and supper ; from
seven till I go to bed, study ; retire about eleven ; about going to
bed, not over regular, I must confess ; once I pulled my feather
hed over me, that is to say, retired, at half past one. My Sundays
thus far I devote to the German Bible in the main, and a little
English reading in Henry Martyn and Wilson's " Sacra Privata."
I have had some most delightful Sunday hours. I have been
enrolled, and received my matriculation, as a regular student in
the University. The scene with the Prorector and other function-
aries on the occasion of enrollment was quite amusing. They
could n't speak English at all, and I German but precious little.
78 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
The communication was partly in Latin, partly in German, and
on the whole went off quite glibly, — at any rate accomplished the
object. At present I attend but one lecture, Tholuck on the
first three Gospels. Until I have made more headway I doubt
whether I shall attend more, — perhaps, in the course of a month,
one other. I am employed on the German now with all my might
in every possible way, grammar, reading, lecture, conversation,
and anything and everything else. Everything and everybody I
make a teacher, besides spending an hour with a regular instructor
every day. I have become acquainted with several students, with
whom I negotiate exchanges of English for German, and with one
I have a walk every day for this purpose. I wish you could hear
us talk. I can really jahher German quite decently. They tell
me I can talk very well in three months. I begin to have the
vanity to believe that I am blessed with considerable natural
aptitude in catching sounds, and in general of acquiring the
knowledge of a foreign language. It fills one to running over
with enthusiasm for study to be thus situated ; and a consciousness
of constant progress, in spite of what remains to be done, furnishes
the most delicious sensations and a perpetual source of stimulus.
I am quite certain that I can now read the German with four
times the facility with which I could read it three weeks ago,
when I commenced at Leipsic. With Tholuck I have become
quite acquainted, and with his charming little wife. The latter
took the trouble to inquire about lodgings for us, which were
ready as soon as we arrived in Halle. She talks English brokenly,
but in a most fascinating way. She has more of what the French
call naivete about her than any lady I ever met with. She is
small, well-formed, a fine head, black hair and eyes, Grecian nose,
and beautiful countenance ; her manners utterly destitute of affec-
tation, easy and lady-like. I felt when I was talking with her
the other evening, as we were there at tea, as if I were with an
unsophisticated girl. I am not sure I have not fallen in love
from first sight, the first day I was in Halle. Tholuck I see
mostly in his walks, — have had long walks with him. He is a
right fine fellow, — what I call a large-souled man. He talks
English exceedingly well. I inquired with interest about the
other Americans who have been here, all of whom he well re-
membered. In lecture and in conversation, his countenance some-
times lights up, and seems to undergo an actual change ; such a
brilliancy of light playing about it ; his manners very kind and
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 79
familiar, the manner of a warm, good heart, — not a tincture of
school manners ; in dress exceedingly ordinary. He has offered
me the use of his library at any time, also to walk, to talk about
anything, and I will avail myself, I am quite sure, to the full.
We have had terrible rumors about McLeod, that he was con-
demned, and war was inevitable ! but I did n't believe a word of
it. It cannot be — will not be — that England and the United
States will go to war ! Horrible ! Pray stop that border war-
fare, Mr. President Tyler, and manage in some way to get that
McLeod man out of State hands into the power of the General
Government, and then Mr. Secretary Webster and Sir Robert
Peel will settle the matter amicably and speedily. Enough, this,
for politics. You must all be in a dreadful political condition in
the United States, with this matter in addition to the party poli-
tics. Here, under this despotic monarchy, we live quiet as a
summer's eve. Yet I am more a democrat than ever.
HALLE, ITS PROFESSORS. — REFORMATION CELEBRATION AND
SUNDAY BREAKING. — ORIGIN OF A GERMAN BAPTIST CHURCH.
(A Letter to " The Watchman:')
Halle, November 19, 1841. In Halle there is but little that is
worthy of remark, except the University, and I have been here
too short a time to venture at present upon any particular account
of this. The winter semester has already commenced. Tholuck
is lecturing upon the first three Gospels, and also upon Christian
Ethics. In ethics, by the way, he recently remarked to us in con-
versation that he had found Wayland's " Moral Science " a very
valuable work. He is also intending to get out this winter a new
edition of his work on Romans. Gesenius is lecturing upon
Genesis. He is just now engaged with a new edition of his He-
brew grammar, and is still constantly occupied in completing his
Hebrew Thesaurus. Bernhardy seems to be considered the most
distinguished man here in the classics. He has published a work
on the history of Greek literature, in connection with which he is
now lecturing, and also more recently a work on Greek syntax,
which last, if it at all corresponds with the accounts given of it,
would supply a desideratum with us, if it were translated. Halle
is chiefly distinguished, as it always has been, in the department
of theology. In the present chaotic condition of German phi-
losophy and theology, there are representatives here of all the
various opinions and systems.
80 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
Since we have been here, there has been a centennial celebration
of the introduction of the Reformation in Halle. It occurred on
Sunday, October 31. An interesting historical address was deliv-
ered by Professor Tholuck, in the University Aula, after which,
Professor Wegscheider, the present dean of the theological fac-
ulty, pronounced a Latin oration, and at the close of the services
made an announcement of honorary degrees conferred by the Uni-
versity. Among these was the degree of Doctor of Theology, con-
ferred upon Dr. Robinson of New York. It is a fact worthy of
mention, and which I may state upon the authority of Dr. Tho-
luck, that this honor has never been conferred by this University
upon an Englishman, and now for the first time upon an Amer-
ican. One must have a very different view of the Sabbath from
that which prevails in New England, to perceive the propriety
of these last services upon that day. A Latin oration on the Sab-
bath ! Especially, as is not uncommon with such performances,
an oration de omnibus rehus^ et quihusdam aliis/
A few days ago we had the pleasure of seeing our missionary,
Mr. Oncken, who passed through Halle, on his way to Hamburg.
We had a delightful interview with him, and were glad to learn
that he had successfully accomplished the objects of his tour. In
Memel he baptized twenty-nine persons and organized a church.
Among the persons baptized was an uncle of Rev. Dr. Hague of
Boston. This gentleman is a native of England, but for many
years has resided in Memel. It was through his instrumentality
that this Baptist church has been formed. Until recently, these
Christians, while they held to the baptism of none but adults, still
practiced sprinkling ; and in consequence of these views they had
all of them been re-sprinkled. Mr. Hague convinced them of
their error in regard to the mode of baptism, and it was thus
through his means that Mr. Oncken visited them and organized
the church. But it is a matter of more importance than any
change of views upon baptism, that these persons are earnest and
devoted Christians, and are earnestly striving in the midst of
many obstacles for the promotion of the truth as it is in Jesus.
COMMENTS UPON GESENIUS, WEGSCHEIDER, AND ONCKEN.
GREAT BRITAIN'S REFUSAL TO MAKE HER POSTAL CHARGES
REASONABLE.
Halle, November 25, 1841. I was agreeably surprised, in
calling upon that great Hebrew giant, Gesenius, to see on his
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 81
table a copy of Gould & Lincoln's " Conant's Translation." It
looked odd to see it in such a place. The old fellow is a good-
natured, gentlemanly fellow as you ever saw. He talks English
somewhat, but he certainly talks German much better. We
found him quite deshabille^ with his coffee on the table, himself
in slippers, easy dress, neck wonderfully loose, and hard at it in
study ; great books lying about open upon his table, and every-
thing seeming like the den of a lion in science. He loves to
laugh, and to laugh with all his might. He talks about Hebrew
and about his books with all the enthusiasm of a young man ;
remembered Sears very well; inquired about Conant, Stuart,
Eobinson, and some others. He has a pleasant, perhaps a little
roguish expression of countenance, and in manner lively, and
every way gentlemanly. I went to see Wegscheider, too, the
other day ; went as a student, to get his signature as dean of the
theological faculty, to my Student's Album, as they call it, a
book for the insertion of courses of lectures, etc. He lives a little
way out of town, on a place belonging to himself which is quite
princely for Halle. I found him in his garden. His English
was just about as good as my German, and with the two we made
out to talk sufficiently for the business. He is very plain in
dress and manners, and seems rather stiff and precise. He is one
of the old Rationalists, and is, moreover, an old sinner. Gesenius
is one of the most attractive lecturers I have heard ; his enuncia-
tion is very distinct, his tones very fine, and his whole manner
full of vivacity. But he is too much given to trifling and joking ;
he does n't make anything of cracking his jokes, and sometimes
bad ones, too, over the Bible with eighty or ninety students before
him. He is another old sinner. It 's too bad for such fellows so
to abuse their talents and learning. Oncken has been here. I
had a real good interview and was delighted with the man. He
is a whole-souled, energetic. Christian man. His conversation is
instructive and lively, inclined to be witty, and gives evidence of
a well-informed and very active mind. He speaks English exceed-
ingly well. His tour was very successful in all respects. I got a
line from the Barings, with my last letters, stating that they had
received a package on which there was a postage (English) of
nearly ^1, and asking if they should pay it and forward it. Of
course I told them I could n't pay so much, and they must leave
it in the post-office. The papers you sent with your letter of
October first (two packages) had upon them an accumulated
82 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
postage of about f 20.00. Just think of #20.00 for nine Ameri-
can newspapers ! I told them I would give them two Prussian
thalers, about $1.50, for the lot^ but they would n't take it, and
so they got nothing, and the papers were left. It was too hady
abominable, that I couldn't have them. I wish I had offered
more.
A CONCERT BY LISZT, AND A PROPHETIC COMMENT UPON AMERI-
CAN SLAVERY.
Halle, January 23, 1842. I attended a concert lately given by
Liszt, a celebrated composer and pianoforte player. He plays
with exceeding taste ,• a very nice appreciation of sentiment in mu-
sic. In particular he sometimes gave the notes such a softness,
a dying-away-ness, as to make one feel they were endowed with
life. It seemed as though you were drinking in the spirit-lan-
guage of some quite ethereal being. What a wondrous thing in
all this our wondrous life is music !
This week is to come off a dinner in Halle, on the occasion
of the christening of the baby Prince of Wales. . . . With our
present relations to England in regard to the right of search,
Northeast boundary, etc., which Lord Ashburton is coming among
you to settle, it would be a delicate matter to say much on such
an occasion. That confounded slavery business seems destined to
make most serious trouble, and if it does not sooner or later lead
to war and dissolution of the Union, I think we may thank the
special interposition of Providence. I see that a new item of trou-
ble has arisen in relation to a cargo of slaves who mutinied, kiUed
the owner and captain, and went into Nassau, and there were^
most of them, set free. Of course the Southern slaveholders are
greatly enraged. I see, too, that some proposal is to be made for
the admission of Texas into the Union. I hope not, I am sure.
As an American I should be ashamed to acknowledge myself a
fellow-countryman of such a race of villains and cutthroats.
A TRIBUTE TO THOLUCK's PERSONAL CHARACTER. — THE UN-
AMERICAN CONDITION OF GERMAN WOMEN.
Halle, February 26, 1842. I wish we had such professors as
Tholuck among us, who felt so much interested in young men,
could inspire in them so much confidence, enter into their feelings
and wants, sympathize with them, and every way strive to do them
good. He is the sort of a man in whom I could feel perfectly
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 83
willing and secure to confide all personal doubts, trials, and diffi-
culties ; such a one as a young man in study always yearns to find,
but is nearly always disappointed. And then, too, he is so cheer-
ful, so full of playful, childlike kindness and love ; shows ever so
much of the brother and the friend, while at the same time he
tells you more than you can possibly remember ; impresses you
with a conviction that you are in contact with a great mind, and
inspires you with enthusiasm for all that is beautiful and great
and good. It is a great blessing to be near such a spirit as his.
He has already given me many impressions I shall never lose.
There is no other professor whom I care to see so much of, and
from whom, both in private and public, I get so much good. He
is as able and learned as any of them, superior to most, indeed
on the whole the most conspicuous man here, and still evangelical
and truly pious. Such a combination in a German professor is
very rare. Then he knows, better than any man here, the state
of opinion and feeling, and society in general, in England and
America, and is extremely interested in all the movements there.
In speaking of men and books he frequently speaks of their rela-
tion to our country. " Such a book," he will say, " would suit
your people very well ; such a man's spirit and writings are not
adapted to your state of society." In all respects he is probably
to me a more useful man than any other I could find in Germany.
Women seem to be brought up here to all sorts of work, such
as dragging carts through the streets, mud-scows through the
water, cutting up ice in the street with a pick-axe, and other such
feminine employments. I was walking along the banks of the
Saale and saw a man sitting quietly at the helm of a clumsy
craft in the river, and a woman on a footpath on the bank, with a
rope tied round her waist, hauling the craft and man along
through the water. Then in the streets one sees women pulling
along heavy carts and the man behind or one side, ostensibly push-
ing and helping, but really exercising a kind of superintendence,
and seeing that the things don't fall off. Then they lug im-
mense loaded baskets on their backs, containing country produce,
or provisions, and all sorts of things. This last is the most com-
mon sight in the streets. I have seen old women with baskets on
their backs that made them bend double.
84 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
From " The Watchman,'' September 16, 1842.
(We have been so much pleased with the perusal of a private letter from
a young friend of ours, now a student in Germany, that we venture to
present some extracts to our readers. The picture which it presents of
the learned Professor Tholuck, in the free intercourse of private life, and
amid the varied scenes of a journey, on which he was accompanied by
the writer, is highly interesting.)
Our arrangements for traveling are admirable. We have a
large two-horse barouche for the whole route, hired in Halle, and
are four in number, there being besides Professor Tholuck and my-
self, his amanuensis and an Americo-German student from Penn-
sylvania. We can travel just as fast, and just when, and just how
we please, making digressions sometimes on railroad or steamboat,
or the best part on foot, sending, in such cases, the driver with
most of our baggage on before. We have thus far traveled about
forty English miles a day. Professor Tholuck's health is very
delicate, — indeed, it always is, — his nerves extremely irritable,
and his whole frame subject to pain and disorder. He has at best
but a shattered, feeble constitution.
On the journey it is especially difficult for him to find a suffi-
ciently quiet sleeping-room. It is impossible for him to sleep
until every sound in the house is hushed, and in the night the least
noise in his vicinity awakes him. I never knew a man so pecu-
liar in this respect, so excessively sensitive. Then he has a long-
standing bowel complaint from which he suffers, often intensely.
And yet he is the soul of our party, the most lively, entertaining
of us all. Such an activity of soul, such wondrous intellectual
life ! He walks more than all of us together, up hill and down,
and drives ahead like one possessed ; and then when he gets into
the carriage again, apparently exhausted, some question or remark
will put his spirit into action, and he will be as full of life as if
he was in perfect health and strength. He has talked with us
several times in answer to our inquiries about his early life, his
studies, etc., and has given me enough to think of for a year.
One day hfe was so unwell that he said he must go back, and we
made arrangements accordingly as soon as possible, but he recov-
ered and felt better, and we went on, much to our rejoicing. He
is so kind and affectionate, so brotherly^ I verily love, while I
admire him. I think now he will make the whole tour with us.
For the last two or three days we were on Catholic soil. The
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 85
towns and villages, the roadside, exhibit in the statues of the
Saviour, Virgin Mary, saints, etc., and crosses without number,
the peculiarities of Catholic countries. I must confess that these
many Christian emblems and outward signs of Christianity did
not affect me disagreeably. The cross teaches in itself the charac-
ter and contents of Christianity, and to me there is something
extremely interesting to meet with it thus everywhere in a Chris-
tian land.
Heidelberg is a charming place, thrown snugly into the valley
of the beautiful Neckar, directly on its left bank, on a narrow
strip of land between the river and a high range, on a rugged
rocky part of which yet hang the remains of the old castle.
These old walls and towers literally hang from the rocky range
just above the city, and as I look up to them from our hotel, I
can hardly refrain from bowing with reverence to their antiquity
and grandeur. I went all over the ruins early this morning.
The tower was undermined and blown up by the French, but its
walls were so thick and massive — some twenty feet or more — that
instead of being thrown to pieces and scattered in the air, the one
half of it slid down into the ditch below, and there now remains.
These old ivy-covered ruins have made an impression upon me
that can never leave me. The University here is less celebrated
for theology than law or medicine, there being in all only seven-
teen theological students. There are, however, two or three very
distinguished men in the theological faculty, — Ullmann, Um-
breit, and Rothe. The students in general study but little, but
drink beer, smoke tobacco, and fence, and fight duels at a great
rate.
BERLIN AND ITS UNIVERSITY. — A TORCH-LIGHT SERENADE TO
NEANDER. HEGEL AND SCHELLING VS. MORALS AND RELIGION.
(A Letter to " The Watchman.'')
Berlin, February 5, 1843. I will cheerfully comply with your
request, so far as I am able, and try to give you a glance or two
into the life and present goings on of this Prussian metropolis.
Of its various attractions, however, of its galleries, its collections
of science and of art, and of the many other things that swell the
catalogue of its lions^ I must reserve all account till another time ;
for, indeed, I cannot speak of the half of them from personal
observation, having as yet done but little here in the way of sight-
86 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
seeing. But one thing, in passing, I can tell you, and with all
seriousness, as a remarkable fact which has forced itself upon my
notice nearly every day during the four months that I have spent
here, and that is that Berlin is famous, at least during the winter,
for a plentiful scarcity of sunshine and pleasant weather. We
have nothing at all like winter, except a few cold days at the end
of November, and since that time, in two instances, a very incon-
siderable fall of snow. There has been a singular continuity of
just such disagreeable weather as that which hangs about New
England so tenaciously in the spring, and not at all inferior in all
its varieties, Boston and Newport fogs scarcely excepted. Last
week we had a lucid interval of two days and a half, and the
people thronged out en masse to greet the glad, returning beams
of the sun, and the splendid Broadway of Berlin, and the mag-
nificent adjoining park, glittering with gay equipages and joyous
faces. Our editors tell us that the fact about the weather is not
peculiar to Berlin, but is more or less common all over Europe ;
and if this be so, we may be sure that some learned and acute
German will erelong make a thorough investigation of the whole
matter, and furnish the scientific world with some luminous me-
teorological speculations, preceded of course by an exhaustive his-
torical introduction, containing all the phenomena touching the
subject, from the earliest authentic records down to the present
time. Notwithstanding, the city has not been at all wanting in
the usual gayety of the winter season, and has been visited by a
more than ordinary number of strangers, and among them per-
sonages of great distinction, kings and their titled representatives,
and German princes and princesses not a few. The lovers of
musical art are just now favored with the presence of some of the
most distinguished ornaments of that art in Europe ; among them
Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer the prince of living German composers,
Rubini the celebrated tenor, and the pianist Liszt of whose praise
all Germany is full, and who created an enthusiasm here last win-
ter not surpassed even by that which has been awakened in Amer-
ica in late years by the performances of certain European artists.
Berlin is, on all accounts, a place of great interest. The capi-
tal city of by far the most important kingdom in the German
confederation, the residence of the ablest European sovereign
(unless, perhaps, we except Louis Philippe, King of the French),
and the seat of the first German university, it is a central source
of influence to Europe and the world. The policy of the present
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 87
king, for the fullest development of the resources of the country
and the security and elevation of the state, has attracted from the
first the observation and interest of intelligent and thinking men
in Europe ; and while it is naturally a matter of divided opinion
in its bearings upon free institutions, has yet made but one impres-
sion in relation to its sagacious and comprehensive character, and
has already won for the monarch a high intellectual reputation.
On no object has he bestowed a more generous and enlightened
interest than on the University in his capital. It has been his
cherished plan from the period of his accession, to gather around
him here the brightest luminaries of science and literature in Ger-
many, and to secure to this institution, established in 1810 by his
royal father, the first rank among German universities. In pro-
moting this object, he has spared no pains nor expense. He has
laid contributions upon all parts of Germany, has selected out
from the faculties of other institutions its most distinguished
members, occasioning thereby, especially in case of those in the
smaller states, an irreparable loss ; so that this University, though
one of the youngest in the country, has become the very focus of
German literary influence, and can boast a more brilliant constel-
lation of genius and learning than any other in Europe. It is
indeed a magnificent instance of a university, in the original and
proper sense of the word, furnishing the utmost facilities of
preparation in teachers, libraries, and apparatus for the various
branches of professional and literary life. I venture to say that
there is no subject within the whole range of human knowledge,
which one may desire to make a matter of investigation, for the
prosecution of which he cannot find here the amplest arrange-
ments. The catalogue of lectures is truly a curiosity to one who
has never before seen such a document. It contains the pro-
posed lectures of some one hundred and fifty teachers, professors
ordinarii, extraordinarily and the privatim docentes^ belonging
to the four faculties, and not only embraces all the subjects con-
nected with the regular professions, and with philosophy and phi-
lology, but covers the whole ground of polite and general litera-
ture, of abstruse and curious learning ; in short, includes all the
topics that the human mind can think of, or dream about, or busy
itself with in any possible way. The number of students during
the present winter semester is 2,157, and of these the largest
number is in the faculty of law, the next largest in the philosoph-
ical faculty, and the smallest in the faculty of medicine. The
88 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
faculties of law and of medicine have long been superior to those
of any other German university. The place of von Savigny, in
the former, the first German jurist and now Prussian minister,
has been supplied by Puchta, formerly of Leipsic, who is lecturing
here this winter for the first time to a crowded auditory. The
various divisions of the philosophical faculty are rich in great
names. Among them are Schelling and Steffens in philosophy ;
in classical philology, Bekker, Boeckh, Zumpt, and Franz ; in
history, Ranke and Raumer, the brothers Jacob and William
Grimm, the pioneers and still diligent laborers in the investiga-
tion and study of the Old German ; Charles Ritter, in universal
geography ; Encke, in astronomy ; Bopp, in Sanskrit, and many
others whom I cannot mention. The theological faculty is better
filled than any other in Germany, unless that of Halle form an
exception, which, however, in the death of the lamented Gesenius,
has lost one of its ablest members. Theremin and Strauss, both
of them court - preachers, and the former the most eloquent of
German divines, lecture upon homiletics and pastoral theology.
Marheineke, the veteran disciple of Hegel, still adheres to the
Hegelian philosophy, and is lecturing this winter upon the im-
portance of its introduction into theology. Twesten is favorably
known in the department of systematic theology, two volumes of
his works on this subject having been already some time before the
public. He holds the place formerly occupied by Schleiermacher,
and is one of the warmest admirers of the genius and religious
spirit of that great man, and indeed has formed his own theologi-
cal system upon the basis of that of Schleiermacher, though free
from his peculiar, I may say pantheistic, tendencies, and adhering
more closely than he to the Bible as an objective standard of
faith. Hengstenberg has long enjoyed a high reputation as an
Oriental scholar and an interpreter of the Old Testament, and
occupies a more conspicuous, unequivocal position as a super-
naturalist and a champion of evangelical Christianity than any
other German theologian. Neander is as well known in the
United States as in Germany as the first ecclesiastic historian of
the age, and as a lecturer with scarcely an equal in the depart-
ment of New Testament exegesis. I need not say a word in illus-
tration of his immense learning and his warm Christian spirit.
He lectures this winter three hours a day in succession, on the
Epistle to the Hebrews, on the History of Christian Doctrines,
and on Church History, before a more crowded auditory than any
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 89
other professor in the University. The recent recurrence of his
birthday gave occasion to a demonstration of the esteem and
honor of his many students, consisting of a Fackel Zug^ a torch
procession, a serenade, and a present of a silver cup. The scene
on the evening of this occasion was one of no little outward pomp
and display. A procession of some 300 students, each carrying
a huge blazing torch, preceded by a band of music, and attended
by mounted guards, with an open carriage and four containing
the committee deputed to deliver the address and present, and
followed by a large portion of the 300,000 inhabitants of Berlin,
it was on the whole a very brilliant and exciting affair. Ere the
procession reached Neander's house, the street was thronged far
and near, and the torches and the guards were of essential aid in
forcing a passage. The committee then alighted, and went up to
Neander's apartments, and meantime the dense crowd was hushed
to silence and order by low and gentle music from the band.
Soon Neander appeared at the open window above and addressed
the students. He had an audience of thousands before him, repre-
senting all ranks of society in Berlin. The remarks, few and
simple, came warm and fresh from the heart of the speaker, and
illustrated the Christian humility and earnestness of his character.
He expressed his sense of un worthiness of such a manifestation
of honor and love, attributed it less to himself than to the sacred
cause to which he had devoted his life and labors, and exhorted
his students to be true to themselves as Christians, to be true to
the principles and doctrines of evangelical Christianity. After
long and loud acclamations of "Long live Neander! " the students
sang some verses from the favorite Latin song " Gaudeamus," and
then retired from the spot. They then moved off in procession to
the military Parade-Place, where they flung their torches into one
huge, smoking pile, and after gathering about it and finishing the
above song and joining in some hearty shoutings of " Academic
Freedom," the watchword of German students, quietly dispersed,
and left the ground to the police and the rabble.
The at length decided settlement of Schelling here and his lec-
tures form the only feature of peculiar interest in the life of the
University during the present semester. His position is a novel
and important one. After half a century of labor in the field of
philosophy, he appears in Berlin, and commences his course anew
with all the zeal of youth, and at once the successor of Hegel in
his present chair, and his predecessor in the line of German phi-
90 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
losophical masters, is now engaged in combating the prevailing
Hegelian system, and attempting to introduce a new era in Ger-
man philosophy. There is but little probability that he will fur-
nish the world with a Christian philosophy, but he will doubtless
exert here a salutary negative influence in loosening the strong-
hold of the now unquestionably pantheistic and unchristian sys-
tem of Hegel. I do not speak at random nor utter any language
of cant ; I have given some attention to the bearings of this phi-
losophy upon Christianity, and I am sure it is little to say that the
believer in Jesus must look elsewhere for a solution of the prob-
lems of life, and for an explanation of the sacred mysteries of his
faith. It is utterly at variance with the specific claims and un-
questioned truths of Christianity, and is quite foreign to the facts
of Christian consciousness and experience. It takes quite too
lofty a position, and strides on in its high path of* thought, with
a confident air and a proud step, but ill adapted to the relations
of the world in which we live, to the condition and character of a
race of beings, high indeed in its origin, high in its destiny, but
alas, in its pre'sent state, at best but dependent, weak, and sinful.
If we would adopt its results we must shut our eyes to the imper-
fection and misery that sadden and darken human life and society.
We must forget what we have felt within us, what we know of
ourselves, must learn to look upon the spiritual facts that lie in
the depths of our souls, our consciousness of ignorance and mani-
fold want, our sense of sin and guilt, and need of reconciliation
with God, as weak prejudices of childhood and the fictions of the
nursery, utterly unbecoming a mature and dignified manliness.
The point of departure of this system is the reason, its method
the development of all truth out of itself by a logical necessity of
thought ; and its final results are an utter confusion and merging
of the Infinite and the finite, the Divine and the human, reason
and revelation. Strauss has applied this system to systematic the-
ology in his philosophical " Dogmatik," and during the process has
not only done away with all Christian theology, but even with the
existence of theology itself as a science ; and the writers of the
school who compose the class that go by the name of the " Young
Germany " are now working out its pernicious results in the prov-
ince of Morals with a most terrific activity, as if they had sold
themselves with a clear consciousness to the prince of darkness
and were bent upon turning the earth into an unbroken, frightful
waste of wickedness. Amid the incessant changes and the chaotic
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 91
controversy of human philosophy, the Christian may well turn
with quickened and more earnest faith to the teachings of Him
who said of himself, I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
GERMAN AND AMERICAN UNIVERSITIES.
(A Letter to ^'The Watchman.'')
Gotha, September 8, 1843. I arrived here yesterday on my
way from Berlin to the Rhine, by the usual post route througli
Halle, Weimar, and Erfurt.
I have remained a day in Gotha, chiefly for the purpose of vis-
iting its ancient Gymnasium and forming a personal acquaintance
with some of the professors. Through the kindness of one of the
gentlemen I was enabled to visit in his study the venerable Fred-
eric Jacobs, the veteran gymnasial teacher and philologian, so well
known among us by the many editions and extensive use of his
Greek reader. He was dictating a letter to his secretary as we
came in, but laid it aside, and received us with extreme kindness
and cordiality. On learning from my friend, who was with me,
my strong desire to see in his own home one whose name had been
so familiar to me from my school-days, he good-naturedly remarked
that I should find in him at least but a ruin. He is indeed a good
deal broken in body and intellect, but his venerable countenance,
worn as it is by the cares of a long life, is lighted up with the
kindly beams of charity and good-will, and his conversation, inter-
rupted occasionally by forgetfulness and absence of mind, is ani-
mated, intelligent, and full of interest. He spoke of art and
artists, of scholars, their toils and high vocation, with the quiet,
lingering enthusiasm of a veteran in intellectual service, adverted
with delight to the present advanced state of philology in com-
parison with the period of his own early life, and bade us look
well to the aims we should cherish and the increased obligations
we should fulfill. He has lived a long and laborious life, and
reached with honor a serene and cheerful old age.
I have spent several hours to-day in attending the recitations
of some of the higher classes in the Gymnasium. The classical
course is longer and more extensive than in the German gym-
nasia in general, and besides the ordinary five classes, Prima, Se-
cunda, etc., there is a Selecta, the highest of all, in all the re-
citations of which Latin only is spoken, and a higher order of
instruction imparted. It is not unfrequently the case that stu-
92 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
dents from Berlin and other gymnasia, after having passed all
their examinations with the first honors, come to Gotha and spend
two years in the Selecta. The whole course covers at least a period
of ten years, and the ordinary age at graduating is twenty, and
during this period all the branches of study are pursued, which
are preparatory to a professional course at the university. I use
the word " university " here in the German and the proper sense of
the word ; an American university, if we institute a very general
comparison, is a limited German gymnasium. It were scarcely
possible by any modifications, as, for instance, by the union of
professional faculties, as at Yale and Cambridge, with the collegi-
ate faculty, to convert an American college into a German univer-
sity ; it were easier to convert it into a German gymnasium, by
merging in it the academy, and increasing the period and course
of study. I believe that it is conceded by our wisest men that our
systems of education require radical change ; and it seems to me
to be indispensable to all real improvement to perceive and ac-
knowledge the simple fact that a college is a college, and no uni-
versity.
Perhaps a little notice of the three recitations which I attended
may be of some interest to some of your readers. The first was
the Unter-Secunda, in Homer's Odyssey. They had been read-
ing Homer since the commencement of the semester at Easter,
The two things that most struck me here were the extreme atten-
tion given to the doctrine of accents, and the constant comparison
of the Greek with corresponding expressions in Latin. In gram-
mar, great accuracy and thoroughness in the forms. Homer is
read regularly four years, and in the highest class generally once
a week. The second recitation was the Prima in Virgil. With
this I was extremely pleased. The mode of instruction illustrated
very happily the union of the two divisions in classical instruction,
as well as in the whole business of philology, which, in imitation
of the German expressions, may be called the formal and the ma-
terial. The grammar, in all its parts, was faithfully attended to,
and the subject-matter developed and explained. Some of the
questions I still remember. The passage, if I remember aright,
was in the 6th book, somewhere about the 61st line. ^'•Fas est^
What is the distinction between this expression and licet and debet f
Illustrate the distinction in Latin. " Obstitit.^^ What is its pri-
mary meaning, and what does it mean here? How would you
express the present meaning in other Latin words? ^'' Sanctissima
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 93
vates.''' Give a similar Greek expression applied to Juno by Ho-
mer. "Solido ex marmore.^' Develop the meaning of solido
from the theme. What is the connection between this and such
expressions as " solidus homo,'' '' solida gloria?" Is '' solida
doctrina " good Latin ? The allusion to the temple promised by
^neas gave rise to a description of the Apollo Palatinus, built
by Augustus, and thus skillfully mentioned by Virgil, its library,
its manner of being collected, etc. The conditional nature of the
promise involved inquiries concerning the nature of prayer among
the Greeks and Romans, as illustrated by passages from other
writers, and comparison with Christian prayer. The last recita-
tion I attended was Latin grammar, in the Unter-Secunda, — the
syntax. This was conducted quite differently from the manner
pursued among us, not by memory and recitation, but a close and
thorough course of questions, accompanied by an exaction of origi-
nal and copious examples. Afterwards, exercises in writing were
presented and corrected.
GENEVA AND ITS SUER0UNDING8 AND ASSOCIATIONS.
{A Letter to " The Watchman^)
Geneva, October 20, 1848. I have enjoyed so much my visits
to some of the places on this famed lake that I feel tempted to
give you some notices of them before speaking of Geneva itself.
Voltaire said rather boldly of the lake of Geneva, ''^Mon lac est le
premier;'' and Rousseau and Byron loved to wander upon its
banks and sail upon its waters, gazing upon its varied scenery,
and furnishing their imaginations with forms of beauty and sub-
limity ; and, in their poetry, they have employed all the force and
riches of their genius in rendering it celebrated in literature.
I got my first view of the lake, by moonlight, from the hills
behind Vevay. Left quite to myself toward the close of the day's
journey, in the coupe of the diligence, I had been busying myself
in recalling what I had heard and read of the lake, and in nour-
ishing agreeable anticipations of the pleasures awaiting me. It
was* a fine autumn evening, the air clear and cool, the sky was
serene, and all nature in silent repose. On gaining the brow of
the hill, a scene of surpassing beauty broke in at once upon the
view. There lay the lake, reflecting in its clear bosom the stars
and the moon, and stretching away in the distance like a sea of
silvery light, and the mountains beyond, rising up from its margin
94 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
and extending in either direction as far as the eye could reach,
with their dark, gloomy sides piled up against the bright heavens,
and piercing it with their clear-defined, sharp outline. The height
of the hills at this end of the lake and the gradual, winding de-
scent of the road contribute to render this view one of the best
that can be had from any point. But it passed away quite too
soon. With a drag on one wheel, and the horses in full trot, we
soon got to the bottom of the hill, and were rattling across the
market-place, and in a minute more were buried in the narrow,
dark street of the town ; and, on the coach stopping at the dili-
gence office, all my pleasant emotions were put an end to by the
usual bustle of such scenes, the importunities of hotel porters, and
the care of looking after luggage.
The next morning the agreeable impressions of the evening
were renewed by a view of the same scenery in the clearer light
of the sun, and in the finest weather. The hotel at which I
stopped, called the Trois Couronnes, and the best in all Switzer-
land, is finely situated directly on the lake. You step from the
breakfast-room into a garden tastefully furnished with trees and
shrubbery and graveled walks and a flight of stone steps to the
lake. Here you find yourself in the midst of the scenes which
furnished the materials of Rousseau's " Nouvelle Heloise," and of
Byron's " Prisoner of Chillon," and some of the finest passages
of his " Childe Harold."
Immediately opposite, the little town of Meillerie, backed by a
range of rocky hills ; on the curved shore of the lake, to the east,
Montreux, Clarens, and Chillon ; farther on, a distant view of the
upper end of the lake, of the town of Villeneuve, and the entrance
of the Rhone, and behind these, towering to the heavens, ^the
snowy peaks of the Valais Alps. The near vicinity of these lofty
Alpine summits, and the contrast of the pleasant slopes on the
Vevay side, with the steep, rocky hills on the opposite shore, ren-
der the view extremely grand. The poets have not exaggerated
the singular beauty of the water of the lake. Such a perfect crys-
tal clearness, united with their blue color, is certainly very re-
markable. In the afternoon I made an excursion to Villeneuve
in the steamboat, and walked back on the lake road, visiting the
places of interest. In approaching Villeneuve we passed close by
the
" Little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view,"
1841-1844. 95
so beautifully described in the " Prisoner of Chillon." Nothing
could be more accurate than the poetical description of this little
spot. After a short walk from Villeneuve I came to the castle
of Chillon. It is a large, gloomy-looking building, on a rock in
the lake, but close by the road, with which it is connected by a
little wooden bridge. A Swiss soldier was walking up and down
the bridge, in the harmless occupation of keeping guard; and in
the courtyard I met with a man who seemed to be the present
factotum of the place, who took me all about it, telling me much
more about all its history and mysteries, in which he appeared to
be perfectly au fait^ than I can just now distinctly recall. After
descending a flight of steps leading from the yard, and passing
through a large vault and a narrow, very dark passage, I came
into the celebrated dungeon of " the prisoner." It is very much
as Byron describes it, though not so deep nor so very dark and
gloomy as I had expected to find it ; and indeed the rays of the
declining sun, reflected through the little hole in the wall upon its
pillars and rocky sides, made a very agreeable impression, though,
indeed, not agreeable enough to excite any desire to take up a
residence there for any length of time. The "seven columns
massy and gray " divide the dungeon into two parts, and give it a
kind of Gothic church-like appearance. There is still a ring on
one of them, to which the prisoner's chain was fastened. On the
same column Byron has left his name, cut in the stone, and under
it is that of a Russian poet who has translated Byron's works.
In the passage close by I was shown a black, ugly-looking beam,
hung across the walls, on which condemned prisoners are said to
have been hung. In another part of the building are the remains
of one of those frightful places, in use in former ages, into which
unfortunate victims were flung down upon instruments of torture
and death from a trap-door above.
This building was used in former times as a state prison, and
some of the early reformers were confined here. Byron mentions
the name and fate of Bonnivard, in the sonnet upon Chillon,
though it seems that he was not acquainted with the particulars
of his history before composing his poem. He was a prior, who
was " seized by the Duke of Savoy for his exertions to free the
Genevese from the Savoyard yoke, and carried off to this castle,"
where he lay immured for six years. But on the recovery of the
Pays de Vaud and the taking of Chillon by the Bernese and
Genevese forces, Bonnivard, with some other prisoners, was set
96 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
free. The building is now used by the canton as a magazine for
military stores.
Montreux is one of the most quiet, beautiful spots on the lake,
at the foot of a high mountain called the Dent de Jaman. Its
sheltered situation and mild climate render it a delightful winter
residence. Then farther on you come to Clarens, " sweet Clarens,"
which Byron has described with such enthusiasm ; but you must
not be in a prosaic mood, if you would realize his fine verses upon
this spot. Indeed, nothing less than the poet's eye and fine frenzy
of inspiration could invest it with such peculiar charms, for it is
an extremely ordinary village, and has no particular merit above
many others on the lake. But we must not take the poet too
literally; he seems to have chosen Clarens to give some local
habitation to the rich thoughts and glowing images which thronged
in upon his mind in the midst of all the surrounding scenery.
With this impression you can appreciate and enjoy all that he
has said of the place.
"'Tislone
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound
And sense and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne."
Lausanne. The next morning I took a steamboat for this place.
It is a sail of about an hour from Vevay. It is situated very high,
and makes a fine impression from the lake, the houses built along
upon the slope of the hill, and peering above them all, its cathedral
and castle. The boat stops at a little viUage called Ouchy. Close
by the landing-place is the little inn in which Byron wrote his
" Prisoner of Chillon " during two days in which he was kept here
by bad weather. Behind the Cathedral is the Castle, the former
residence of the bishops, a large, irregular building, surmounted
with four turrets. The terraces in the higher parts of Lausanne
furnish agreeable views and pleasant walks ; and there is a mag-
nificent prospect from a lofty point called The Signal, which well
repays all the trouble of climbing up to it, especially at sunset.
Nothing can be finer than the view at that time. The lake glit-
ters like gold in the light of the setting sun, and all the trees and
the vineyards and the tops of the houses reflect its rich mellow
hues ; and as the sun sinks behind Mount Jura, you watch its
last rays lingering upon the summits of the Savoy hills and the
mountains beyond.
My high expectations of Geneva have not been disappointed ;
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 97
one could not well be in a more agreeable spot, nor richer in
combinations of the beautiful and the grand. Its situation at the
end of the lake, embosomed in woods and waters, and surrounded
by every variety of hill and mountain scenery, is one of the finest
in the world. The sloping banks of the lake are scattered with
gardens and vineyards and beautiful villas, and on one side and
extending far around you have the lofty, unbroken range of the
Jura, and on the other, through an opening in the hills, the snowy
peaks of Mont Blanc and of the other mountains in the chain
of the Savoy Alps. But it is Mont Blanc that forms the all-
oommanding object of interest in the scenery of Geneva. Wherever
you may be, whether on the lake, on the promenades, or on the
neighboring hills, at sunrise, sunset, and at noonday, the presence
of '' the monarch of mountains " is with you, impressing you with
its quiet grandeur, and mingling its solemn lessons with all your
thoughts and feelings.
The city itself is divided by the rushing Rhone into two parts,
united together by several bridges, one of them long and handsome
and connected with a little isle, on which there is a statue of
Rousseau. The older and Jarger part, on the left bank of the
Rhone, consists of the upper and lower town, from the uneven
nature of the ground. The former only is very agreeable, and is
graced with many elegant mansions of the wealthier citizens ; in
the lower town are the shops, and offices, and places of public
lousiness, in which the streets are narrow and damp, and the
houses very high.
In former times, when the distinctions of rank were more marked
than now, as well in the form of government as in social life, the
aristocracy lived exclusively above, and the democracy below, and
the two parties were engaged in continual quarrels with each
other ; and one way in which the democracy used to amuse them-
selves at the expense of their patrician neighbors, and bring them
to terms, was by cutting off the pipes which supplied the upper
town with water, the hydraulic machine being down below, and
quite under their control.
Among the many pleasant walks I have made in the vicinity is
one to the junction of the Arve with the Rhone, a little way
behind the city. You go along by a shady footpath on the left
bank of the Rhone : on the other side, the banks are very high,
and the narrow slopes below are covered with vineyards. You
soon come to the narrow point of land where the two rivers meet^
98 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
two streams as different as possible in outward appearance, the
Rhone blue and clear and rapid, and the Arve having all the
muddy heavy look of all mountain streams fed by snows and
glaciers. For some little distance the waters keep quite distinct,
and the opposing colors seem to refuse all union, but the beautiful
blue proves too feeble in the struggle, and at length entirely dis-
appears. It is a retired, quiet spot, quite shut in by the banks
of the two rivers. Another pleasant walk is to Diodati, in the
village of Cologny, the residence of Lord Byron while he was in
Geneva. It is a pleasant villa on the south shore of the lake,
sufficiently high for a good view, and having agreeable gardens
and walks ; but the pictures I have often seen of it pleased me
better than the place itself. Byron wrote here his " Manfred '^
and the third canto of " Childe Harold." Ferney, the place where
Voltaire lived so many years, is about five miles from Geneva, on
the road to Paris ; but I have not yet been to see it, and indeed
I have not sufficient admiration for his genius and character to
induce any strong desire to go at all. The most interesting ex-
cursion in the immediate vicinity is to the summit of Mont Saleve,
a mountain to the southeast of Geneva, and more than 3,000
feet above the lake. I made the ascent a few days ago with
some friends, and, though I found it very fatiguing, was well
repaid for my pains by the view from the top. After walking
about three miles, you reach the foot of the mountain, whose
steep, rugged sides make a very picturesque appearance. Hence
you get up by a steep footpath, the upper part formed of steps
cut in the rock, to the little village of Monnetier. From this
village to the top you have two miles of rather hard climbing
on a path covered with pieces of broken rock, which no one
should begin to mount without first looking well to the quality
of his shoe-leather, as we all learned from the fate of one of
our party, quite unsuitably provided in this respect, who, poor
fellow, bore it as long as he could, picking his way and treading
softly, but finally gave up in despair and turned back, protesting
that Mont Saleve was not worth seeing. The rest of us pushed
on, and after some hard experience reached the top. With the
exception of three or four trees, the summit is very bare and
exposed ; and the air being sufficiently cold, we were glad to
get into a little rude chalet, the only dwelling there, and warm
ourselves round a fire made upon the rocky earth, the smoke
of which got out as well as it could through a large hole in
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844:. 99
the roof. Here we got a cup of coffee and some bread, but
unfortunately the coffee was cold and the bread hard, the latter
from age, and the former from being two thirds milk, but as
we were hungry and thirsty, it was all gradually disposed of,
with no worse results than rendering our stomachs a little less
warm and light than they were before. But we found enough
in the scenery without to dissipate all thoughts of fatigue and
inconvenience. The prospect is varied and extensive and fidl
of surpassing interest, — Mont Blanc and the adjacent mountains
directly in view, their peaks crowned with snow, and glaciers
streaming from their sides ; and the populous valley below, inter-
sected by the Khone and the Arve, and bounded on the north
by the Jura, and on the east by the vast expanse of the lake.
It was late in the day as we went away, and most of the way
down to Monnetier we had these snowy mountains before us,
glowing in the soft rich colors of the setting sun ; the view of
these hoary peaks in the mellowed hues of sunset, if it be less
sublime, is certainly all the more beautiful, and mingles with
softer sentiments those grander impressions which they usually
awaken.
Geneva is rich in historical associations, from the fame of her
great men and the momentous events which have occurred in it ;
and as the home of Calvin and one of the principal seats of the
Reformation, its history is coincident with that of Europe and
the world. In regard to matters of religious faith and practice,
Calvin would scarcely recognize in the Geneva of the nineteenth
century the place where he lived and preached and wrote, and
ruled so long with uncontrolled dominion. In this respect, Geneva
has been more seriously influenced than England and America, and
scarcely less than Germany, by the prevailing forms of philosophy
and intellectual culture since the beginning of the present century.
The theology taught in its academy and preached in most of its
pulpits resembles in its great features the Unitarianism of New
England and the earlier forms of German Rationalism, and, like
these systems, it is fluctuating and uncertain, and wanting in posi-
tive, enduring elements. Very important differences of opinion
exist within the pale of the national church ; and the stricter adher-
ents of Calvinism have separated themselves, and now form a dis-
tinct, dissenting organization, having in addition to their church
a separate school of theology. M. d'Aubigne, the distinguished
author of the " History of the Reformation," is one of the profes-
100 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-18M.
sors in this school. This party is generally designated in conver-
sation and in the daily journals by the name of Methodists ; and
on inquiring several times about the meaning of the word, I have
been told that they held to the stricter Orthodox doctrines, and
disapproved of people going to the theatre, and mingling in what
are usually called worldly pleasures.
THE STUDY OF MODERN LANGUAGES. — AN INTERESTING EXCUR-
SION AND A SHORTAGE OF CASH.
Geneva, November 24, 1843. I have been much more inter-
ested than I ever expected to be in the study of these modern
languages (Italian and French), and hope to find, as I have
already in part done, my experience in this way of great avail in
the further prosecution of Latin and Greek. The habits which
one acquires, and the new views one gets on the whole subject of
language, by getting well acquainted with living tongues, may be
turned to excellent account in the study of languages which are
now extinct. At any rate, my time and money spent in this foreign
expedition never could have been better employed ; of this I am
absolutely sure. I am only sorry that I have not enough left for
a long enough residence in Italy, and (pray don't tell me I don't
want to come home) one not less long in Greece ! Indeed, if I
were sure of devoting myself hereafter to the ancient languages, I
would scarcely scruple to devote the few hundreds still remaining
to me to a residence in these two countries of some months at least.
The benefit resulting would be infinite in comparison with the
outlay of money. I feel as happy as a child when I think of en-
tering the gates of the " Eternal City," and exploring its localities
and gazing upon its time-honored ruins. I scarcely dare to think
about it in advance, much less to write about it, lest it should
after all be denied me.
I have made an interesting excursion, which I enjoyed very
much, to the Perte du Rhone, literally, the loss of the Rhone, a
place where the river mysteriously disappears for a short distance
in the earth, visiting I know not what sort of people in the regions
below. I went with three of the young men who live here in our
pension^ two of them Russians, and the third German. We took
a carriage from Geneva, and were gone in all a day and a half.
It was fine weather when we started, and we had high expecta-
tions. It was a ride of about four hours on the road to Lyons,
when we came to a place called CoUonges, already some ways into
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-im .> >, ; ; : ; ,1*01;
France, where we stopped for the night. It was about seven
o'clock in the evening, and we were cold and hungry. We got a
room upstairs, had a good fire made, and ordered supper. And a
grand supper it was ; and we sat and eat and drank and talked,
and sang songs, Russian, French, German, and English, till about
eleven o'clock, when we were ready to break up and go to bed.
We slept soundly enough till six o'clock, when we woke up to find
the heavens hung in black clouds, and pouring rain, snow, and
hail I A fine prospect before us of seeing the Perte du Rh6ne !
We waited till eight, hardly knowing what to do, when there be-
gan to be some signs of better weather, and we determined to go
on. Into the carriage we got, and shut up ourselves against the
fog and damp without, for which we endeavored to make up as
well as we could by conversation and singing within. We came in
a little while to the French Fort de I'Ecluse, a place of wondrous
strength, both by nature and art. It is built on the side of the
lofty Jura, hanging above the narrow road, far down below which
runs the Rhone, and on the other side a high, curious-looking Sa-
voy mountain, called the Vouache. We passed by it, leaving all
further examination till our return. We came at length to a lit-
tle place called Bellegarde, near which is the Perte. It was such
wet, muddy walking, and we were so badly provided with boots,
we had to muster among the good villagers some thick, clumsy,
shoes, with which we fortified ourselves, and following in the wake
of an old woman as guide, went down the steep bank of the river.
It is a grand, magnificent place, and the bad weather, with the
thick, lazy clouds rolling about the sides of the mountains, only
added to the wildness of the scene. Byron well describes the spot
in the lines, —
" Where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted."
There we went down below the mountains, which surrounded us
on all sides, the swift river rushing on and foaming in its rocky
course, and then disappearing as quietly as possible in the earth,
and some hundred yands farther flowing on again as if nothing
in the world had happened. It is a curious phenomenon enough,
and looks so strange to see a rushing river all at once utterly
vanish and for some distance remain entirely concealed from view.
In coming back in the afternoon we were scarcely less pleased in
viiiiting the Fort. It makes a very threatening, warlike appear-
1Q2.< - , ;, LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
ance from the road below, built all the way up along the steep
mountain, and presenting its ranges of ramparts and batteries.
The parts above are connected with each other and the main
building below by staircases cut in the mountain. Imagine your-
self going up some 1,100 steps hewn out in the midst of the
solid mountain. One feels a little uneasiness sometimes lest the
mountain should cave in upon one's head, and thus effectually
prevent one from reaching the top, or indeed perhaps from get-
ting down again. But the old Jura played us no such freak,
and we got up at last to enjoy a fine prospect, mountains behind
and on both sides, and directly before a fine open view, extending
as far as Geneva and the lake. From the fort we returned on
foot to Collonges, as we had sent the carriage on before. We had
a funny adventure to close our excursion. While at supper at
Collonges, we sent for our bill, and, mustering all our purses and
pockets, found that our resources fell short of the required
amount. An unpleasant predicament, as we were perfect stran-
gers in the place ! In truth we had lived pretty freely, and what
with two suppers and breakfast for four of us, to say nothing of
the fluids for the former, and beds and fire and candles, the bill
came to forty-three francs ! We made a parley with " mine host,"
and got off by leaving a watch in pawn for the deficiency in the
money ! That was a great joke, was n't it, for four respectable fel-
lows like us ? We sent the money next day, but the watch has n't
yet made its appearance, though we expect it to-day. So much
for not counting the cost and not taking one's purse. It was on
the whole a very agreeable excursion, and did me a great deal of
good, for I have kept myself rather close since I have been here,
and taken too little exercise, and had begun to feel the need of
some little change. I shall get to Rome as quickly as possible.
I feel that I have no time to lose, and much less money to spare.
GENOA. — ROMISH AND PROTESTANT HABITS OF REVERENCE. —
ACROBATIC BEGGARS.
(A LeUer to " The Watchman:')
Genoa, December 12, 1843. Here is a city well worth visit-
ing. It has more marked, peculiar features than any which I
have before seen, charming in the extreme beauty of its situation,
and imposant by the grandeur of its churches and palaces. I
wish I could give you an idea of Genoa as I saw it to-day from a
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1^. ,' : -103 >
high point just out of the city, overhanging the sea. There lay
the beautiful, crescent-shaped bay, covered with shipping, and the
city beyond extending around the base of a declivity of the Apen-
nines, its sloping sides adorned with a brilliant succession of villas,
gardens, and woods, and the tops crowned with a line of fortifica-
tions. The coup d'oeil is grand, the curved shape of the bay and
city, the houses rising above each other, tier upon tier, and the
gallery of fortifications, giving the impression of a magnificent
amphitheatre. The interior of the city is scarcely less interesting.
In some of the older parts, the streets are narrow and disagree-
able, but modern Genoa is inferior to few cities in Europe in its
squares and promenades, its public buildings, and the palaces of
the old noble families. One of the streets, the Strada Nuova, is
occupied exclusively by palaces, and nothing can exceed the grand
effect produced by these lines of magnificent buildings. They are
characterized throughout by a colossal style of grandeur, their
massive facades exhibiting grand portals, gigantic windows, and
projecting cornices, covered with various architectural ornaments,
and connected on one side with long, terraced galleries, through
whose arches and columns you catch a glimpse of the fountains
and trees in the adjoining gardens. All these palaces contain
choice collections of paintings, which a trifling fee to the porter
renders admissible to every stranger. Genoa is not less distin-
guished in the number and character of its churches. I have been
astonished at the grand scale on which they are built, and with
the splendor and magnificence with which they have been adorned.
No pains nor expense have been spared in rendering them costly
monuments of art, as well as fitting temples of the Most High.
Some of them have been erected by private individuals and noble
families of Genoa, grand and lasting memorials of the piety and
munificence of their founders.
The cathedral, one of the oldest in the city, is built in a curious
style of architecture, partly Gothic and partly Oriental. The
facade is formed of alternate stripes of black and white marble,
and has an immense portal, the columns of which are said to have
been brought from Almeria, at the time of the taking of that city,
in the twelfth century. The nave of the church preserves still its
original character, its walls striped alternately with white and
black, and the columns of various materials and colors, marble,
porphyry, and granite, standing upon bases of basalt. The re-
mainder of the church is quite modern, and is decorated with
,4Q4i'-; ; /, L:E,TTERS from EUROPE, 1841-1844.
paintings and carved ornaments. One of the chapels, that of St.
John the Baptist, is a very wonder of taste and elegance. The
altar is supported by four columns of porphyry, between which is
a marble sarcophagus containing the supposed relics of the Bap-
tist, which, by the way, are taken out once a year, on the day of
his nativity, and carried in procession. Around the chapel are
sixteen statues, executed by Delia Porta. While 1 was lingering
here to gaze upon these works of art, I observed the people gath-
ering, and kneeling near the chapel, in considerable numbers, and
in a few moments a priest appeared with his attendants, and com-
menced reading the mass. I retired to a place among the wor-
shipers, and notwithstanding my want of acquaintance and sym-
pathy with the rites of the Catholic Church, I found enough, in the
solemnity of the place and of the whole scene, to inspire senti-
ments of reverence and devotion. I confess that I am scarcely
ever present at a Catholic service without being struck with the
contrast between the perfect decorum and silence observed by all
present, the air of solemnity upon every countenance and pervad-
ing the whole assembly, and the business-like way of coming into
church in our country, and the carelessness and languid indiffer-
ence too often visible during the time of worship. In these out-
ward matters, in the deep reverence for the church as the temple
of God, perhaps we may learn much from those in whose doctrines
and culture we see such mournful deviations from the teachings
and the spirit of Christ.
In Genoa you see in the streets all the animation and noisy
gayety of Italian life, and of beggars a full Italian proportion, of
all ages, sexes, and characters. Among these last, some of the
little boys brought up to the business are quite adepts in their
way, and the most amusing, interesting little fellows you can im-
agine. The little black-eyed urchins tell their story so well, wink-
ing and straining hard aU the while to keep their faces sober
enough, that you cannot help giving them something. They are
quite expert, too, in performing clever little feats of agility, to
secure your interest and charity. As I was walking yesterday, a
ragged little fellow came by and caught my attention with his
begging, imploring look, and, quick as lightning, darted off upon
the pavement in a series of circular somersets that was quite start-
ling. He was back again in an instant, with his hand out, and
telling me, with a woeful look and tone,- that he was a pauvre en-
fant, etc., for they manage to pick up some French phrases, too.
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 105
to get along better with foreigners. These poor little creatures
will describe you a dozen yards of somersets for a couple of cents.
ROME AND HER ANTIQUITIES. — ROMISH AND PROTESTANT WOR-
SHIP. — A CALL TO PREACH FROM MAINE.
Rome, January 10, 1844. My time is amply occupied here;
every day is a great one; all have to be italicized in my journal,
for all are full of events. It 's a great place to see, and think, and
study. A year's residence here might be the making of any man.
But my time is limited. I do as much as I can, and hope to bring
away somewhat that will be of service to me all my life. I had
no conception till I came here of the immense riches of Rome in
all that is great and valuable, in means of high cultivation. True,
it is chiefly art, its history, and all its branches, but besides this
the whole subject of classical archaeology, history, and a thousand
other things. One is influenced on all sides, wherever one goes,
by great subjects of thought and study, and is conscious of breath-
ing an intellectual atmosphere. I have studied all my mornings
till about one, and then gone out lionizing till five, when I dine ;
then I have the evening to try to collect myself, make notes, etc.
One sees, however, so much, and is so operated upon by what is
seen, that one gets wearied out by night. I have been to the old
site of the Forum more than anywhere else, and know it as well
as any part of Boston. One feels himself verily in old Rome in
walking about this place and the vicinity. You see the whole
course of the Via Sacra, and can trace it through the arch of Sep-
timius Severus, and winding round up to the Capitol between the
ruined columns of the beautiful temples which once adorned this
part of the Forum. You see the site of the old Rostra and the
Comitium. And near by is the Palatine, still covered with mas-
sive ruins of the palace of the Caesars. And then a little way on
is the Coliseum. What a magnificent pile is this ! Words give
no idea of it, nor of the feelings it inspires. I went up to see it
by moonlight one night, and it was the grandest spectacle I ever
witnessed. It was New Year's eve, and I had enough in the
scene and the occasion to impress me with solemnity and inspire
earnest resolution. Indeed, the sight of all these ruins has a sal-
utary moral influence upon one's whole character. There is more
in this than people are apt to suppose. Near the Forum, too, are
many other things ; the Circus Maximus, on the other side of the
Palatine, may be fixed as to its site, though the extremity towards
106 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
the Tiber is now covered with modern houses. Across the whole
length of it runs a street, called the Street of the Circus. Then
there is the Cloaca Maxima, not far off from here ; a mysterious
sort of entrance, through a little path under low arches, brings you
to a clear, fine fountain, in which, as I was there, some Italians
were washing their dirty breeches ; then, farther on, you see the
mouth of the Cloaca, all hung over with moss and shrubbery, now
in a perfectly neglected state. The house under which it runs to
the Tiber is filled with straw and hay. One thing more illus-
trates the value of a residence here, in regard to classical studies,
namely, the great Circus of Romulus (the son of Maxentius).
This is some ways out of the city, on the old Via Appia. The
whole shape is visible, and ruins of the walls all round ; the Spina,
too, is there, and the Metae at each end. How quickly I under-
stood the construction of these Circi, of which, from pictures, I had
tried to get a conception in teaching the classics. You remember
the first ode of Horace, the "metaque fervidis evitata rotis," —
" curriculo pulverem," etc. I remember how in connection I tried
at Providence to understand perfectly the whole subject, — a sin-
gle visit here clears it all up. So it is in a thousand things. Hor-
ace actually becomes another book to one after seeing all these
spots.
I have been into the churches a good deal, as there have been
holy-days since I have been here. I do not wonder that people
of a certain style of character, both in England and America, get
a leaning to Catholicism. The Protestant service has not enough
of the outward, and not enough, strictly speaking, of worship ;
it is too exclusively for the mind^ and not enough for the heart !
The sermon is all in all, which is a great fault, I think. There
is something extremely impressive in Catholic forms and cere-
monies. On the other hand, there is too much stuff about the
whole system, which no sensible and enlightened man can swallow,
to say nothing of the grave doctrinal errors. But in regard to
authority^ this tendency to Romanism is certainly surprising in
our times, so marked by an opposite tendency, a struggle to get
from all authority ; perhaps, indeed, in some cases it may be ex-
plained as a reaction ; people get unmoored and tossed about,
having no fixed resting-place, and are glad to rest in the bosom
of an infallible church. I feel more and more anxious to get
home. I shall love my country and all my friends better than
ever. Even in these attractive and awakening scenes, home has
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 107
charms for me beyond everything ; in the Coliseum I have felt
the strongest drawings homeward, and felt that I could turn my
back upon all, and hasten as on the wings of the wind. By the
way, I had almost forgotten to say where I read the Thanksgiving
letters. I went out to walk, and on the way stopped at Torlonia's
to inquire for letters, and found they were there. I went on in
my walk, with a friend with me, up the Quirinal, where we rested
by the fountain of Monte Cavallo, and where I ran over the
sheets, in the shade of the colossal figures of Castor and Pollux,
the work of Phidias and Praxiteles. Afterward I continued my
walk alone on to the Forum and Coliseum, and seeking out a nice
seat among the ruins of the latter, read the letters carefully over,
thanking you all from my inmost heart for all your kind wishes
and words of love. And singularly enough there was a letter
from Waterville, requesting me to come there and preach as soon
as I return ! The oddest of all things to come to a man in Rome !
They little thought the sheet would travel so far ! If I intended
to settle, Waterville would please me in many respects, but this
is not^ cannot 5e, my destiny. I want occupation of another
kind, and think I am better fitted for it, by my whole education.
{A Letter to " The Watchman^)
Rome, January 15, 1844.
"I am in Rome ! oft as the morning sun
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry.
Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen me ?
And from within a thrilling voice replies.
Thou art in Rome ! "
My dear Sir, — You must pardon me in opening my letter with
these lines of poetry, which came from the heart and the expe-
rience of the author, and describe so truly the feelings of a stran-
ger in Rome. The most prosaic man may get a little out of the
sober vein at such a time, and borrow the aid of poetry in express-
ing the rapturous joy which he feels. It has been given me at
length to see with my own eyes the Eternal City. From Genoa,
where I wrote you last, I hastened on, my longing desire increas-
ing at every step, though mingled with a sort of tremulous feeling
that cast somewhat of mystery over the whole journey, and would
scarce let me venture to say to myself whither I was going. But
the several stages safely got over, and the wide, solemn Cam-
pagna traversed, the Tiber and the city burst upon my view ; and
108 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
entering the Via Flaminia and passing under the Porta del Po-
polo, I could finally assure myseK that I was in Rome. But I
could not easily tell you those first feelings awakened within me,
nor perhaps give a very clear account of the several next succeed-
ing days. They passed away, more like the glad visions of a
dream than the sober passages of waking life. It is as if a new
life begins within you in seeing for the first time a city of which
you have seen and read and heard so much from the earliest
periods of your recollection, and which has been inseparably
associated with your whole education. An utter stranger in a
foreign city, you are yet in a place you have known long and well ;
nothing of all that is around you is really strange. You see with
your own eyes the scenes that have been familiar to your thoughts
and feelings, and cherished with sentiments of reverence and
affection, in the midst of which your spirit was nurtured and
gathered its early strength, and whence have come the richest
and most valuable elements of your intellectual culture. Goethe
was wont to speak of the day of his entrance into Rome as a
second birthday, and his residence in it as the period of his edu-
cation. Certainly in the life of any man, no event can be more
fruitful in intellectual influence. There is indeed but one Rome
in the world ; but one place around which cluster such an assem-
blage of great objects, a place so rich in historical interest, in
treasures of art and learning, in all that is grand and beautiful
and valuable, that most intimately affects the life and being of
man. It is a great school of study and high cultivation, for all
who come with open eye and earnest mind. The man of humblest
capacity gets quickened and strengthened to somewhat of high
effort and attainment, and no intellect so great and cultivated
that finds not here enough to learn. One feels himself brought
in mysterious nearness to the past, and impressed with reverence
and awe, in living in a city more than two thousand years old, its
history the history of the world, once the capital of an empire that
overshadowed the earth, the nurse of literature and the arts, and
the mother of great men. This mighty people has passed away
with the master spirits that guided and ruled them, that empire
long since broken up and scattered ; but here is the same soil, the
same hills, the walls of their city are yet standing, and every-
where around are monuments of their grandeur.
I should get too much into detail if I should begin to tell you
of the grand objects which I have beheld in exploring the locali-
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 109
ties of ancient Rome. True, it is often a perplexing labor, indeed,
a study in itself, to search out the old city in the present condi-
tion of the new ; but it has ever such an exciting, all-absorbing
interest, and abundantly repays one's time and pains. But much
comes unsought ; you have only to go with open eyes to see the
traces of the ancient glory, often where you least expect them,
amid the crowd and hum of men, in the busiest haunts of modern
Rome. Yesterday, in passing through a small, narrow street, I
came suddenly upon two beautiful columns of an old temple, which
are now half buried in the earth, in strange contrast with the small
hovels about them, of which modern masonry has made them a
part ; and near by ruins of another temple, three fine Corinthian
columns supporting a richly worked architrave, now in the midst
of the commonest buildings. In the heart of the city, on one of
the smaller business squares, which some days in the week you
find alive with the noisy scenes of a market-place of a modern
Forum Yenale, stands the noble Pantheon, worn and darkened
with age, but proud in its matchless strength and beauty as in the
days of Agrippa and Augustus. But if you will see classic Rome,
you must thread your way out of the narrow, crowded streets of
the modern city, and bend your steps to the Capitol and the
Forum. This spot, the proudest in the ancient cit}^, so rich in
classic associations, the changing influences of time and the reck-
less fury of invasion seem to have passed over less rudely, and
have left its general form and numerous monuments of its former
greatness. Though most of its present surface is many feet
above the old level, yet in some parts the ancient soil is visible ;
the whole course of the Via Sacra may be traced, the very pave-
ment still left, the site of the Comitium and the Rostra, and on
all sides the arches and columns of the temples that formerly
adorned this place. The Palatine, too, is there before you, cov-
ered with the massive ruins of the Palace of the Caesars, and near
by the grandest relic of antiquity, the Coliseum. In presence of
the Coliseum, everything else seems small and insignificant ; it
staggers your power of comprehension ; you seek in vain to get
within you some adequate image of it ; you go away and come
again and again, and every time it seems greater and more majes-
tic. It is extremely interesting, too, to visit the remains of the
great useful works of ancient Rome, the Cloaca Maxima and the
enormous ruins of the baths and the aqueducts. It gives some
just conception of the eminent practical spirit of the Romans,
llO LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
informed and ennobled by taste and an enlightened sense of the
grand and magnificent.
But in alluding to all these fine monuments of the past, I am
reminded of that architectural wonder of modern times, the
church of St. Peter's. This wonderful structure yields, in gran-
deur of design and execution, to none of the finest of ancient
temples, and standing there in its entire perfection, teaches what
the cultivated art of modern times has been able to produce.
I have been amazed at the treasures of art in the Vatican and
the Capitol. It is incredible, the immense extent and riches of
the Vatican galleries. You wander from room to room in admi-
ration and delight, lost in a wilderness of art, and when you stand
before the Apollo Belvedere you are fastened to the spot as if by
a magic spell. It is an era in one's life when one sees for the first
time this exquisite work. For the study of the history and archae-
ology of art, as indeed of all that pertains to the subject of
classical antiquities, no place can be equal to Rome. And since
the days of Winckelmann, whose labors here formed an epoch
in these studies, much has been done by scholars of scarcely less
fame, in Italy by Zoega and Visconti, and in Germany, among
many others, by Bottiger, Hirt, Thiersch, and Otfried MiiUer.
Additional materials have been gathered, busts, inscriptions, and
statues discovered, collected, and explained, and the subjects have
assumed a scientific form and character. In the topography of
ancient Rome, great service has been rendered by the works of
Canina and Bunsen, and recently by a work on Roman archaeology
by Becker, the first volume of which, devoted to this subject, has
already appeared.
But I must hasten to close this letter, which may be getting too
long. Yet a notice, however, of one or two things which may be
of some interest. I was present at the Christmas service at St.
Peter's. It was certainly a grand and imposing spectacle, the
presence of the Pope and the whole body of cardinals in their offi-
cial robes, and a countless multitude assembled in the most mag-
nificent church in the world, to celebrate the birth of Christ ; but
there is too strong a mixture of the worldly in the whole scene,
too much of a pageant, to awaken Christian feelings and impres-
sions, and I must confess that I found the service growing tedious
and repulsive, and was glad when it was over. A few days ago
I attended an exhibition of languages at the Propaganda. Some
fifty exercises were exhibited in nearly as many different tongues,
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. Ill
belonging to all quarters of the world ; for instance, three dialects
of the Chinese, the Hebrew and its kindred dialects, the Coptic,
Bulgarian, etc., these of course all by native students. This, you
are aware, is the missionary school of Kome. If it only sent
abroad the pure truth, and scattered the written word !
In closing, let me mention a rare pleasure which I enjoyed yes-
terday in attending a little religious meeting, composed of tempo-
rary residents here, mostly from England. It was an unexpected
privilege to meet here, among others, Mr. Ellis, the well known
missionary ; Dr. Keith, the author of the work usually called
" Keith on the Prophecies ; " and John Harris, the distinguished
author of the " Great Teacher." Thus in Rome, too, one meets
with valued Christians, and may enjoy the pleasures of social wor-
ship. I thought of the words of the Saviour, that neither in the
mountain of Samaria, nor yet in Jerusalem alone, may men wor-
ship the Father ; for " God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him
must worship Him in spirit and in truth."
POMPEII AND VESUVIUS.
Rome, April 6, 1844. I have just returned from Naples. It
is the most beautiful city I have yet seen ; an incomparably lovely
situation, and all the environs from Misenum, on one side, round
to Sorrento on the other extreme point of the semicircle, charm-
ing beyond description. Every day I made some new excursion.
Pompeii and Vesuvius were the places that interested me most,
though Baiae and Cumse and the whole vicinity are crowded with
classic associations. Pompeii I visited twice, and went over the
whole of it very carefully. You know that this city and Hercula-
neura were buried by one of the eruptions of Vesuvius in the year
79, and have been excavated since the middle of the last century.
In Herculaneum comparatively little excavation has been done,
because the modern town of Portici is built upon it; but of Pom-
peii a very large part has been laid open, and there you see the
streets and pavements, temples, theatres, private houses and shops,
just as they were eighteen centuries ago, when this unhappy city
was destroyed by the volcano. It is a place full of instruction,
and to myself, in regard to the life and manners of the Greeks
and Romans, of immense importance. Many things that I knew
only from books, I have here learned by personal observation, and
in a manner infinitely more clear and satisfactory. The ascent
of Vesuvius was laborious, but exciting and instructive. Erom
112 LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844.
Naples to Portici, by railroad, about fifteen minutes, then we
walked about a mile to Resina, and there took ponies and com-
menced the ascent. We rode about an hour and a quarter, a large
part of the way surrounded everywhere by stones and rocks of
lava, till at length we reached the steep sides of the mountain it-
self. From here we climbed up on foot, a difficult, fatiguing oper-
ation, over rocks and sand, of perhaps three quarters of an hour.
Arrived at the top, we found ourselves on the ridge of the open
crater. I should say it is half a mile round it. Down below we
looked upon what seemed a sea of sulphur and lava, in the middle
of which rose the smaller cone, from which was continually issuing
smoke and flames and red-hot stones, attended by loud explosions.
We got down the sides of the crater, and to my surprise the sul-
phur and lava, which from above had looked quite liquid, were
hard, and easily admitted of a passage over them. We went over,
though in some places it cracked as we stepped, and clambered up
the steep sides of the cone till we got very near the very mouth,
and farther than which it was quite impossible to go. The cone is
open at the top only on one side, so that we felt tolerably secure,
though I confess, as I stood there and heard the explosions and
saw the flames and red-hot stones, I had some queer sensations.
But it is a grand though awful spectacle, and, associated with all
the historical interest of the mountain, inspires the most solemn
and the sublimest emotions. In various parts below, in the midst
of this vast sea of lava, are minor cones, or little eminences, which
are hissing and spitting, and sending little pieces of burning lava.
I stood by the side of one, and pulled out a little piece with my
cane, and jerked it along, and when it was cold enough, took it
with me. In returning we went down on another side, where
there is nothing but sand, and a precious time we had of it, tum-
bling down, and at every step up to our knees in the sand.
HOMEWARD WITH AN EMPTY POCKET-BOOK AND A GLAD
HEART.
Paris, May 14, 1844. Why, you will ask, are you not already
off and out upon the Atlantic, making for home ? Well, the ves-
sels for the 15th and 16th were third-rate affairs, and I should
have been booked, perhaps, for fifty days, with poor accommoda-
tions and no company. Then the Argo was to leave on the 24th,
the finest and fastest ship that goes out of the Havre, and already
some very agreeable people had taken passage in her. Moreover,
LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1841-1844. 113
this arrangement would give me time to see Paris. So that, in
short, finally, and to conclude, without exhortation or farther prac-
tical observation, I beg leave to announce, with infinite joy, that I
have taken passage in this ship, to wit, the Argo, Captain An-
thony, which leaves Havre, wind and weather permitting, on the
24th this current month. Now I have only to hope and pray for
favorable winds and good weather, that I may have a short and
safe passage home. My money is dreadfully out at the elbows,
and indeed everywhere else. I am afraid I shall land at New
York without money enough to get me to Boston ! If you could
come on to New York about the 24th June, it would be very nice.
I will go to the Waverley House, Broadway, or, if that good old
house is no more, then to the Astor, but I shan't stop one moment
in New York if I can help it.
DIAEY AND LETTERS WRITTEN DURING A VISIT
TO EUROPE IN 1857.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC IN SEARCH OF HEALTH.
{From a Letter.)
Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, 24th March, 1857.
Most thankful and rejoiced am I to get on terra firma again, to
sit down to a table where things are not tumbling and rolling and
pitching and threatening a general smash-up. The voyage has
given me strength and vigor such as I have not had for a long
time ; it has given me appetite and courage, — courage to eat and
to walk and go about and keep about, and feel I need not be so
afraid of fever turns and the like. I kept on deck, on the saloon
deck, nearly the whole voyage, and sometimes stayed through
squalls of hail and snow. It was the best place close by the
smoke -pipe, that huge red thing by which we stood together.
There I got fresh air, and indeed gales of wind on one side, and
on the other warm air as from a fire, and the floor below me so
nicely heated from the pipe as to keep my feet just right. You
would have laughed to see me there, coat buttoned and shawl
around and cap close down, now breasting the wind and taking in
the air, and then turning about to hug the smoke-pipe. On one
night we had a perfect hurricane of four hours' length, during
which the sea carried away, or rather stove in, a part of our bul-
warks on one side. I was so fortunate as to sleep through it all,
though it was a very uneasy sleep.
LONDON HOTELS AND LONDON CROWDS.
{From a Letter.)
Morley's Hotel, London, 27th March, 1857.
Here I sit in the writing and reading room of this hotel, with
that fine Nelson statue looking down upon me, and am thinking
how far off you are from me. I got on nicely from Liverpool by
rail, despite a little headache. Such comfortable cars and seats,
six seats in the car, capacious, divided by elbow cushions, and
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 115
stuffed partitions almost up to the top of the car, so that each
seat is really an independent easy-chair ; and with my habit of
sleeping in a chair, I was as well off as possible. On arriving we
got into a cab and made for this hotel, where we arrived at about
ten p. M. They have capital arrangements at the station. Your
luggage is taken down from the top of the car by the conductor,
or rather the guard ; he finds you a cab, brings the cabman, puts
you and yours in, and then tells the man where to go, and you are
off. The cabmen are the company's, and never shout to you or
say a word, till the guard himself comes. How much better than
the uproar in our depots. Yesterday was a great day with me, —
bright and pleasant in the forenoon, and I improved it on the
driver's seat on an omnibus, riding in all about seven miles. I
went to St. John's Wood, saw the new college, a fine building,
beautifully situated, and found Dr. William Smith (the diction-
ary man), who received me very cordially and wished me to stop
and dine with him, which I declined. He is a very gentlemanly
man, regular English, but not like my idea of the independent
dissenters, to which denomination he and the new college belong.
I am very comfortable in this hotel, with all things as I could
desire them. From what I can judge, too, the prices are not so
high as I had feared in England. At Liverpool it was 37^ cents
for bed, 50 for breakfast with meat, and 37^ for tea, and the
dinner 50 or more, according to what you take, and fees for ser-
vants about 50 cents per day. My room was very comfortable,
large, with a double bed curtained and canopied, and every possible
convenience. Here I am about as well off, and with prices not
much higher. I sit in the coffee-room, or here in a nice place for
reading and writing, a fire in the grate, with the blazing coal,
materials for writing all at hand, and guide-books, maps, etc., all
about me. When not engaged I have sights enough from the
windows to interest and amuse me. What a world is this Lon-
don ! — such a streaming population of human beings of all ranks
and occupations and characters, driving, jostling, and pushing on,
I wonder where and for what, and with what thoughts and feel-
ings, and hopes and fears, and loves and hates, throbbing and
working within their heads and hearts ! Those cabmen over the
way in a long line with whips up and on the lookout for a pas-
senger — I wonder if they have happy homes, and a wife and chil-
dren to welcome them after their rushing drives through the noisy
thoroughfares of the city. I wonder if they think of much be-
116 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
yond their sixpences and shillings, and stretch their hopes and
faith beyond this world to the promised blessedness and purity of
heaven. I dare say there are some good happy Christians among
them, though they are thought to be a hard, godless set. I have
found them well-disposed and merry, though willing enough to
get an extra sixpence. And so with that throng of gay fashion
and nobility and wealth that I saw yesterday at Hyde Park. As
I looked into the carriages as they passed me — and the carriages
come close to you and are quite low, with windows down — 1 won-
dered what those faces, of all features and expressions and all
ages, meant and might reveal if one could look within and read
the heart and character. Some looked happy, but I thought
many were very dull-looking folks, and trying very hard to have
a good time. A few rosy, fresh faces of young girls and children
really were quite a relief to the old-young gentlemen and faded
dowagers, setting up still for middle-aged and young. Still the
English face, especially of the men, and I noticed it most in the
foot- walks and in the horseback riders, is fresh-looking, robust, and
healthy. I noticed it, too, in the cars, and almost envied some of
those comfortable-looking fellows, who seemed to be strangers to
all sorts of aches and feeblenesses. But perhaps they, too, have
their troubles and ills. But what is all this to you and me, when
I am writing to you or trying to talk to you across that ocean of
three thousand miles. Ah, if the telegraph or some other scien-
tific wonder would only sharpen my eyes and ears, and give them
range enough to let me see you and know that all is going well at
home ! When these weeks and months of this interval are gone,
and have brought me all of health and strength that I look for,
with accessions of knowledge as well as of the experience of God's
goodness and mercy, what joy shall we have in my return to our
happy home.
THE GREAT EASTERN. — THE THAMES TUNNEL. — THE DR.
JOHNSON " COFFEE-HOUSE."
Saturday, March 28, 1857. Much better, and have done some
sight-seeing. By omnibus to Waterloo Bridge ; then took a little
steamer down the Thames about three miles ; then put ashore in
a boat at the shipyard where the Great Eastern is building. She
loomed up from the river side in enormous proportions. We found
ourselves disappointed about the time for seeing the ship, but by
dint of a little perseverance got attached to a party, and thus
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 117
shown all over the ship. It is immense, pro-d-i-g-i-o-u-s in all its
conception and details of execution, and impresses one with amaze-
ment at the wonders of science, and also the audacious enterprise
and scheming of man. Almost 700 feet long as she now rests on
her supports, with ten saloons, five smoke-pipes, paddle-wheels
over 100 feet in diameter. Will accommodate 4,000 passengers,
and carry (without passengers) 10,000 troops. She is for the
Australian service. Took a boatman and sailed up as far as the
Thames Tunnel ; went through it and back, all lighted with gas
and alive with crowds of people, little shops, music going on, and
all deep down below the tide of trade and commerce of the
Thames. As the steamer was long coming, we took another boat-
man, who rowed us to Waterloo Bridge. These bridges are mag-
nificent lines of arches, and look very imposing from the river ;
also the buildings, as the Tower and many others. Then we
walked up to the Strand and Fleet Street, and went to Bolt Court
and dined at the " Dr. Johnson," the veritable house and room
where Johnson, Goldsmith, and the rest used to sit together. Two
immense portraits in the coffee-room, one of Johnson, the other
of Goldsmith. If the old bear were now alive he could get much
better fare in London at many a place I could show him, if our
dinner was a fair specimen of the table.
AN invalid's SUNDAY IN LONDON. — SPURGEON'S CHAPEL AND
SERMON.
Sunday, March 29, 1857. Woke up with cold worse, and with
headache. Gave up going to Surrey Gardens to hear Mr. Spur-
geon. Abed nearly all the forenoon, and much better for it, so
that at twelve I had a good appetite for breakfast. Having
learned that Mr. Spurgeon preached in his own chapel. New Park
Street, Southwark, at half past six, I determined to go, though we
had no tickets, a limited number of which is issued gratis, on
account of the crowds that come to hear him. Took a cab and
went a Sabbath-day's journey, wellnigh, and drew up just at
dusk in a narrow, dark street, at a very indifferent looking chapel,
standing a little back from the sidewalk. People already stand-
ing at the doors as if at a concert-room or theatre, for doors to
open. I asked the policeman in attendance, who demanded my
ticket, if any of the deacons or church people were about, and
presently some one came along to whom he directed me. I told
my story and soon got in with my party to the yard, where after a
118 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
little waiting the doors were opened and we made our way into
the chapel, a most uninviting, dark-looking room, with nothing to
impress or attract one. The seats for such comers as we were lim-
ited, and not in the pews, but just outside the pews, and as the
knowing ones made their way in quick, we found none left, except
just under the pulpit. People who owned or hired seats and pews
soon began to come in very thick and with no solemnity or deco-
rum at all. All was just as at a concert or a lecture, during the
interval before the exercises opened. There was talking and
laughing, quite loud, and persons about me were talking over fam-
ily matters, the news of the day, etc. We had like to have had
a bit of a scene too, as some gas escaped from one of the burners
in the gallery and took fire with a considerable explosion and
some smoking, so that for a moment all were rushing for the
doors with great alarm. But soon all grew quiet, and for the
next ten minutes the carpenter was at work repairing something
or other with hammer and nails with the utmost coolness as
though in his own shop. The opening was anything but edifying.
Then appeared the minister through the crowd near us, and
walked slowly up the pulpit stairs close by, — rather a stout,
square-built man as he seemed to me in passing, with a heavy
face, and quite inexpressive of the ability and the remarkable
gift for popular speaking which I found he had. He has light
complexion and light brown hair, I should say, and his appear-
ance in general, in dress, etc., quite nice and well looked to. The
hair especially seemed quite well arranged. He commenced the
service with reading a very long hymn, in a voice of large compass
and variety of sound, and though not rich, yet rather agreeable
and impressive. Reading very good and surely such as would
interest ; he seemed to feel what the hymn said, and, as I after-
ward noticed from the sermon, was already in the hymn interested
in the subject he was to preach upon. After the hymn, which was
sung without organ or other accompaniment by the congregation,
he read a few verses with a very full exposition or rather para-
phrase, so that one hardly knew when he was reading or when he
was speaking ; the language was quite biblical, and flowed without
any break or hesitation and without the change of a word, though
he had no notes. (During the hymn, windows behind the pulpit
were broken by stones thrown from the street. He stopped after
a verse, and told the audience the evil would soon be remedied
by the police.) After the hymn he said he would depart from
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 119
his practice, and call upon some one to pray, and so called upon
one of his deacons, who offered a very appropriate and fervent
prayer. Then another hymn, and then the sermon. Before the
text, he begged the people about the pulpit and in the aisles to
keep quiet as possible, saying that " he had felt himself so oscil-
lating to and fro with the surge that he had become quite dis-
concerted, and had wellnigh lost every thought out of his head, so
that he was not in condition to lead the devotions of the congre-
gation." He then announced his text, Hosea ii. 16 and 17 : " And
it shall be at that day, saith the Lord, that thou shalt call me
Ishi, and thou shalt call me no more Baali. For I will take away
the names of Baalim out of her mouth, and they shall no more be
remembered by their name." He should draw three or four les-
sons from this text, and should proceed to them without preface
or prelude. The first lesson rested upon the words thou shalt
and thou shalt no more call, etc. ; and exhibited in its stiff est
Calvinistic form the doctrine of God's electing grace. It was
quite apart and independent of men's wills that they were sanc-
tified and saved. The Bible talked of God's sovereign will, not
of the human will ; of what God would do and what He would not
do. Your will may be shut up against God, but He has the key to
open it ; your heart may be hard and desperately set on mischief
and wickedness, but God has a hammer with which to break and
soften it to humility and love ; your knee may be stiff and stout,
and you may say you will not bow and pray, but God can bend
it and bring you to his feet in lowliest penitence. It 's of no
use for you to say you are not willing, and therefore can't be
saved, God will make you willing. What, you ask, when I am
unwilling ? No, not in your unwillingness will you be converted,
but God's spirit will make you willing. You may come in here
to-night all set against God, and determined you won't love and
serve Him, and " nilly-willy," if He has the sovereign purpose to
save you, you will go home humbled and renewed in heart and
mind. And this was a glorious doctrine for which the preacher
blessed God, and for which Christian people could not too much
adore and praise Him.
The second lesson was this : when God's spirit sanctifies a
man, he makes thorough work of it. When God says to a man,
Thou shalt caU me no more Baali, but shalt call me Ishi, then,
after that, the man becomes one of God's children, — no longer a
sinner without hope, but a saint blessed by the renewing grace of
120 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
God. And his renewal will be thorough, continuous, and will go
on to the day of his entrance to the courts of heaven. What an
elevating, consoling thought, that thus the whole human character
shall by God's grace be renovated till it becomes free from every
stain or blemish. The preacher remarked that the Jews, after
being called of God to the service of Jehovah, were as a nation
no longer idolaters. They became thoroughly quit of the sin of
idolatry, and never could abide the idolatrous practices of the
Gentiles. So he had noticed that a Christian after his conversion
became especially set against any particular form of sin to which
he had been addicted. If he had been intemperate, he could not
be tempted to touch or tolerate anything that would intoxicate ;
if a Sabbath breaker, he would become a most punctilious rigid
Puritan the world ever saw. And now to think that thus God's
people will be sanctified thoroughly ; not freed from one sin only,
but every form of sin ; not only made pure, but they could never
become impure ; so without spot or stain that they could never
become stained or spotted by sin. He had often thought that a
saint's first day in heaven would be one of utter wonder and
amazement. We shall be amazed that there is now no sin to
fight with, no spiritual enemies to guard against ; to find every-
thing holy, and God's service a pure delight with nothing to mar
or blemish. So will it be, you poor Christian, who art now trou-
bled with sin ; if God's grace sanctify you it will sanctify you
wholly ; God's grace will make clean work in the renovation of a
human soul, and heaven will receive you holy and pure, free from
all sin. Is n't this something to bless God for ? What love in
such redeeming grace I Bless God for all this, and be assured
He will carry on to perfection his work of grace.
The third lesson the preacher wished everybody to listen to,
and especially the young and young Christians, viz. : Many things
not had in themselves must he shunned hy a good nian^ hecause
associated with had things. Nothing wrong in itself in the word
Baali ; God had used it himself in several places as a title for
himself to be used by his people. But the heathen had used it
for idol gods, and so it became associated with bad things ; and
so a good Jew could not use it of God, though he might perhaps
not hurt his own conscience, because it was connected with idol
worship, and might lead others astray. So now with many things
not bad per se, but bad in their associations and consequences, in
their influence by example upon others. A young man says card-
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 121
playing don't hurt me any ; I am just as good a Christian if I
have a nice little game of whist with my friends ; of course this
is n't wrong, and of course I shall do it. But card-playing is the
world over connected with gambling, which is a very bad vice, and
you, young man, who call yourself a Christian, and want to do
good in the world, — you had better not talk about the innocence
of this thing for you, when it has led to the ruin of thousands.
(Gambling always reminded him of the shocking scene at the
foot of the cross, where the soldiers shook their dice in gambling
for Christ's raiment. He always fancied he saw those soldiers
and heard those rattling dice, while above them hung the Son
of God, dying to take away the sins of the world.) And so of
going to horse-races, of opera-going, and theatres, etc. You may
argue that ])er se they are not bad, but they are connected with
bad things, and you must shun them. Suppose a Jew in the tem-
ple, and a heathen standing near him. The Jew calls upon God
as Baali. What ! says the heathen, that venerable Jew yonder,
he calls upon Baali and worships him as his God ; certainly he
can't call me an idolater, or call idolatry wrong and a bad thing.
My dear fellow, replies the Jew, you don't understand my wor-
ship at all ; I don't worship idols. Yes, but you call your God
Baali, and that 's the name of my God, too. But, my dear sir,
you don't distinguish ; I don't worship that wooden thing you
have stuck up in your temple and call your god ; I worship Jeho-
vah, the Almighty, and the one God of my fathers. But the
heathen goes away without understanding. The Jew had better
shun the name Baali and call upon Jehovah. Shun all things
that lead to what is bad, even if they are not of themselves bad.
He spoke of the case of Rowland Hill hearing that some members
of his church went to the theatre, and following them there, and
hailing them in one of the boxes, and said he should do the same,
and turn them out, too, after he had got home. Also an anecdote
of a lady who wanted a coachman ; three came in succession, and
she asked each how near he could drive to danger. The first said.
Why, madam, I think within a yard of it, and go clear. Ah,
said she, you are no coachman for me. The second said, I can
come close upon it and yet suffer no harm. You will never do for
me, said she. The third replied. Why, madam, that 's something
I never tried ; when I see danger ahead, I just shun it and keep
as far away as possible. You are the coachman for me, she said,
and took him at once.
122 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
The fourth and last lesson rested on the distinction between
the names Ishi and Baali, as synonyms for husband^ and unfolded
the love shown by God to his chosen people. Ishi, a term of en-
dearment, which a wife would use " as a fondling term in softer
moments of conjugal life ; " Baali, meaning lord, master, when
the husband had been rather sharp in his words, and had practi-
cally claimed in his demeanor something of the lordship belonging
to man. Jehovah, therefore, in his condescending love, says, " Thou
shalt call me Ishi, and no more Baali." I will be a loving hus-
band to you, not a despotic master. And so may the Christian
especially, by the redeeming love of Christ, draw nigh to God as a
God full of love, and call Him by endearing names, having no
more the spirit of bondage unto fear, but the spirit of adoption,
awakening love and fullest confidence.
The sermon closed with an impressive and glowing exhibition
of the privileges of a renewed soul in this near and affectionate
relation, and the fearful condition of a sinner who can look to God
with no feelings but those of fear and terror. And if such be the
contrast here on earth, how infinitely greater wiU it be in the
other world !
The whole sermon was preached without any notes ; with entire
fluency and self-command, and kept the interested attention of
the crowded audience to the very close. A great preacher for
uneducated masses, who have no tastes to offend, no sense of de-
corum and propriety of manner or language to make them obser-
vant and critical, and who are willing to take, along with the hon-
est and well-applied truth, telling anecdotes and illustrations, and
even striking jests, that will entertain as well as instruct, even if
they make them smile or laugh. But not a first-class pulpit ora-
tor, in my judgment ; culture quite insufficient, even very moder-
ate ; but great energy and force ; great natural gifts for speaking,
and apparently much sincerity and love for the gospel and the
business of preaching it ; though certainly these not ^unmixed —
so far as one's impressions are a standard — with a kind of profes-
sional feeling ; a feeling that he has a certain place to keep, and
a fame to make and keep as a great preacher. I am sure I should
not take so much pains to hear him a second, as I did this first
time, and should decline decidedly having him for my minister,
whom I must hear every Sunday.
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 123
QUIET IN LONDON. — ENGLISH POLITICS.
Monday, March 30, 1857. Strolled about Fleet Street, and
went into the Middle Temple and Inner Temple, near Temple Bar,
through alleys and courts innumerable ; some of them quite large
and extended, and all clear and perfectly quiet, though so close by
the stir of the great babel of the city.
Took a cab and called on Sir Charles Lyell, 53 Harley Street,
and delivered a print of Professor Wyman, handed me by Dr.
Gould. Had a pleasant call. Sir Charles Lyell, a man about
sixty, gray hair, and stoops a little, but full of intelligence in his
conversation, though rather passionless, and wanting in vivacity.
Inquired about Dr. Gould, Professor Wyman, Professor Agassiz
and his work ; also about the " Dred Scott " case. Was very
much pleased with Mr. Dallas, as he had been with Buchanan,
whom he had known very well. Thought the elections looked bad
for England, as Palmerston, he thought, had missed it, especially
in bringing the Russian war so soon to an end. I have been very
much interested in England in observing the usage at elections,
and the sensible and also rapid way in which such business is ad-
justed. The Saturday before we landed at Liverpool (March 21)
Parliament was dissolved, and decrees issued for new elections
throughout the kingdom, and the week we have been in London
the elections have all come off, and in many parts of Great Brit-
ain. Palmerston appealed to the country from Parliament rather
than resign, having been in a minority on the Chinese war, a vote
of censure having been passed for the conduct of it by the minis-
ters. Thus far the country goes for Palmerston, and against those
who censured, and he is likely to come in again as premier, with a
large majority. The party for peace, Cobden, Bright, etc., are all
down with the people, and both these famous leaders are ousted
by new men, quite unknown. There will be a large number of
quite new members in Parliament, a thing to be regretted, as
there is to be a new speaker. Lefevre had been speaker sixteen
years, admirably fitted for his duties, by universal agreement, by
long experience, as well as natural abilities and tact and know-
ledge of parliamentary rules. He retires to a peerage (Viscount
Eversly) and a large pension. Dispatched Everett's Discourses
to Dr. Whewell, Dr. Hawtrey, and Sir John Herschel, by mail,
sending a letter with them.
124 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
CROSSING THE CHANNEL.
Tuesday, March 31. Left London at 8.15 for Folkestone and
Boulogne and Paris. Got nicely located ; four of us in a first-
class car, very comfortable in all respects, so that if it had been
night I could have slept the whole way. Reached Folkestone at
11.30 ; a queer old place, but it rained, and I kept close. Low
tide, and we waited till 12.45, when we got under way in the steam-
boat for Boulogne, by the Channel. Rainy, cloudy, sleety, foggy,
and everything else disagreeable, and the boat pitched and rolled
about like a cockle-shell. Wrapped in shawls and sailor's India-
rubber clothes, I sat by the smoke-pipe again (though not so nice
a one as the Niagara's) all the way, with no fear of rain or storm
before my eyes, though it was cold and uncomfortable, but better
than down below. When two thirds the way across, and England
was therefore quite behind us, the fog and clouds disappeared,
and the sun shone out bright, and the air was most refreshing and
exhilarating. So England vs. France ; fogs and damps and rains
for sunshine and fresh air. We landed at three P. M., and were
marched off the wharf to the custom-house, between two lines of
ropes, behind which were lots of people, some looking for friends,
and others only gazing for fun ; and then in a cue went in and
showed passports, and then had luggage examined. We had an
agent with us accustomed to the business, who drove us through
all the paces at double-quick time, and then got us to a Hotel
Bedford, just in time to get " a hasty plate of soup " and a bit of
roast chicken for supper; and then a rush for the cars again,
which we reached in season for the train for Paris. Got into nice
cars again, though not quite equal to the English ; and here began
at last, in good earnest, French voices and French speaking. We
had in our car an English gentleman who was very communicative
and interesting in conversation, well acquainted, too, with Amer-
ica, and we found at last that he was the head of the house of the
Barings, — Sir Francis Baring.
SUNDAY IN PARIS.
Sunday, April 5, 1857. Sunday in Paris ; but my Bible here
and God here, and access to Him by meditation and prayer. I
thought of all at home. Especially the Sunday-school was in my
thoughts and my heart, and I felt myself there in spirit at least,
as, too, I did with my own dear family at different hours of the
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 125
day. Blessings be with them all this day, and on the teachers,
officers, and all the members of the school from the oldest down
to the youngest in the infant class. I love and think of them all,
and pray God to shed upon them ever the selectest influences of
his grace and love. In the evening went to Evangelical Chapel,
54 Rue de Provence, to hear Rev. Dr. Kirk. A neat, commodious
chapel, quite back from the street, and deliciously quiet, though
in the midst of noisy thoroughfares. Was surprised to find so
small a congregation, certainly not over a hundred; the seats
were but thinly taken, and the tout ensemble had a very cheerless
aspect. The service was in part the Episcopal, as the evening
prayer service was read, and afterwards singing, then an extem-
pore prayer, hymn, sermon, and closing prayer. The sermon
excellent, adapted to the season of Easter, from Christ's words,
" My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ! " Some points
very impressive and affecting, and fitted to lead one in renewed
penitence and faith and love to Christ the Redeemer. I was
never so much pleased with Mr. Kirk, though he is so much
changed that I should not have recognized him, except by some-
thing peculiar in his voice. I could not but think, though, his
manner is not exactly what I like, — a little finical, I think, for a
minister of Christ. How much better I liked his whole sermon
and preaching than Mr. Spurgeon's.
VERSAILLES AND IMPERIAL PARAPHERNALIA.
Saturday, April 11, 1857. Versailles to-day, and on the whole
a great day for it ; with the exception of an hour or two, fine
weather all the time. The railroad ride delightful, the air so soft,
and the country pleasant around us. At the Versailles station
came across a commissionaire, Marchard by name, who turned out
a trump of a fellow, familiar with the whole place, talking English,
and quite polite and reasonable withal. We took him, and he
put us through everything very handsomely. Was amazed at the
splendor of this splendid Versailles, its marble halls and floors,
and its rich galleries of art. What a brilliant history of brilliant
France is sculptured, painted, and inscribed here in paintings,
busts and statues and tablets, from Louis XIII. down to the
reigning Napoleon III. What a wonderful history of Napoleon's
career does one read here in all these battle-scenes, coronations,
victories, and triumphs, in his portraits as First Consul and Em-
peror and those of all his great marshals and admirals. And
126 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
what lessons of the changeful and evanescent character of all
earthly glory, the great battles fought and won, the civil glories
attained, the brilliant court and great country he made and ruled ;
and then his fall and St. Helena, and his wretched last life there
in mortification and despair. And so of the Louis before him, and
Charles the Tenth, and Louis Philippe after him. And now this
nephew emperor here, and his portraits and statues bringing up
the close to this day, and himself ruling and appointing and con-
trolling all this splendid place. Our whole day was taken with
the Palace, and we had but little time to wander over the gardens,
and none for the interior of the Trianon. We looked in and saw
the state carriages, massive things enough, and all brilliant with
gilded work. The most splendid of them was used the last time
for the baptism occasion of the Prince Imperial. Strange that a
Christian ordinance, so simple in all its original character and
circumstances, should require for the child of a Christian ruler
such a gorgeous carriage as this, with all the other brilliant train
behind it, on the way to the church and the baptismal font !
Would not the Saviour and his apostles, the early Christians,
would not John the Baptist, denounce such proceedings with holy
indignation !
EASTER. — MUSIC VS. RITUAL.
April 12th, Easter Sunday. Went to St. Roch Church, which
was filled with people of all classes and ages, who seemed at least
to be there in the spirit of worshipers. At least I felt that God,
who knows and sees the heart, could alone distinguish among us
all who in the church sought Him in truth and loved his services
and who cared for his day, his word, and all his commandments.
Such music as I heard there seemed full of devotion in its influ-
ence. I am sure that, although I knew not at all what was
chanted and sung, yet the music lifted my thoughts to God
and good things, to heaven and its praises and its holy services.
The bell-ringing, kneelings, etc., were utterly void of signifi-
cance to me as acts of worship. I had no comprehension of it
any more than if I had been in a heathen temple, ancient or
modern.
Afterward went to the Notre Dame, which was also well filled,
though high mass was over. Walked about it and looked again
at its grand old nave and aisles and chapels, which I had not seen
for years. Rained hard most of the morning, and I wondered
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 127
how I should have felt in Providence a month ago walking about
in the rain.
BY RAIL WHERE HANNIBAL'S ARMY CROSSED.
Tuesday and Wednesday, April 14 and 15. En route for
Marseilles via Lyons. Left Paris at 11 A. M., dined at Dijon,
and reached Lyons at 9.47 p. m., after a very pleasant ride.
Wednesday left Lyons at 8 a. m., had a nice lunch at Valence,
the old Valentia (how many times I have gone through it in my
Livy studies in my classes). Reached Marseilles at 4 p. M. The
ride far pleasanter than from Paris to Lyons. The Rhone on our
right a large part of the way; quite narrow for two thirds the way,
but broad as we neared Marseilles. Thought of Hannibal and his
army, and their crossing here, and fancied many a point, which
seemed to correspond with the description, might have been the
spot where he got over by charging the Gauls on the other side,
while the detachment he had sent up the river to cross at a higher
point fell upon their rear.
BY SEA AND LAND TO ROME.
Friday, April 17. On steamer from Marseilles to Civita
Vecchia.
A wonderfully fine day on the Mediterranean, sky cloudless,
and the sea calm as a lake, and the air soft as summer. We
were under an awning all day. I was up early and on deck all
day. The late hour of breakfast, half past nine, a great incon-
venience, at least to me, and then, too, nothing till the dinner at
five P. M. One can have a cup of black coffee early, but nothing
is expected to be given with it. It works very well with the
company, especially in this Italian line, as they stop at the ports,
Genoa, Leghorn, Civita Vecchia, in the morning early, and people
go ashore at about nine, and the company make all their breakfasts
clear. But, however, these cuisine arrangements did not rob me
of my enjoyment of this exquisite day in the Mediterranean.
How I lay about, and strolled around the deck, and gazed at sky
and sea, and the French and Ligurian coast on the one side, and
the Corsican on the other. I thought how all these waters had
been historic ground from the earliest periods of history, traversed
by how many fleets, peaceful and warlike, of how many nations,
ancient and modern, and the scenes of how many voyages, disastrous
and successful, how many engagements, victories and losses and
128 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
disgraces. A day I can never forget, and if those I love best had
only been with me, to drink in that balmy, genial air, and muse
together with me over all of the past of the world's history !
Saturday, 18th. Slept well, and in the morning rose early
from my berth, looked through the little window upon the sea,
and saw the glorious sun rise above it and the Etruscan shore
behind it. It was yet early and we were coming into Civita
Vecchia, a place dreaded by me most intensely from my re-
membrance of my last visit to it, when we had rows with vetturini
and loss of time and patience and money. But this time from
the French steamer we got through with no great difficulty. On
disembarking we had given us a printed paper, stating the fixed
prices for boatmen, then for faccMni^ then for a commissionaire
if we wanted one, one franc for each, a tariff quite high enough.
At the landing an agent of the company was there to receive
us, and see that the boatman made no extra charge, and to tell
us where to go next; and then a fellow came up and asked
me if I wanted to go by diligence to Rome, whom I found to
be a commissionaire, or a servitore de piazza. He got us our
tickets for the diligence, paying in advance himself, while we
were going through the custom-house examination, which was
a farce (and no fee at all necessary to hurry them) ; then went
about and got our passports vised by two or three different people,
the American consul, among the rest, charging one dollar for
the vise ; got our baggage plomhed for Rome, and ourselves
landed at the Hotel Orlandi, for a breakfast ; for all which
I thought he earned one franc per head. We got off for Rome
at ten o'clock, and as good luck would have it, I had a seat
in the coupe and the boys on the banquette or coachman's box.
We had another superb day ; nothing could have been finer for
a drive on our way to Rome. Only the importunate postilions
at the end of each station, — and it was forty-seven miles, about
four posts, — and then the conductor at the end, were begging
for huono mano. I found everybody paid, even a poor-looking
monk who sat in the coupe, five baiocchi or cents to each postilion,
and so I fell in with the rest, though vexed at such a usage.
But we were going to Rome and it was glorious weather, and
who would care for postilions, or buono mano, or any such like
imposition. Only the people at the city gates who looked in at
the windows and took my passport I could n't be induced to
give anything to ; it was too bare a humbug for them to hold
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 129
out their beggarly hands and ask for qualche cosa^ a detestable
expression. We had had St. Peter's looming up before us for
miles, and beyond the hills from Soracte, round to the Alban
Mount ; and there was enough food for thought without thinking
of the diligence and its humbugs ; and as we quit the Porta
Cavalleggieriandthe official with hand outstretched, we soon came
close by the colonnades and piazza of St. Peter's! What an
inspiring sight ! I saw that the piazza was thronged with people,
and on asking my monk neighbor what it meant, he told me
that the illumination was coming off questa sera, as it had been
postponed from Holy Week on account of the tempo cattivo.
And so I shouted to the boys, on the banquette, that they had
got there just in time for this great sight of a Roman Easter
Week. We got through the diligence office as soon as possible
and made for the Hotel d'AUemagne ; and there I was again,
crossing the Corso, rushing up the Via Condotti, and stopping
opposite Lepri's, and near the corner of the Piazza di Spagna.
We got rooms, and then, admonished by the gargon, who told
us we should be late, as it was near eight o'clock, we hurried
up to the Pincian Hill, it being quite too late to reach the Piazza
of St. Peter's. The silver illumination was already to be seen,
and then, at eight precisely, all at once the golden blaze of the
hundreds of lights broke out upon our sight, lighting up the
whole dome, and giving the utmost distinctness to all its lines
and contour, and throwing it against the dark sky, a great, gigantic
pile. What crowds were there to gaze ; what exclamations in
all tongues, expressing the common human surprise and delight !
And yet this a religious ceremony, and a closing part of Holy
Week!
THREE SHORT DAYS IN ROME.
Rome, Sunday, April 19. Rose very early, and found it
another charming day. Went with the boys after breakfast to
the Capitoline and thence to the Forum, showing them the places
and objects of principal interest. All much the same as when
I was here before, save that excavations have gone on on the
south side of the Forum. At eleven went to the Palazzo Braschi,
the house of our minister ; and in a hall there heard the chaplain
to the American embassy preach. A very pleasant place, and
perhaps a hundred people there. An excellent sermon, " For
me to live is Christ," — very scriptural and faithful exhibition
of the worldly, compared with the Christian life. Very good
130 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1867.
indeed, and though I missed somewhat in the devotional services,
which were Congregational, yet all was very edifying and most
agreeable, and I hope improving to me. I felt doubt as to my
duty with the boys to-day as well as myself, it being one of
only four days in Rome. But I walked with them, and could
not think it wrong to point out to them for their knowledge
and education all that, in locality, ruins, etc., we visited or saw
as we passed. The whole neighborhood of the Forum we walked
about, the arches, columns. Coliseum, Cloaca Maxima, and so on,
and in such a way that I think they will remember all. I was
more tried still in the evening, for the fireworks — the giran-
dola — were to come off on the Pincian, and it was out of the
question to say No to them. So I went with them to the Piazza
del Popolo, where all was yet more gorgeous, in better taste, and
better appointed than years ago when I saw them from the St.
Angelo. But I was glad to get away, and make to our hotel, and
to my room. And so ended this Roman Sunday. Oh, what a
different one from an American, a Providence Sunday. I
thought of our Sunday-school, our church, my own family circle,
and how my spirit was with them in all their services, from the
morning to night. I hope they may have passed their hours
better than I, and with richer fruits of such observance. God
bless you all !
Monday, 20th. I got a carriage in the Piazza di Spagna for
the day, at twenty-five pauls (at first he asked me thirty-five), and
three for huono mano^ and we started for a drive which I had
made out beforehand as well as I could. Over the Quirinal
to the Sta. Maria Maggiore, thence to the Porta Lorenzo and
the remains of the aqueducts, then round to the Santa Croce
and to the St. John Lateran, after having explored all the sur-
roundings of the Porta Maggiore and especially the sjoecus of
the aqueduct. These splendid basilicas seen, we made our way
quite across the city to the Vatican, and till three o'clock, the
time of closing, saw the gallery and collections. I turned the
boys to the chief things, to the Demosthenes, Minerva, and a
few others in the Braccio Nuovo, to the bust of young Augustus,
then the Belvedere, the Stanze of Raphael, and lastly to the pictures,
the Transfiguration, and the Foligno, and the Communion. And
what a four hours were these we had there ! Then, for the first
time for the boys, we entered St. Peter's ; to me, how ever unchanged
and grand this church! We spent some time here, and then
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 131
drove through the city to the Capitol, but found it was too late
for the galleries, and so put it off till the morrow. Then to
the Forum of Trajan, and to the Fontana de Trevi, and then
to the Calcografia Camerale, and finally home. Afterward walked
a little on the Pincian, but returned soon, as it was six o'clock,
the dinner hour. What a crowded day ; how full of events and
great things to see and learn and try to know. But I doubt
the wisdom of trying to do so much in four days. My evening
and night and early morning hours I spent as usual, mostly by
myself ; but I am sure I can say " never less alone than when
alone," for how much have I to think of, how much to thank
God for, how much to resolve upon for the future, how many
thoughts of home, and so how full are all my solitary moments !
Wednesday, 23d. A bad day for weather, this our last, and yet
the Appian Way was to be seen, which has been excavated since
I was here. But I was destined, alas, to lose this. We started
in a carriage for the day, and got three or four miles outside the
gate, but it rained so furiously, and with so little prospect of clear-
ing up, that we turned back, much to my sorrow. We rode about
the Capitol, and some of the Campus Martins, as it did not rain
quite so badly on our return ; and as we had no time for palaces
and their galleries, and the thousand other things to be seen, I
was forced to consider our Roman visit over. Much of the early
day was lost by my efforts to get conveyance for Civita Vecchia.
The diligence, the post-coaches, and horses were all engaged for
Thursday^ just our day, because the Empress of Russia was to
come that very morning to Rome. So I had to get a vetturino,
and pay an enormous price (80 francs), as of course they had all
the advantage, knowing the state of the case still better than we.
And we had to start Wednesday night at eight, instead of Thurs-
day at daybreak, as I had intended, by extra diligence or post.
And so we got off, after a capital dinner, into our vettnra^ with a
regular Italian-looking fellow for our driver, large, fine face, and
bright, black eyes, and himself all full of life. I had some mis-
givings about this night ride, for when I was here last it v;rould
not have been thought safe, but since the French occupation of
Rome the Papal roads are free of brigands ; those to Naples, I am
told, are still dangerous, even by day. We got through very well
indeed, and were very comfortable, and slept all night, with a stop
of an hour at Palo, and reached Civita Vecchia at about ten in
the morning. I had no written contract with the vetturino, but
132 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
he only planked down at Rome a napoleon en gage^ and our hotel-
keeper told me that would be enough, as he knew him to be honest.
CIVITA VECCHIA, THE EMPRESS OF RUSSIA, AND NAPLES.
On Thursday, the 24th, we were back to this place, Civita Vec-
chia, and just inside the gate there was the same servitore de pi-
azza I had employed before, ready to get some more fees, and do
the work for it. All the town was in immense commotion, the
streets crowded to their utmost with men, women, and children, as
the Russian man-of-war was in port, and the empress was soon to
come ashore and start for Rome. Went to the Hotel de 1' Europe
and got our breakfast, and afterward came down to the wharf and
had a good view of the empress and her retinue as they came on
shore and were received by the authorities in a very gay, canopied
tent of silks and damasks made on the landing, passed through,
and entered their carriages and went off to Rome, amidst a long
lane of people and of soldiers on either side of the road. It was
the wife of the late emperor, a woman apparently over fifty, and,
as well as I could see, of no particular beauty, but a face which
showed some character. We got on board the steamer about noon,
and left at two p. M. It was very crowded, and we had indiffer-
ent accommodations the first night, on sofas and berths in the
stern, but I slept very well, and arose early on Friday, 25th, and
found myself coming down to the Bay of Naples. We got on
shore at about nine, and had a rush about the city in carriage and
on foot ; saw the Museum, though no time for long survey. The
artists in the halls of paintings were sadly importunate to have us
buy their copies of the Correggios and Raphaels of the gallery. I
quite pitied them, as they were evidently pressed for money ; but
their paintings were of quite ordinary merit, and besides I had
neither money to buy them nor place to put them. I found large
additions to the antiquities since I was here years ago, especially
of vases found in Campania and Apulia. We got back to the
boat at half past one. On the way to Messina we had good
weather part of the way, but towards night it grew windy and
squally, and the sea ran high, and I was glad to get to bed.
AN UN-SUNDAY-LIKE SUNDAY IN MESSINA.
Messina, Sunday, April 26. Here we are, to be in this ancient
island and city four or five days, to wait for the boat to the Pi-
raeus. Thought more than ever of home, church, Sunday-school,
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 133
and all to-day, while here amid scenes so different from a New
England Sabbath. Saw everything, indeed, with thoughts of our
First Baptist Sunday-school in my mind, and feelings of gratitude
that the lot of myself and family and all my friends was not cast
here amidst circumstances of government, religion, and whole civ-
ilization so unfortunate. The streets full of beggars, and wretched,
sick, degraded-looking people, children running wild, and appar-
ently uncared for physically even, to say nothing of religious and
social destitution. So in the churches, into some of which I went,
where the children, in rags and dirt, were running about from
chapel to chapel and show to show, for what else was there in the
services to them, or perhaps, indeed, to all the grown people ? and
of course with no possibility of being instructed and taught the
truths of the Bible. At half past six went to an English service
in a house near by the British consulate. Was shown into a
small room, lighted by a few candles^ and filled with an audience
of three women, two small children, and one man ; ourselves made
three more, quite a godsend in number to such a congregation.
The preacher was in the pulpit, a young-looking man, who went
through the service in a tone and manner that showed want of
real reverence or religious feeling, and scarce even intelligence of
what he was saying and doing. The sermon was quite a good one,
well written and devout in spirit, but delivered in such a way as
plainly showed that the man never wrote a word of it. A most
unedifying service ! But I found my room pleasant, with the Bi-
ble and good books, and read to the boys A. B.'s translation of
a sermon of Tholuck, and we all found it delightful and really
refreshing in such a dry place as this.
A SUNDAY LETTER WRITTEN TO THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL AT HOME.
April 26, 1857.
To the First Baptist Sunday-school of Promdence : —
I have been thinking of you with much affection, in connection
with all the strange people and scenes about me ; and it has oc-
curred to me that you might like to hear a few words of remem-
brance and love, written to you in a far-off land by your absent
superintendent. You observe that this letter is written at Mes-
sina, a large and old city in Sicily, an island famous in ancient
story, and in the history, both ancient and modern, of many na-
tions. The island, you know, is in the Mediterranean Sea, near
by the western extremity of Italy, from which it is parted by the
134 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
narrow Strait of Messina, that takes its name from the place
where I am writing. From the window of my room I see across
the water the high rock of Scylla, on the Italian coast, just at the
head of the narrowest part of the strait, and opposite to this is
the whirlpool of Charybdis, both great objects of terror to naviga-
tors of olden times, and celebrated by the ancient poets, though
now not at all dreaded, as navigation is so much better under-
stood. I have been up to the very northeast angle of the island,
and ascended to the top of a lighthouse that is called by an an-
cient name, the Pharos, or Lighthouse, of Pelorum, and though
Scylla loomed up and projected far into the strait, yet it had
nothing fearful in its look ; and as the weather was fine and the
water very calm, I saw nothing at all that looked like the storied
whirlpool of Charybdis. In the distance, as I looked out from
the light, I saw the island of Stromboli, a volcanic island of the
group called the Lipari, called in ancient times the ^olian Is-
lands, because the pagan poets used to say that ^olus, the god of
the winds, lived there. Indeed, in old times, when science had
made little progress, there were many strange fables and stories
about the volcanic islands and mountains of Sicily. About fifty
miles south of Messina is Mount Etna, of whose dreadful erup-
tions you have probably heard, which the poets used to account
for by fabling that a huge giant was confined under the island,
and that Etna was on his head, and that all the terrible earth-
quakes and eruptions were caused by this gigantic creature trying
to move and get released. But though these volcanoes are better
understood in modern times, yet their effects are no less destruc-
tive. About seventy years ago this city was almost entirely de-
stroyed by an earthquake, and even now the traveler sees traces
of its desolating effects wherever he goes about the streets ; and
to-day I was in a gentleman's house here, and he pointed to a
place in one of his rooms where a part of the ceiling had fallen
down, and he told me it occurred last fall, when there was a slight
earthquake here. But the danger of earthquakes I have thought
very little of here, and indeed it is by no means the worst thing
in the life of the people. I could indeed tell you of many pleas-
ant things I have noticed here in Messina to-day ; its charming
situation and scenery ; its beautiful bend of shore ; and its fine,
secure harbor, with the delightful landscape all around, of blue
waters, and the long line of Calabrian hills opposite, and behind
the conical stretch of the mountains of Sicily. The skies, too, are
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 135
bright and clear, and the climate soft and genial, so that the peo-
ple are most of the time out of doors ; and here, to-day, in April,
the fields and gardens and trees are all in summer dress, and
oranges and lemons are ripe on the trees, and people have on their
table the fruits and berries and vegetables that we have late in
June and in July. But all these pleasant things are in sad con-
trast with the miserable life and character and condition of the
people themselves ; and it is this that I have thought of to-day
when I have been in the streets, and have observed especially how
poor and ill-clad the children were, and how much they needed to
be cared for, to be gathered into Sunday-schools, and taught the
Bible, and the way to be good and happy here and hereafter.
And then I have wished and prayed that you might all know how
blessed a lot has fallen to you in your New England homes, with
Christian parents and friends, with the Sabbath and the Sunday-
school and the Bible, and all the means of instruction you have so
abundantly given you. Here I have seen multitudes of wretched,
ragged children, running about the streets, many begging of every-
body they met, having no idea, apparently, of the Sabbath, of
God, of the Saviour, or the way of salvation ; and when I have
looked into the churches, there I saw some of them too, wander-
ing about, with nobody to look after them, and nothing like Chris-
tian instruction given them. I suppose there is hardly one of you
in any of your classes that could not tell these children more in
half an hour about the Bible and its tidings of a Saviour than
they have ever heard or seem likely to hear in their whole lives.
Then, too, I find on inquiry, that there are no schools here, or any
system of public instruction, so that the children are idle, and
grow up ignorant, without ever knowing how to read and write.
The religion here is the Roman Catholic, and a very bad form,
too, of that religion, if religion it can be called, and instead of our
free institutions they have a very despotic government, which
cares nothing for the people, and takes no means to educate and
make them prosperous and happy. The people do not have the
Bible, and have no instruction in it, and they have nothing in the
churches but outside shows and forms and superstitious rites, that
do not teach them to love and serve God, nor tell them anything
of Christ and the way to be saved from their sins. I will tell you
something in particular that came to my notice to-day. As I was
in the hotel where I am stopping, I heard the noise of music in
the street and the moving of many feet on the pavement. On
136 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
going to the window a strange sight, especially for Sunday, met
my view. It was a great procession coming along ; and first of
all, little children in it I saw, hardly big enough to be in our in-
fant school, dressed in little black cloaks and hoods, and led along,
carrying candles which their little hands could hardly hold. Then
came a rushing crowd, and in the centre I saw, carried on a frame
supported by many men, a large figure in wood, apparently of
some saint, in a kneeling posture, covered over with a great deal
of gilding, and surrounded by an immense number of candles ;
and then a band of music, a troop of soldiers, a company of police,
and the whole town behind in throngs, men, women, and children.
Of course I asked what all this meant, and especially what those
little boys were there for, carrying candles and dressed like little
monks. And I found that this Sunday was the Festival of St.
Francis, and the procession to the church was its celebration.
These little boys had been vowed to his service, had been chris-
tened by his name, and they and their parents and friends consid-
ered them his children, under his protection, and always safe from
harm and danger. Perhaps I did not get a very full and correct
account of what I saw, but I could see enough myself to know
that there was a sad want of the knowledge of the Bible, of our
gracious Father in heaven, who alone can protect and bless us,
and of that divine Saviour, whom in his love He has sent us, that
we may all be saved from sin and be prepared for heaven. If our
Saviour were now on earth, and should go about these streets on
his errands of love, as He did once in Jerusalem, He would find the
people not only as ignorant of the true God and the Messiah, and
as much misled and deceived by corrupt priests, as He found them
there, but also just as many who needed his healing mercy, the
palsied, the halt, the dumb, and the blind, the wretched poor, to
follow his steps and supplicate his blessing. But how happy your
lot and mine in all these things, and especially in regard to our
knowledge of Christ and the way of salvation ! I have thought
to-day much of all this contrast, and it is my prayer to God for
all of us, as a school, as teachers, and as scholars, that we may
know how to be thankful, to be aware how much God has given us,
and what He requires of us, and that we may be sure to accept the
gospel of glad tidings He has brought to our ears from our very
infancy, and try to spend our lives in the service of Christ. As I
have sat in my room here and looked across the strait before me,
I thought of the great Apostle who once, in the course of his many
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 137
labors and sufferings for Christ's sake, came through these waters
and stopped at Rhegium (the modern Reggio), which is just op-
posite Messina, when, as a prisoner, he was carried to Rome to
plead his cause before Caesar. If only we might have something
of his heroic Christian spirit, and try to follow Christ as he did,
"counting all things but loss for the excellency of Christ Jesus,"
that we might " win Christ," and at last " be found in Him."
SICILIAN SCENERY AND BEGGARS.
Tuesday, 28th. Sent for our passports from the police, and
set them going on the route for vises^ and a very tortuous one, too,
what with messages back and forth from the American consul,
police, and other authorities. Much American shipping here, and
at present six or seven ships and barks, which look better than
anything else in port. Mr. Behn, the American consul, gives a
shocking account of religion and education and morals here. No
schools and no attention to education, except for those intended
for the church. Girls often sent to convents but seldom well
instructed ; before marriage kept very rigidly with no company in
the house, but lots of intrigues and courting going on in the
streets and the churches. The priests often abettors and princi-
pals in vice, and procurers, too, as I was informed by one who
had heard them make overtures to English strangers here.
Wednesday, 29th. Went by carriage to the northeast corner
of the island. A beautiful drive all the way along the shore.
Ascended the light there, called Pelorum Light, and had a fine
view of island, Scylla, sea, and strait. We were sadly annoyed
by the troops of beggars, more so than at any place I ever vis-
ited. They were poor and wretched, many boys among them,
and some palsied and one man dumb. This last was frightfully
importunate and ran by our coach for a mile out of the village,
begging by all the natural language he could command that we
would aid him. I really had nothing myself, but should have
certainly given if I had. Finally I told the boys if they had any-
thing in their pockets to give it to him, as a man must be in need
to run such a distance for charity. And what looks and acts of
gratitude when the piece of money was flung to him ! We looked
back and there he stood in the road holding up both hands and
apparently blessing us and commending us to heaven. I thought,
as I had done during the whole drive, of Jerusalem in our Sa-
viour's time, and the importunate manner in which the wretched
138 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
blind and lame besought his gracious aid. The aspect of Scylla
was less striking than I had expected, but still a commanding,
strangely projecting rock. Nothing like a Charybdis visible, but
the keeper of the light told us it was frequently so stormy that no
vessel could leave or enter the strait, — about a mile and a half
wide at its narrowest point.
A MILITARY BEGGAR.
Thursday, 30th April. Got on board steamer at two o'clock,
but left the port at four. At the wharf one of the perpetual gens
d^armes on hand, — I had seen him hanging about there for an
hour or more, — who stepped up and said "Z>o^ana," which
meant, of course, " a small fee and I am content." I gave him a
bit of silver, and we went onto the boat without further trouble.
ALONG THE GRECIAN SHORES.
Friday and Saturday, May 1 and 2. Golden, golden days!
Such a sky, such an air, and such wonderfully fine views and
grand old places to see, all clustered over with great historic
memories ! Never did I suppose that I should have been so
favored as to have such a voyage. Especially was Saturday a
great day. Early we made Cape Matapan, which brought up to
mind the Peloponnesus, Laconia, Sparta, and all ; then came
Cythera in sight on our right, and thence arose Venus Anadyo-
mene ; then we doubled the Cape Malea, and onward by Epidau-
rus with the Cyclades off on our right ; and at last passing Hydra,
we came up the Saronic Gulf, and then ^gina and Salamis, and
the Piraeus finally at about half past seven P. M. One succession
all day of glorious sights from sunrise to sunset, and all under
the finest auspices of sky and sea that could be imagined.
SUNDAY AT ATHENS. — A BIBLE READING VTHERE PAUL
PREACHED.
Athens, Sunday, May 3, 1857. Got ashore at seven a. m. Found
a carriage and made for Athens as quick as we could, a five-mile
drive over a dusty road, and with the sun already quite hot, but
we were near the Cephissus and the Groves of the Academy, and
soon caught a glimpse of the Acropolis and all the surrounding
hills. And what a strange Sunday morning it seemed ! Went
to the Hotel d'Orient, and at eleven to the Church of the Eng-
lish Embassy. In the afternoon went with Mr. Dickson to the
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 139
Areopagus, where we read together in the original and the Eng-
lish Paul's speech, Acts xvii. In the midst of such localities
and on the very spot we could feel the force and pertinence of the
words and thoughts he uttered. Would that a man of like spirit
and force might now appear here to turn the people to a simpler
and truer worship of God alone, and of the true God our Saviour !
CLASSICAL SIGHT-SEEING IN ATHENS.
Monday, May 4. Up early with the boys and an American
who had come with us from Messina, and with our guide, George
Makropolos, and started for the chief localities and monuments
of the ancient city. Began on the southeast near by the Ilissus,
the Stadium, the Olympian Jupiter's temple ; then Hadrian's
arch and the monument of Lysicrates, to the southeast angle of
the Acropolis ; first the famous old theatre of Bacchus, which I
have studied so much in books; the Odeum of Herodes, where
we found excavations going on with columns found already and
amphorae, statues, etc. Then went around to the west and up to
the Propylsea, the Parthenon, etc. All my expectations fully
realized by a sight of these grand and beautiful ruins. Picked
up some bits of marble, also flowers and some crow-quills which
Pegasus-like had happened to fall in the Parthenon, and took
them along as souvenirs of my first visit here. Then the Mu-
seum, Pnyx, Areopagus, Temple of Theseus, and home through
the narrow streets of the modern city. Certainly I never before
had such a walk before breakfast. We got to the hotel at ten
o'clock, and were hungry enough to eat a famous Athenian break-
fast, of which the honey of Mt. Hymettus was not the worst or
the smallest part. My room has two windows, the one facing the
Acropolis and the other Hymettus ; and so clear is the air that
they appear close by me, as if I had only to take one or two steps
over those roofs below me, and at once stand on those famed
places. ^
CARRIAGE AND HORSEBACK TO MARATHON. — THE CONSE-
QUENCES.
Tuesday, May 5. Another great day (though a hard one and
sore). Went to Marathon. Started at 4.30 A. M. (and how hard
it was to get up so early after the fatigue of the day before) and
by carriage to Cephissia. What a grand morning, — just like
yesterday, when I was out of bed long before the guide came and
140 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
saw the early dawn on Mt. Hymettus, — and what a fresh, glori-
ous air as we drove out the city into the country. Dr. King had
spoken to me of the dangers from brigands anywhere out of the
city, and I had heard too of a recent act of a band who carried
out of Corinth to the mountains a wealthy citizen and his brother-
in-law, and sent back demanding a ransom of about $20,000. I
confess I was not without apprehensions in respect to journeying,
but Dr. Hill and others told me there was no danger whatever in
any direction, and I went accordingly, thinking I should regret it
if I should lose any such excursions now that I am here. Doubt-
less there is danger, but I reflected that just after such an act one
might be safer, and besides that, the brigands were now pursued
by soldiers and most apt to keep out of the way for some time
to come. And glad am I that I was not dissuaded. Everything
far surpassed my expectations, especially the natural scenery, the
mountains everywhere, the beautiful dells and plains and espe-
cially the grand gorge just above the ancient Marathon, from
which one has the plain spread out before him, and the sea
stretching beyond. Got to Cephissia at 7.15, and at Marathon at
ten A. M. Stopped at a khan, my first in Greece, mounted the
steps running along the side of the house, and there on a mattress
spread for us, and low round seat, filled with cotton or something
else, we took our breakfast, which the guide had brought along.
It was the festival of St. George, and the shepherds and their
families from all about came to Yrana, as the modern town is
called, to the church of St. George on the hillside, to celebrate
the day by religious acts, and then by dance and song. The
khan was full, and in a low building adjoining it, where our
horses were put, I saw parties of the people sitting down and
taking their simple meal. Seeing a woman with an infant and a
man by her whom I took for her husband, I could not but think
of Bethlehem and our Saviour and Mary and Joseph, of the
stable and the manger, " b|jpause there was no room in the inn.'^
Our ride from Cephissia had been on horseback, and I had a very
hard trotting beast, and was terribly shaken up and made stiff and
tired ; but with so much to see and think of I got along very well.
We galloped across the famous plain to the Tumulus, where the
Athenians were buried, and rode to the top and thence looked at
the plain, the most perfectly level plain I ever saw. The whole
view around was not only inspiring from association, but beautiful
and grand from its natural character. Indeed, everlasting nature
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 141
may well divide the palm here with ever-changing man and his-
tory, and, indeed, perhaps carry it quite off. The ride back to
Cephissia I found a hard one and fatiguing, more than anything
for a long time, and at Cephissia how glad I was to dismount and
get into the carriage and in the corner just let myself go to sleep,
which I did in perhaps two minutes and a half ! Was refreshed
by nap, by the breeze, and the views of Athens and the neighbor-
hood, and felt tolerably well on reaching the hotel.
Wednesday, 6th. Had previously made arrangements for a
longer excursion to begin on the 7th, but this morning sent for
the guide and gave it up, and decided to lie by a day or two.
Kept my room all day, writing and reading. It was a wonderful
moonlight night, and I sat till late in my room, looking out at the
Acropolis and the other hills bathed in the serene light of the
moon, and with an air as soft as a June evening with us.
Thursday, 7th. Also quiet to-day and much better, — indeed
well again, I hope, and thus far without medicine at all. In the
evening ventured, notwithstanding my little illness of yesterday,
to go with Mr. Dickson and a party made up by him to the
Acropolis by moonlight, and glad was I that I went. Never had
such a magnificent sight as this hill, those grand old columns, and
ruins, all lighted by a moon of rare brightness, and in a still,
most delicious air.
ELEUSIS AND SALAMIS. — MODERN USE FOR ANCIENT SAR-
COPHAGI.
Friday, 8th. By carriage visited Eleusis and Megara. The
drive out of Athens at the early hour of five, when the air was
fresh and cool, was delightful, and the hills stood out again as I
have already seen them, in bold relief against the sky. The road
lay along the old Sacred Way to Eleusis, the path of the reli-
gious processions, until we reached the Pass of Daphne, a narrow
defile in Mt. ^galeos, a wild, picturesque place. At the end of
the pass we stopped to visit the Monastery of Daphne, an old
building reared upon blocks of marble belonging to some old
Greek structure, it is supposed a temple of Apollo. Hastening
away, we resumed our drive, and coming down the pass, we came
in sight of the bay of Eleusis with the island of Salamis close by,
and hills and mountains on the opposite coast. By this beautiful
bay, which was as calm as a lake, we drove nearly the whole way
till we reached Megara. But little did I find to see in Eleusis, —
142 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
the site of the ancient city, the ruins of the Acropolis, and the
spot, at least, where was a temple of Demeter. We reached Me-
gara at noon when it was very hot, and the narrow streets and ill-
built houses, reaching up the hill on which the town is built, were
quite unpromising. But we got to the khan of the place, a very
neat one, and sat upon a rude balcony, but deliciously cool, and
there had our lunch. Our guide took us off a long stretch to see
sarcophagi, and when we got in sight of them, what should we
find but the whole female population washing any quantity of
clothes, — probably for the whole town, and from their looks
after a long interval, — and using these very sarcophagi for tubs.
A fountain close by furnished lots of water, and there they were
at work en masse, very scantily dressed and looking for the most
part as if they ought to be washed thoroughly themselves. We
got home at an early hour towards evening. Here, too, as at
Marathon, the chief impression left with me was derived from
the natural scenery, the mountains and the bay of Eleusis, rather
than from history and antiquities.
ARGOS AND MYCENJE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Wednesday, 13th. After many plans made and broken in upon
by various causes, we started off at last by steamboat to Nauplia,
to visit from there Argos and Mycenae. It was a pleasant day,
though warm, and the boat was crowded, the Greeks lying about
on the decks on their blankets in delightful disorder. For a part
of the way our course was over the same waters by which we
came to the Piraeus, until we reached the Gulf of Argos. The
boat was a very slow one, and we did not get to Nauplia till 6.30
p. M., several hours behind time. Nauplia from first to last
we found a shocking place, especially the hotel, the filthiest one
I was ever in. Still, it was full to its utmost, and so we had
to sleep in the salon or dining-room. Luckily for me, George had
brought an iron bedstead, mattress and all. The boys declined
having them bring beds for them, and I slept free from dirt and
vermin, from which they suffered terribly. What a fearful time
they had, as well as an inmate of a room which opened into our
dining-room-bedroom, — a professor from the University, as I
found, — who surprised me in the middle of the night by rush-
ing out from his room in his shirt, and with candle in hand, call-
ing for waiters and landlord, and making a terrible ado about his
bed and bedclothes, which last he hauled out and held up to the
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 143
candle with unmistakable demonstrations, and all the while scold-
ing in a great rage. At last he had a quasi bed on the floor and
lay down, and in the gray of morn, when I awoke, there he lay,
a huge great figure on the floor, with a bit of a candle burning
by him, and holding up a big book which he was reading ; " pur-
suit of knowledge under difliculties," I thought. Next day we
were off early in a carriage for Tiryns, Mycenae, and Argos, and
it was a great day for antiquities, — the huge Cyclopean walls of
Tiryns, a couple of miles from Nauplia, twenty-five feet thick and
probably more than three thousand years old, and still to be seen
to perfection. I could not understand the structure of the fort-
ress to which this stupendous masonry belonged, but I wandered
about the hills on which the walls yet are seen, in wonder at the
immense blocks of stone set down here ages ago for the citadel
by the Tirynthians. Then we went on over the broad plain of
Argolis, till we came to the village of Charvati, and near to the
ruins of the city of Agamemnon, Mycenae. Here we left the car-
riage, and by a long stretch of footpath ascended the rugged hills
till we came to the site of the ruins of the Homeric hero. We
climbed a steep hill, just under a still higher cliff, and between
the dry beds of two mountain streams, to the citadel, and came at
last upon the so-called Gate of the Lions, a grand specimen of the
Pelasgian (?) architecture in huge blocks of stone ; two, eight or
ten feet high, supporting a third fifteen feet long and seven feet
high. Above on a triangular block yet stand two lions in relief,
on their hind legs, their forepaws resting upon a round altar.
{Here the diary ends abruptly.)
AULD LANG SYNE. — A VISIT TO THOLUCK.
{From a Letter.)
Berlin, 17th June, 1857. I have had a delightful little visit
in Halle. I took Mrs. Tholuck entirely by surprise. On the
evening I arrived I went there, and was in the room just after
dark, before the candles were lighted, and went in without giv-
ing my name. She came in, and I stepped in and asked her if
she knew me, at the same time drawing her towards the window
where it was lighter. She recognized me directly, and then we
had a good laugh and a pleasant talk. I stayed and took supper,
and when Tholuck came in, he exclaimed, "You are just the
same as ever, only you 've mounted a beard ! " And so we sat
144 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
down, and talked over a supper of honnyclahher, sausages, and
bread and butter. I was there several times, and one evening
lie made quite a little party for me. He thought nobody would
believe I had a wife and children, — and as to the children, I
should have to bring along the baptism-record (Taufschein) or
the idea would be incredible.
SUNDAY IN BERLIN. — HOLY-DAY AND HOLIDAY. — THE
UNIVERSITY REVISITED.
{From a Letter.)
Berlin, Sunday, June 21, 1857. I was rather late at the morn-
ing service in the cathedral church, and therefore lost some of the
best of the music from what is called the " Dom-choir," which is
the best church music here, and probably in Germany. As I went
in the organ was resoundiug through the great church, accom-
panying the choir and the many hundred voices of the congrega-
tion in one of the grand old church melodies so numerous in Ger-
man psalmody. Such music awakens the devoutest emotions in a
worshiper as he comes into the house of God, and I felt as if I
could lift my heart to God here in this distant land in profound
gratitude for the many mercies of his hand, and especially for the
gift of a Saviour and the gospel and all the services of the Chris-
tian church. All the pews in the church were filled below and
above, and people were standing about in all the aisles. The
officiating clergyman, who soon appeared in the pulpit, was Hoff-
man, one of the court-preachers, and one of the ablest and the
most evangelical of the Berlin clergy. The spirit of the whole
sermon was excellent, and the manner most affectionate and ear-
nest, and I felt that I was listening to one who had himself expe-
rienced the blessings of which he spoke and who desired to com-
mend them to the experience of all who heard him, and to win
them all to a participation in the glorious inheritance of the
saints. I had been told that the Communion was to be adminis-
tered after the service, and so I lingered behind, after the bene-
diction was pronounced, with a feeling that if I heard anything
like an invitation to strangers of another creed, that I should be
glad to partake of the ordinance. I was surprised to find that
but very few remained ; from the many doors of the church the
people streamed out, and as I drew near to the chancel I saw but
a scattered group of people, apparently of the humbler classes of
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 145
the parish, sitting about and waiting in silent devotion the admin-
istration of the Communion from the clergyman. Dr. Strauss
came in and the Communion service began. While all were unit-
ing with the minister in prayer, 1 heard near me a suppressed
voice as of one weeping, and turning around I saw a woman at
the end of the bench where I sat, kneeling on the pavement and
her arms on the bench and her head bowed and evidently strug-
gling with feelings I could only conjecture, till at last she wept
quite loud. From her dress and appearance I thought she was a
servant girl, and as she arose after prayer to the seat, her face
flushed and her eyes filled with tears, I could hardly refrain from
going to her and asking the cause of her weeping. Directly, how-
ever, I saw a lady approach her and at once enter into earnest
conversation in whispers, which lasted some time and seemed to
leave the woman in a happier mood. I could not help thinking
she might be in that temple of God, under the influence of the
service just closed and of that which was going on, just such a
penitent as our Lord himself had He been there in person (as once
in Jerusalem) would have approached and cheered and blessed
with his divine words of forgiveness and lasting peace. As I went
out of the church I saw just before me the lady who had conversed
with the weeper, and I wanted very much to ask her what was the
matter with the poor woman, but I thought it might seem im-
proper, and so I only dwelt upon my own conjectures. "The
heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not
therewith." Perhaps she had met with some sad affliction, was
suffering from some crushing bereavement ; or if already a Chris-
tian, was " weeping bitterly " like Peter over the consciousness of
grievous backslidings ; or perhaps, too, she had been enlightened
by the Spirit through the sermon we had all just heard to dis-
cover the sinfulness of sin, and was bowed in penitence and con-
trition. This little incident interested me still more in the Com-
munion service, and made me feel how much we all need to repent
afresh on every such solemn occasion, and turn to Him whose
blood was shed for us all, for the remission of sin.
It is strange what transitions and what different scenes one sees
in a German city on a Sunday, and in immediate succession. As
I went out of the church, where had been just now so large an
assembly of devout worshipers listening to most evangelical
preaching, I came down to the great street of the city, and as I
approached the grand guard-house, I heard the sound of military
146 DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857.
music ; and on coming near, I saw a great crowd of people, mili-
tary officers and citizens of all ranks and ages, men, women, and
children gathered about the guard-house and in the grove behind
it, listening to the music, which is here played at noon on Sunday,
as on any other day, by the band of the regiment here stationed.
All was indeed quiet and orderly, and there was nothing you
could see or hear that you could find fault with, except the scene
itself, which, especially on coming from church, seemed so unlike
Sunday and so excellently fitted to do away with good impressions
received in the church. In the afternoon and evening all was
like any other day, except that there were more people in the
streets and all wending their way outside the city to the music-
garden, with their families, children, nurses, and all. All this is
very strange to an American, and indeed struck me so to-day,
familiar as I have been with German life ; and yet upon reflection
— you may wonder at my inconsistency, too — I am not sure that
this German theory and practice on a Sunday is entirely wrong,
and ours entirely right.
I have found a great deal to interest me and keep me busy in
revisiting the University and calling upon the people to whom
I had letters. Boeckh, the great classical scholar, now about
seventy-five, insisted upon it that he remembered my face, and
that I seemed to him quite like an old acquaintance, and this, too,
before I had told him that I once studied here and attended his
lectures. But / doTbt believe it. Probably he may have heard
from one of the professors here, that there was an American pro-
fessor in town, who had a letter of introduction to him. I had a
delightful talk with Ritter, the veteran geographer, and famous
all over the world. He received me with great kindness and
talked to me as a venerable father to a son. He is now seventy-
eight, but keeps working on, and making books and lecturing ; and
though he has some infirmities, yet, on the whole, looks hale and
hearty. I have not yet seen Humboldt, but have sent a note to
him. He is probably in Potsdam, as the king and court are there.
My health continues good, and I do wonders every day. And
yet I need to be careful, and I suppose always must be, and can
hardly expect to be wholly free from some annoying ailments.
But I have every reason to think that I shall be able to do all
that will devolve upon me, when I get home, without any inter-
ruptions, and I hope that years of active service of some kind are
in reserve for me.
DIARY AND LETTERS FROM EUROPE, 1857. 147
HOMEWARD BOUND.
{From a Letter.)
Paris, 30th July, 1857. Here you see I am safe back again in
Paris, and in my old quarters at the Hotel Bedford, writing to
you from the same table on which I wrote in April, only in far
better health, thank God, than then, and much nearer you and
home than I was then. Then I was going, and now I am com-
ing, — all the difference in the world, I assure you, especially when
the going is in search of health, and the coming in possession of it.
It seems incredible to me, the whole thing, a kind of dream, as I
sit here this summer morning in this snug apartment, writing to
you, and feeling myself (Z>eo volente) less than a month's time
distant from home. How I feel like rushing for Liverpool
straightway, and getting on board that steamer, and then begging
steam, wind, and wave to do their best to send us on to Boston
and Providence.
SELECTIONS FROM
ESSAYS,
FRIDAY CLUB PAPERS
AND
OTHER WRITINGS,
OF
JOHN LARKIN LINCOLN.
The HERKOMER PORTRAIT.
TEKUKS1 CO.. F-HIlA.
AN INTRODUCTION TO GOETHE'S FAUST.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, DECEMBER 4, 1868, AND PUB-
LISHED IN THE " BAPTIST QUARTERLY."
It was on the 22d of March, 1832, that Goethe came to his
earthly end. He had been seized with violent fever a few days
before, and was rapidly failing, though he himself had no idea
that the end was so near. Sitting in his easy-chair on that March
morning, he had been gazing out once more upon the face of na-
ture, which he had known and loved so long and so well, and had
cheerfully talked of the coming of another spring; but as the
hour of noon drew on, his sight and speech gradually became dim
and indistinct, till at half past twelve — his last words "more
light " having just escaped his lips — the Great Seer closed his
eyes forever on all earthly scenes. Strange opposition, in this
our double sphere of existence, that while the sun was high in the
heavens, and all nature was rejoicing in his light, there should
sink to his final setting that great luminary of the world of mind.
And so departed the greatest poet of his country and his age,
who, by the might of his genius, fully developed under the most
fortunate circumstances by the most assiduous and various cul-
ture, had held during his long career a sovereign rule over the
spirits of men.
Of all the great works of this remarkable man, the poem of
" Faust " is the most characteristic. It is a monument of his ge-
nius in all the periods of its development, the consummate result
of the poetic activity of his whole life. Only five days before his
death he wrote, in a letter to William von Humboldt, — and they
are his last written words, — " It is now more than sixty years
since the entire conception of Faust first stood before my mind."
But, as he says in the same letter, the poem was not composed
continuously, but at intervals, the manifold elements of the plan
being wrought out singly, according to the interest they had for
him at the time. Thus the composition of the first part covers a
period of more than thirty years ; it was published as " A Frag-
ment " in 1790, when the poet was about forty, and in its com-
152 GOETHE'S FAUST.
plete form in 1808. The third act of the second part appeared
as late as 1827, and the remaining four acts were written after
the age of seventy-five, and the whole was published after the
poet's death. On the day when he had written the last passage,
he said to Eckermann, " My remaining days I may now consider
a free gift ; and, indeed, it is all one to me, what I now do, or
whether I do anything more." What Horace said of his patron
Maecenas, may be said, therefore, in a still higher sense of Goethe's
Faust — it was the theme of his earliest and of his latest song.
Even in his boyhood his imagination was seized by the weird story
of Faust, as he read it in the then popular book of Meynenden,
and saw it in the puppet shows at that time so common in Frank-
fort. In his student life at Strasburg, when he was himself full
of aspirations for knowledge, yet ever unsatisfied with his attain-
ments, the character and career of Faust so fell in with his own
experience, that he then conceived the idea of its poetic treat-
ment. Three years later the conception had taken form within
him, and he began to give it expression ; and from that time to
the last of his life he was busied, though sometimes at long
intervals, in filling up the grand canvas which the conception
required ; the poem grew up into being even with his own spirit-
ual growth ; the manifold scenes of the great Dramatic Mystery
successively unfolded themselves and rose to the view along with
his own ever-widening observation and experience; and the last
scene of all, that scene which opens to us glimpses into the invis-
ible world, reached its consummation only a year before the poet's
own departure from the earth.
This poem, which thus represents Goethe's entire life, stands
also in closest relation to the life of his age, especially of the
German people. It entered into that life even as a vital force,
giving impulse and character to its higher manifestations in liter-
ature and art, and to the thoughts and convictions of the popular
mind. Appearing in a transition period of unrest and excite-
ment, it seemed to be a sovereign word which all were waiting to
hear ; it acted like a sudden inspiration on all minds ; all poets,
writers, thinkers, all departments of intellectual activity, felt its
influence ; all the arts of design united to reproduce it in impres-
sive forms ; music, too, gave it utterance in many-voiced song ;
and the stage exhausted its resources of scenic talent and skill to
bring to the eye and the mind of an enthusiastic public a living
representation of its pictures of life and manners. Probably no
GOETHE'S FAUST. 153
poem of modern times has had so many readers ; readers of all
ages and classes in society, of every stage of intelligence and cul-
ture. It has been alike the favorite of the unthinking multitude,
and of men of the most thoughtful minds. The common people
never tire of those scenes which portray the griefs and the joys
of ordinary life ; they read the story of Margaret for the hun-
dredth time with an ever new interest, and her very face and
form seem to be present to their sight, even as one of their own
kindred, familiar to them in their homes, even as to the ancient
Romans the images of their ancestors and their household gods.
Not less marked has been its influence upon the profoundest
thinkers ; with whom it has been a cherished companion in their
hours of solitary meditation upon the ever insoluble and ever
fascinating problems of human being. Niebuhr describes it as a
book which touches the deepest springs of thought and feeling;
Hegel pauses, in the midst of one of his most abstruse exposi-
tions, to illustrate his doctrines by the words of Faust ; and
Schelling has pronounced the poem "an ever fresh source of
inspiration," and counsels all young and aspiring students to
draw from its perennial sources that force which emanates from
it, and moves the innermost soul of man. The secret of such a
popularity lies not alone in the poetic and dramatic power of the
work, marvelous as this is, but in the fact that all this marvelous
power is employed with infinite skill in representing truths of
surpassing moment in human life. It is more than a drama,
instinct though it is with the dramatic spirit, and though its char-
acters move before us like a human presence ; it is more than a
tragedy, though it answers the conditions of tragic poetry by
moving the passions through the agency alike of pity and of ter-
ror. It is a dramatic poem of human life and destiny ; its
themes involving all that is most momentous in man's being and
condition ; with a great poet's insight and utterance, it tells
through one form of human character and experience the story
of man's nature ; its relations to God and the world, the conflict
of its passions, its ideal longings struggling against the fixed lim-
its of necessity, its perpetual contradictions of strength and weak-
ness, knowledge and ignorance, truth and error; and above all
these, and underlying them all, that mysterious contest, that awful
antinomy, of good and of evil.
It falls in with what has now been said, that this poem, like
all the great poems of the world, rests, in its essential subject-mat-
154 GOETHE'S FAUST.
ter, upon the ground of fact. As in the old story of Antaeus, it
draws its strength from the soil of human experience. The basis
is real. With all the fables that have gathered about the name
of Faust, and formed a Faust Legend,^ as truly as that of
"Achilles' wi-ath," or of "Pelops' line" in antiquity, Faust is a
historical person. We have not space even to indicate the mani-
fold elements of the legend; nor need we narrate all that is
kno\NTi of the man. His career belongs to the sixteenth century,
the time of the Reformation, and of the revival of learning. He
was born at Knittlingen, a little town in Wiirtemberg, and a few
miles from the birthplace of Melanchthon.
Melanchthon himself knew him at Wittenberg ; and there are
writings extant of two of the Reformer's pupils, which record nar-
ratives they had heard from their master, in which he speaks of
Faust as a countryman and personal acquaintance, and mentions
facts in his student-life, and then denounces him in woiwis quite
foreign to the Reformer's usual gentle spirit and classic style, as
" a shameful beast," and " a cloaca of many devils." Faust studied
chiefly at Cracow, but for a time also at other universities. He is
spoken of as a Doctor of Theology, and well versed in the Scrip-
tures ; as a Doctor of Medicine, and a famous physician ; also,
as a mathematician and an astrologer. Melanchthon testifies of
him, in all sincerity, that he carried a dog about with him, who
was the devil in disguise ; also that he boasted that by his skill
in magic he had won for the emperor all his victoies over the
French. He speculated, it was said, day and night ; and in his
ambition for superhuman knowledge and power, gave himself to
magic arts, and leagued himself with the devil, and after a law-
less career came to a dreadful end. Such are the chief things
told of Faust by men of the time, celebrated for learning and
piety ; and it is no wonder that, in an age and among a people
where witchcraft was believed in with a more than New Ensfland
faith, the fame of Faust soon ran over all Germany and Europe,
growing ever larger as it ran, and tales were told without num-
ber of his conjurations and mighty magic. These elements, the
real and the fictitious, of the Faust story, Goethe has wrought,
by his genius and his art, into a new creation, a Faust of his own,
into Goethe's Faust; it is the old air with variations, but such
^ The completest view that we have seen of the Faust Legend is contained
in Heinrich Duntzer's Goethe's Faust published at Leipsic, 1857. The work
contains, also, a very valuable commentary on both parts of the poem.
GOETHE'S FAUST. 155
variations as could emanate only from an original genius ; the
conception of character is the same, but it is recast in a finer and
grander mould, ennobled and enriched by that faculty so rich in
Goethe, which Milton calls a " universal insight into things," and
set forth and adorned with a wealth of poetic beauty, " which has
in it everything of enchantment which a magician could either
give or desire."
We propose to take such a survey of the poem as may serve
to show its moral significance ; to endeavor to bring out the form
of character which it presents, and the several stages of its career,
together with the lessons it teaches.
At the outset we have the poet's guidance for the foreshadow-
ing, in the Prologue, of the moral conditions of the life of Faust.
It is called the Prologue in Heaven, and is constructed upon the
model of the Introduction of the Book of Job. We are lifted, in
imagination, to the courts of heaven, to the very presence-cham-
ber of the Lord. In those heavenly hosts that throng around in
shining ranks, and in Mephistopheles, who comes also to present
himself before the Lord, we seem to touch, at their very springs
in the invisible world, the powers of good and evil, which are to
invest with their mysterious conflict of agency the life of a hu-
man being on earth. The voices of archangels utter forth, in
adoring, jubilant song, the high praises of God ; the sun round-
ing his appointed course, and ringing out his rival accord in the
music of the spheres, the pomp of the swift revolving earth, its
brightness of day alternating with awful night, the foaming ocean
heaving up in its broad floods, — these, and all His sublime works,
past comprehending, are glorious as on time's first day. But this
celestial harmony is broken in upon by one voice of discord, the
voice of Mephistopheles, who draws near and addresses the Lord
in words which are his alone, as the spirit of scofling and contra-
diction, as the accuser and tempter of men. He has naught to
say of suns and spheres, he only sees how man is vexing himself,
the little god of the world, who is just as odd a creature as at the
first. Far better off would he be if he had not in him the glim-
mering light of reason, which he uses only to make himself lower
than the brutes themselves. " Dr. Faust " in particular seems to
him, if a servant of the Lord at all, to serve him in the strangest
fashion. He will have the brightest stars of heaven, and the high-
est joys of earth, and both together leave him all unsatisfied.
The tempter asks only that he may have him under his guidance,
156 GOETHE'S FAUST.
and he shall be utterly lost to the Lord's service. The Lord re-
plies, that Faust wanders now in perplexity ; he may be brought
out by and by into clearness ; the adversary may tempt him, so
long as he is on earth, since man is subject to temptation during
all his earthly probation ; this human soul he may drag down to
his own path if he can ; but at last baffled and in shame, he may
have to confess that " a good man in his dark strivings is con-
scious of the right way."
In the opening scene we are introduced to Faust, in his study
at night, in the midst of his books, where, in intellectual pursuits,
his life has hitherto exclusively lain. Conscious of the highest
powers of thought, and instinct with boundless desires, that yearn
after all, and more than all, that man can ever attain, he has been
striving with the vehemence of a character far less wise than
strong and noble, for the conquest of absolute truth. But alas !
the tree of knowledge, always one of good or of evil, according to
the spirit of the soul that gathers its fruit, has yielded him only
vexation and disappointment. A generous avarice for intellectual
wealth has been his master passion ; but it was avarice still, and
left his soul in a sense of spiritual need, because he lacked the
virtues of content and moderation, and faith and love, and rever-
ent submission to the conditions of all human endeavor. He has
compassed the circle of university learning, has mastered philoso-
phy, law, medicine, and theology too ; he has won all titles and
dignities of scholastic life, he has enjoyed an enviable celebrity as
professor these ten years past ; but the result of all is no inward
satisfaction, no revelation yet of the secrets of the world ; and he
sits now brooding over the dismal conviction, that all knowledge
is vain, all knowing impossible. Gone, utterly gone, is the fancy
that he can know anything himself, or teach anything that can
better mankind. So it was once in the poet's own experience, as
he has himself recorded it : "I too had ranged through the whole
round of knowledge, and was early enough led to see its vanity ; "
and a wiser than either has told the same sad story ; " And I gave
my heart to know wisdom ; and I perceived that this also is vexa-
tion of spirit. For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that
increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." With this despair of
knowledge, Faust painfully feels how he has, in the mean time,
lost all chance of earthly happiness. He looks forth from his
gloom, upon the brilliant arena of the world, and sees how men
have won its fair prizes of wealth and pleasure, and rank and
GOETHE'S FAUST. 157
power, and it maddens him now to think that all these, which in
his eager pursuit of truth he has ignored and despised, he has
now sacrificed and lost. And this is the running over of his cup
of bitterness.
What now can he do ? It is not in his nature to succumb, and
make peace with his condition. No ; by some hitherto untried
means, he is still bent upon reaching the goal towards which he
has been striving ; he insists upon the absolute satisfaction of his
desires for knowledge. Despairing of this attainment by his own
faculties, he will call to his aid supernatural agencies. Extremes
meet; and this man of Promethean nature, who has aspired to
possess himself by his own intellectual force of the secrets of
heaven, will super stitiously invoke fancied powers of the spirit
world, who shall reveal to him, in open vision, the mysteries of
the universe. With this new purpose hope revives once more ;
the ardor of his passionate soul is all aglow again ; he plunges
into the books of magic, and studies its signs and spells. As he
gazes upon the sign of the Macrocosm, the mystic sign of the uni-
verse, he feels the presence of hovering spirits, on whom he calls.
The inward tumult is stilled, as the powers of nature seem to be
unveiling all about him. His poor heart fills with joy, as he dis-
cerns the harmony of forces, which live in the vast frame of the
world, the ceaseless energy of their reciprocal action, all weaving
themselves into the whole, and each working and living in the
other. But too soon he finds that all this is for him but a majes-
tic show, phenomena alone, brilliant as they are ; of these harmo-
nious forces he has himself no immediate apprehension; the
sources of life he cannot penetrate ; the spirits he invokes answer
not, for over them he has no power. Baffled here, he turns him
to another mystic sign, that of the spirit of the elemental world,
the spirit of the earth. To this he finds himself more nearly al-
lied ; of this spirit he may aspire to be a peer ; he is proudly con-
scious of entire manhood, strong to know all and brave all that
belongs to earth, to carry in him all its weal and all its woe. He
feels the spirit to be near, close at hand, scarce veiled from his
sight ; and in the hope that he is now to have pure insight into
the very being of nature, and with every faculty strained to wel-
come the revealing, he must call, he must be heard, though it cost
him his life. But at the very moment when what he has so hotly
wished appears, and the spirit stands before him in all its flaming
glory, he cannot bear the sight, and, horror-struck, turns him away
158 GOETHE'S FAUST.
and hides his face. Now he must hear the spirit's awful rebuke
for his arrogant pride, in defying the limits that bound man, and
in presuming to match himself with spirits. He must learn that
he is like the spirit he can comprehend, not that one he has sum-
moned as his equal ; man may not gaze into the inner heart of
Nature ; her mysterious being and force are hidden from his view ;
the ever-changing life of the world is only the vesture of the
Deity ; man may not see God at any time, only his manifestations
can he see and know.
Disappointed in these new hopes, and rudely thrust back upon
the dim lot of mortals, Faust sinks down in humiliation to his
own bitter reflections. He looks over all his career, and contrasts
this despair of his manhood with the glowing hopes of youth,
when his soul exulted in constant progress, when fair visions of
rising truth made all bright the horizon before him. The myste-
ries of man's double being, the material and the spiritual, the ideal
and the real, press upon his soul with aU their awful weight. He
is bitterly conscious how man finds his finest spiritual desires
humbled and withered by the earthly element that clings to him,
and is aU about him. The claims of every-day life press down
with rudest force our noblest aspirations ; the glorious feelings
that have made our inner life are deadened by contact with the
world, and our high ideals, that have risen so grandly before the
soul, melt and pass away at the touch of ugly reality. Such
thoughts as these possessing the soul of Faust, the sight of his
books, for so many years his chosen companions, is now odious ;
the study, where alone has been his home, is now a very dungeon ;
nay, the world itself only a prison, its walls bounding him on all
sides, so massive they cannot be pierced, so high he cannot scale
them. As he gazes in despair on all the objects around him, the
shelves of gloomy volumes, the ghastly array of instruments of
science, a bright shining phial of poison fastens his eye like a
magnet. He grasps it and greets it devoutly as the hope and de-
liverance of his perplexed soul. Those sweet, sparkling juices,
once mixed by himself with cunning hand, shall bear him in peace
to new shores and lasting day. By their friendly agency, more
potent than study or magic, he shall pass quietly out of his prison
limits, and, as a free spirit, range in the bright regions of pure
and perfect knowledge. He is raising the cup to his lips, when
from the adjoining church there breaks upon his ear the Easter
song of the angels, chanting the great theme of the resurrection, —
GOETHE'S FAUST. 159
" Christ is arisen !
Joy be to mortal man !
Whom, since the world began,
Evils inherited.
By his sins merited.
Through his sins creeping,
Sin bound are keeping."
His rash hand is stayed, his purpose arrested, his soul deeply
moved as he listens. Strange power of music that so calms his
surging passions; strange the power of mental association, that
sounds, falling upon his ear, so strike the electric chain of thought
and feeling as to flash before him all the forgotten past, and give
such force to the memories of innocent childhood, when faith and
knowledge went hand in hand, and believing and doing were one.
He listens to the message of those Easter sounds, though they
speak to no faith in his own heart. No longer can he aspire to
those spheres whence those good tidings come ; but those old fa-
miliar strains, heard in his childhood, have power yet to call him
back to life.
"Now memories sweet,
Fraught with the feelings of my childhood's prime.
From the last step decisive stay my feet.
Oh ! peal, sweet heavenly anthems, peal as then !
Tears flood mine eyes, earth has her child again."
Faust has now reached a crisis of great moral peril, when, for
a brief season, it is not clear whether he will go on in a path of
error or turn back to right. This transition stage Goethe repre-
sents in a series of scenes, which hurry us forward, with an ever-
heightening interest, awakened both by their poetic and their
moral power, to the catastrophe of the first part of the poem, in
Faust's fall, and the tragedy of Margaret. We are to see how
transient is the sacred stillness that has come from that Easter
hymn ; how soon come back upon him all the old, restless desires,
the dull, gloomy discontent ; how, with the extinction of all faith,
his before dormant passions awake, and assert their claims, till
turning his back upon all his high aspirings, he is ready to join
hands with Mephistopheles, the spirit of evil, with whom he has
been all the while unconsciously in parley.
We see Faust next, no longer in his study, but in the midst of
nature and of the moving throngs of men. It is springtime, when
Nature is renewing her glories ; it is the afternoon of the festive
Easter-day, and the common people, all strangers to the strivings
160 GOETHE'S FAUST.
which have so embittered the life of the recluse student, are hur-
rying forth from the haunts of daily toil and care, in quest of hol-
iday mirth and pleasure. Faust has at his side his famulus Wag-
ner, the very antipode of himself, a dry, plodding man, a disciple
of the letter, and not of the spirit, who has taken to books and
study as a means of getting on in the world, and who, in his dull
level of mediocrity, fancies himself a match for the Dii Majores
of the learned world. Goethe treats him with infinite skill as a
foil to Faust ; and it is one of the finest of the many contrasts of
the poem. Faust enters into the scenes of life about him with all
the deep-moved sensibilities of a strong nature. It delights him
to see river and rill all free again, to see the fields again green
with promise. He beholds, with a strange joy, the gay multitude
of men and women, straying in parties over garden and field, and
blithely basking in the sunshine to-day, and making the spring
air ring with their hearty glee of shout and cheer. Ah ! thinks
he, what pleasure is here ! How much wiser these simple people
than I, for they know how to be happy ! But by and by, while
he is gazing upon the setting sun, as he gilds the landscape with
his departing rays, and is speeding on to light up other scenes,
the sight reminds him how darkness has just set upon his bright
hopes, and starts into new life all his infinite desires, and he longs
for friendly wings, that he may strive after the bright god in his
glorious course. Then he might soar above this narrow spot of
earth to regions of serene air, night left behind him, day always
before him, and the heavens above all bathed in undying light.
But even while he dreams, the sun is gone. Another glorious
dream, a bright delusion, but of briefest possession, a type of all
our noblest aspirations ! The learned Wagner at his side cannot
comprehend his master's mood. He, too, he says, has had his
fanciful hours, but was never stirred by such impulses as these.
He soon gets sated at looking on fields and woods, and never in
his life did he covet a bird's wings, that he might fly away through
the air. His are the joys of mind, and he has his charmed hours,
when, in the long winter nights, he communes with books. Ah !
when he can unroll a precious parchment, then all heaven comes
down into his soul. Faust tells him that he knows only the one
impulse of the human soul, let him never know the other. Within
his own breast are dwelling two souls, the one struggling to be
severed from the other ; the one cleaves to the earth, with organs
like clamps of steel, the other lifts itself from the mists of earth
GOETHE'S FAUST. 161
to its ancestral skies. His longing desires are inflamed with the
more ardor by contact with so different a nature as Wagner's.
While Wagner describes the joy which his studies yield him,
Faust feels more than ever the weight of his own lot, in which,
despairing of knowledge, he hates the very thought of books. He
has in him already the rising desire to exchange " gray theory for
the golden fruits of life." He would fain range abroad in the
world, and musing no more over dull learning, restore his tortured
soul in the manifold interchange of enjoyment and of life. Oh,
that the spirits that float between earth and heaven would come
down and bear him on their pinions to new and varied existence !
Oh, for a magic mantle to waft him away to far-off worlds !
Next we find Faust in his study again, returned from his walk,
and bringing from it a frame of mind softened by the scenes he
has witnessed without, as well as by the gathering shades of
evening. The better soul seems to be awake within him; he
will persuade himself that his wild desires are now in slumber ;
that the love of man and the love of God are now rekindling
in his heart. Soon, however, he discovers this to be a delusion,
the influence rather of recollections than of present thoughts and
feelings. He must soon confess to himself that the wished-for
peace is not within him ; that strive as he may, it will never
more well up in his heart. In his extremity he will turn to
divine revelation, to the New Testament. He will translate a
passage from the original into his dear native tongue. He seizes
the book and opens to the first chapter of the Gospel of John.
But how can he, whose faith has disappeared, approach the Bible
with that humility and trust which are the necessary conditions
of its healing and saving powers? On the very first verse he
is at a stand, he is mastered by the spirit of contradiction, which
drives him to a downright denial of the language of Scripture.
" In the beginning was the Word f " No, " The Word " cannot
be put at so high a value as that; certainly it was not that
which was " in the beginning." And so, by a purely subjective
process of criticism, he sets himself to inquiring and establishing
for himself what was in the beginning, and finally writes, "In
the beginning was the Deed.^'' Thus the inwrought skepticism
of his mind, which has returned unsatisfied from all his investi-
gations, comes into fatal conflict with the childlike faith which
the Scriptures teach and require ; by and by the general convic-
tion that all human life is but a bitter jugglery seizes him more
162 GOETHE'S FAUST.
strongly than ever ; he is ashamed of the weak emotion that
kept him back yesterday from breaking away from such a world
as this. That, too, was only a delusion, which cheated the little
remnant he had of childlike feelings by memories of a happy
past ; and so with aU feelings that seem to promise satisfaction ;
they are only cozening and deceitful powers to bind us by their
mocking fascinations to this dreary den of the world. With an
awful desperation of soul he is now ready to break with everything ;
he utters curses on all the finest feelings of man's heart, all the
virtues and tender graces of life, hope, faith, love, and, above all,
patience ; and shattering with one blow the moral world, throws
himself into the companionship of the fiend, to make in his company
the perilous transfer of his strivings from those higher regions where
he has found no satisfaction, to the lower arena of sensual enjoy-
ment, where he is destined to a far more awful disappointment.
It is here that Goethe draws from the legend, and represents
according to his own conceptions, the league of Faust with Me-
phistopheles. Indeed, in the scenes over which we have now
been passing, he has represented Faust's gradual approaches to
evil by the presence of Mephistopheles in various fantastic forms ;
but now that the hour has come, and all is ready for the tempter,
he is made to reveal himself in human form, and talk with him
as man to man. Goethe's Mephistopheles is no mere poetic per-
sonification of evil in man, of the perverse tendency of the human
will ; such a creation were only an enlarged alter ego of Faust,
and a very tame and lifeless dramatic figure. He is made to
represent moral evil as a reality existing independently of the
poet's fancy, and only capable of personification because it has
such an independent existence ; he represents moral evil existing
as such a reality, not merely in man, but beyond man; moral
evil, as a real power, everywhere and actively existing, and only
to oppose, and disturb, and destroy all that is fair and true and
good in the world; in Goethe's own language, Mephistopheles
is the spirit that " evermore denies ; what is called sin, mischief,
in short, evil, — is his proper element." It is this dread power
we are now to see, not only personified, but in human form, in
closest union with the destiny of Faust; to tempt, and, if he may,
drag him down to perdition ; to be a chosen and sworn companion,
a guide and servant, through all his probation in the present;
whether at last, and in the endless future, to be his master, we
can only now divine from the intimations in the Prologue.
GOETHE'S FAUST. 163
It is essential to observe how Goethe conceives the moral
condition of Faust through the scene of his contract with Me-
phistopheles. The decisive moment, when the contracting parties
come face to face, is that in which the imprecations upon all
good things have just come forth from the lips of Faust. As
a prelude to the offers of Mephistopheles, we hear the chorus
of evil spirits, mourning, with an awful irony of melodious song,
the overthrow of so fair a world, all its beauty now crushed
and lost, and calling upon the destroyer to build up a new world,
fairer and more glorious, to begin a career of action and pleasure,
on which all siren voices shall chime in his ears. Striking the
key-note of this fiendish song, Mephistopheles bids Faust no longer
sit here, a melancholy, despairing dreamer, but forth with him
into the living world of men. He will be his companion, his
servant, to bear him to a more congenial sphere than that of
dull, unsatisfying thought ; let him only bind himself to him,
and he shall have satisfying joys at last ; more shall be his than
eye of man has ever seen. Faust replies that he has, indeed,
too proudly dreamed, that he has soared too high, and that now
the chain of thought has snapped, and all knowledge is to him
a loathing. He is ready to rush into the tumult of passion, and
as he cannot pierce the mysteries of knowledge, he will fathom
the depths of feeling. He will experience all, whether of pain
or of pleasure, that can fall to the lot of universal man. Yet
of satisfying joys he will not hear ; least of all can such a one
as Mephistopheles, who cannot comprehend the strivings of the
mind of man, give him aught that can yield the satisfaction he
craves. Indeed, so confident is he in this conviction, that he
passionately lays the wager, that if ever he is lulled to security
by sensual enjoyments, if ever he says to the passing moment,
" Stay, thou art so fair ! " that day shall be his last, and the last
of Mephistopheles' service.
" The clock may stand, the index fall,
And time and tide may cease for me."
Thus, on the one hand, Faust will plunge into the tumult of
sense, as a new arena of activity for his restless desires ; he
ventures the perilous companionship with evil, proudly confident
that it shall never be his master, and excusing himself with the
delusive plea that in his extremity he has no other alternative.
On the other hand, Mephistopheles sees in Faust already a sure
victim ; he gloats over the assurance that soon he shaU bring
164 GOETHE'S FAUST.
down this high-soaring soul with him to his own place ; he shall
be whirled round and round in the eddies of appetite and passion,
and at last be drawn into the vortex, to be lost forever in the
abyss. With such a contract, signed and sealed with blood, they
go forth into the world together.
We do not propose to dwell upon the first scene in Faust's new
career, the Auerbach Cellar in Leipsic ; a famous drinking-place,
which has still a great renown for its traditions of the real Faust's
most famous feats of magic. Here Faust is to be addressed by
the coarsest forms of enjoyment, in a drinking-bout of German
students, where bad wine and worse wit make up the sorry enter-
tainment of the night. But he is ill at ease in all this wassailing,
he has no heart for it, and is glad when he has it all behind him.
We need also only touch upon the next scene, the Witches^
Kitchen^ where witchery is to renew the youth of Faust, and
wake in him youth's wildest passions. Revolting as is this scene,
it has a rightful place in the drama. Even as the fatal temptation
of Macbeth is set forth by the prophetic greeting of the witches
on the blasted heath, so Faust comes into this den of sorcery to
be touched and tainted by spiritual impurity, and at last to be
seized and held spell-bound by its foul fascinations. Though at
first he expresses himself as disgusted at the loathsome creatures
about him, yet by and by he is infected by their atmosphere ; he
drinks the witches' potion, and it works on his brain like madness ;
he sees in the magic mirror the form of a beautiful woman, and
straightway desires blaze up within him he has never known
before. He hurries from the spot, Mephistopheles promising him
the sight in the real world of the fairest of women ; and directly
Margaret appears upon the scene, whose beauty and goodness are
destined to make her the object and the victim of his passionate
and unhallowed love.
We enter now the charmed circle of those scenes in which the
genius and art of Goethe have wrought, from the realities of
humblest human life, the moving tragedy of Margaret. On this
part of the poem we would gladly linger long, but we must re-
member that these scenes, for most readers, of paramount, and
for all, of such absorbing interest, while they are a tragic whole
in the narrower lot of Margaret, are only a tragic passage in
Faust's life, out of which he is to struggle into other spheres of
experience and action. Though we move here among forms of
ethereal poetic beauty, yet all is in spirit intensely, terribly real ;
GOETHE'S FAUST. 166
the cbaracters, incidents, experiences, are all human ; so human
that they have readiest speech for every reader ; it is the music of
humanity that we hear, from its strains of ecstatic joy down to its
wildest wail of woe, all the passions in turn " snatching the
instruments of sound, and proving their own expressive power."
It is a story of love, seduction, and ruin ; ruin involving not only
Margaret herself, but aU that still peaceful world of her home,
with its priceless possessions of innocence, affection, and piety ; a
wide-spreading ruin, gathering, as it spreads, the quick following
horrors of her mother's death-sleep by a draught given her at
Faust's suggestion, the killing of her brother in a duel by her
lover, and, by and by, child-murder by the outcast and crazed
mother ; and, at last, her peace gone, her good name, her earthly
hopes, everything gone, save her penitence and her faith in the
divine mercy, — her own imprisonment and execution. No sweeter
creation than Margaret ever arose out of poet's imagination. Such
innocence is hers, such artless simplicity, such a sound, natural
sense, in short, such an exquisite naturalness of character; poor
in all worldly things, but rich in the charms of person and the
inner graces of woman's nature, pure instincts, all deep, true
feelings, — a sweet and virtuous soul; how can you imagine, as
you first see her issuing from the church on that fatal day, that
even now invisible evil spirits lurk for her coming, that the demon
of destruction has marked her for his own? She secures our sym-
pathy and affection at the very first, and, even to the bitter end,
loses them never. We are strangely touched, as we see the first
rising of love in her soul ; as we hear her ingenuous wonder, what
so great a man can see in so simple a creature as herself ; we joy
with her when she reaches the full consciousness that he is really
hers, and she is wholly his ; we can revere and bow before the
devotion of her love in her solicitude about her lover's faith, and
the fine sense of her heart, that makes her shrink with horror
from " that man he has with him," on whose very brow she sees it
written, " that he can love no living soul." And after her fall,
how we mourn with her in her unutterable sorrow ; we shudder at
the horrors of her remorse in the cathedral, when the terrible
words of the " Dies Irse " sound in her affrighted ears ; we bend
and must needs pray with her in the penitent, heart-rending grief
of that prayer to the Virgin which no one can read or hear with
dry eyes ; and when at last, in the dungeon, she submits herseK in
trusting faith, to the judgment of God, that voice from above, " is
166 GOETHE'S FAUST.
saved," gives us a sweet relief, in the assurance we were so ready-
to receive, that the weary one is forever at rest, where the wicked
cease from troubling.
But the spiritual history of Faust himself, as it is portrayed in
these scenes, awakens an interest no less powerful. Horace has
asserted that poets are better moralists than philosophers, that
men learn more ethics from the Iliad and Odyssey than from the
treatises of Chrysippus and Grantor. And certainly these fine
delineations of the workings of man's moral nature in conflict
with excited passion, and the impressive lessons they have fast-
ened in the minds of thousands of readers, go far to establish the
Roman poet's position. As in the thoughtful poem of Tenny-
son, we hear the " Two Voices " within the soul of man, in their
alternations of passionate longing and of awful remonstrance,
indeed, we may rather say, we see in action the conflict described
by an inspired pen, and we hear the lamentation extorted from
conscious weakness of humanity, " Oh, wretched man that I am ! "
And before we leave the first part of the poem, the story of which
we have now sufiiciently told, let us dwell for a brief space upon
one or two of the decisive moments of this contest within the
breast of Faust.
We select, for the first illustration, the scene in which Faust is
brought by Mephistopheles to the chamber of Margaret in her
absence. Faust has seen Margaret and is enamored of her. He
feels nothing, knows nothing but lawless passion, and clamors
with Mephistopheles for immediate possession. Mephistopheles
promises him all in the end, and meantime a visit to her room.
There he shall be by himself, and revel in dreams of pleasures yet
to come. But how these Satanic words fail of fulfillment ! What
a change comes over the soul of Faust, when he treads the pre-
cincts of virtue, and breathes the atmosphere of contented inno-
cence ! Like the mild shining of the sun and the soft sereneness
of the air after a furious storm, better thoughts and feelings steal
in upon him and hush to stillness the mad tumult of desire. As
he feels the spirit of order and purity that reigns in the place, he
is humbled to self-loathing, to think what a base impulse brought
him here. And if she were to enter now, how would he rue his
wanton sacrilege, how he should sink at her feet, dissolved in
shame ! He rushes out, with the purpose never to return.
We leave several passages which unfold, in successive meetings,
the mutual love of Faust and Margaret, and come to the scene of
GOETHE'S FAUST. 167
the Wood and Cavern, and the next following dialogue of Faust
and Mephistopheles. Faust has now met Margaret again and
again, and is all conscious of the unspeakable worth of her good-
ness, of the preciousness of a true woman's love ; he has felt in
his own breast the power of love, but passion is stronger there ;
and in his dread of wrong-doing, so close at hand, and the fright-
ful evil it will work, he flees the presence of the loved one ; he
hastens away from the dwellings of men to the still and lonely-
woods. But the solitude of nature is no moral security for his
heart, so ill at ease, and not settled in truth ; and even in the deep
forest, in the dark cavern, he encounters the tempter face to face,
and is tempted beyond his strength. The adversary plies him
first with mocking laugh and sneer. He derides Faust's comfort-
less, owl-like moping in clefts and caverns, his lapping nourish-
ment, like a toad, from oozy moss and dripping stones. Precious
communion with nature ! A rare pastime ! There must be some-
thing of " the learned Doctor still sticking in his bones ! " Faust
urges what new life-power he gains by roaming thus among the
scenes of nature. With yet sharper sneers Mephistopheles ridi-
cules all Faust's transports about nature, all such swelling of a
poor human soul to take in the six days' work of creation ; how
charmingly consistent they are with a lover's raptures, how much
better after all the real delights that may be his than such ideal
vaporing. He then makes Faust feel the forlorn condition of
Margaret in his absence, how she sits lonely and despairing, his
image never out of her mind. Instead of lording it here over
the woods, far better that he should hasten to her comfort, and
reward her for her love. Faust feels the tempter's words, and
bids him begone, nor dare name her or bring her image to his
thoughts. But Mephistopheles insists that something must be
done ; that she thinks he has deserted her and gone forever. The
thought of desertion sets back upon Faust the whole tide of his
passion. He can never forget, he will never forget her. But
then the peril to her by his return, the ruin so imminent ! No joy
could he have in her love if he is to undermine her peace. And
yet she thinks him false, is disconsolate without him ; besides, is
not his own love a genuine, a natural one ? He must, he will go
back, whatever it may cost either her or himself. And so passion
triumphs over his better nature.
After Margaret's fall, Faust flees, driven by the tortures of
remorse. But he comes back to perpetrate an act, which he had
168 GOETHE'S FAUST.
never foreseen in all his dread anticipations of Margaret's ruin.
Her brother had meantime come back from the wars, a soldier of
rough manners, but of brave heart, who had tenderly loved his
sister, and felt her disgrace like a stab in the heart. He meets
Faust and forces him to a duel, and is himself slain. Faust must
now flee for his personal safety, and leave Margaret again, and to
aggravated wretchedness. The interval of flight the poet fills up
with the scene of The Walpurgis Nighty in which he represents
the Witches' Sabbath on the Brocken in all the fullness of the
superstitious ideas which prevailed in the age of Faust. Many
parts of the scene are difficult to understand, and the whole is
revolting to study, but it seems to be designed to show how the
tempter strove, though in vain, to sink Faust in licentious indul-
gence, and so drown his anguish, as well as his memory of Mar-
garet; to show how the excitements of a sensual life could no
longer attract him after his experience of Margaret's love ; and
how in that love, in spite of all his guilt, he had found a power
that was to lift him out of the low career into which he had madly
plunged. From all the foul orgies of the witch-night on the
Brocken, his thoughts must needs go back to the forsaken, un-
happy Margaret. As he is whirling in the mazes of the dance,
he sees in the distance a beautiful girl, of ghastly pale face, who
seems to be dragging herself towards him, like one with shackled
feet: —
" It cannot, cannot be, and yet
She minds me of sweet Margaret."
Mephistopheles tries to laugh him out of the idea ; it is only a
magic shape, no real thing. But Faust is riveted to the form, and
presently he sees, strangely adorning that lovely neck, a single
red cord, no thicker than a knife-blade ; such are the fancies that
trouble that guilty soul ; such are his presentiments of the evils
so soon to come.
From this frightful dreamland the poet brings us down to
earth again, and to a scene in prose, — the only prose scene in the
poem, — charged with awful realities. We find Faust and Me-
phistopheles, of a gloomy day, on an open plain. Faust has just
learned all that has befallen Margaret ; a crazed wanderer, and
now in prison, awaiting a criminal's doom. He curses Mephis-
topheles, that he has kept all this from him, all the while lulling
him with vapid dissipations, hiding her wretchedness and leaving
her to perish without help. He is conscious, as never before, of
GOETHE'S FAUST. 169
the destructive power of evil, and bewails his fate, that has fas-
tened him to such fellowship of sin, and mischief, and shame. He
hastens away, — Mephistopheles compelled to follow and aid, — to
the rescue of Margaret. And here we come to the last scene of
the First Part, — the prison scene, — the pathos of which who can
describe ? Here Faust sees Margaret once more, and for the last
time ; but how changed ! and yet the same ! Crouching on her
bed of straw in the corner, wild of look, her reason wandering,
"like sweet bells jangled," uttering wild snatches of song con-
fusedly mixed with thoughts of her youth and beauty, and dim
memories of her love and her guilt, of her child and her mother,
whose death she raves through with horrible distinctness of detail ;
but shining bright through all the confusion, her sweetness of
nature, her love for Faust, and above all, with all her crushing
sense of shame, her faith in the mercy of a forgiving God. At
first, she knows not Faust at all, she thinks it is the jailer, and
complains that he has come too soon ; then as Faust falls by her
side in his distress, she gladly thinks that it is some one who will
kneel with her in prayer. At last she hears his own voice, and
rushes to embrace him, and in a brief, lucid interval, lives over
her love again, in the sudden joy of his presence. But when she
dimly discovers that he will rescue her, she cannot hear of it.
She will go out with him, if the grave is there, with him to the
eternal resting-place, but not a step other than that. Then her
reason wanders into the wildest, saddest confusion of thoughts and
memories, to come back in a brief last moment, at the sudden
appearance of Mephistopheles, in the utterance of her pious sub-
mission to the judgment of God, and of her trembling solicitude
for her lover. Mephistopheles hurries away Faust, with the omi-
nous words, " Come thou to me ! " But that last voice of this
First Part, — the voice of love " from within," calling after Faust,
and dying away, " Henry ! Henry ! " — is it a plaintive prophecy,
by and by to be fulfilled ?
We come to the exposition of the Second Part of this poem,
rather. from a feeling of necessity, than from an admiration for its
contents. Without a survey of it, our task would be unfinished,
and the view of Faust's career incomplete. But it must be con-
fessed that the Second Part is far inferior to the First in concep-
tion and in execution, and fails to take a strong hold of either the
understanding or the heart of the reader. It has, indeed, an
affluence of literary and poetic material, for Goethe has enriched
170 GOETHE'S FAUST.
it from the abundant stores of his various and lifelong studies,
and adorned it with all the refinement of his culture. But while
there is an onward and upward progress in the career of Faust
even to the consummation, there is a marked falling off in tragic
and in moral interest, and a decline also in the poetic, not so much
in respect to fullness of imagery, but, as it seems to us, in the
quality of the poetry. You miss that genial union of thinking and
imagining which belongs to genuine poetry, where the thought is
born in the soul together with the fancy, and comes forth into a
perfect oneness of image. You seem here to see the two pro-
cesses at first apart, the thoughts forming themselves in the mind,
and then the imagination clothing them in poetic forms. Hence,
with all the poetic that is here, there is so much that is unpoetical.
You are indeed in a poetical world, a world of the imagination ;
all is unreal, dreamlike ; but it is ungenial, it does not awaken
emotion ; you do not so much admire as wonder ; you are curious,
indeed, with wonder what all this is, where you are, and why you
are here at all. You are traversing a vast realm of allegory,
where ever flit about you mystic figures of thinnest aerial texture,
of all times and regions, indeed all forms of being ; shades from
Hades, creatures of mythology, Helen and Paris leading up all
classic antiquity, and all the classic myths following in their train ;
all engaged with sprightliest activity in many and complex per-
formances, the full import of which you may not quite clearly dis-
cover till after many close observations, and perhaps not even
then. These allegorical figures awaken no commanding interest ;
you do not feel drawn to them, nor do you long to recall them
when they are gone, or keep them with you in delighted memory ;
they are very brilliant, and sometimes they troop before you in
gorgeous splendor ; but they have more light than warmth, you
feel them to be cold and frosty, with all their glittering bright-
ness. It is also fatal to the popularity of the allegorical poetry in
this part of " Faust," that what it represents does not address the
sympathies of the mass of mankind. The " Faerie Queen " and
the " Pilgrim's Progress " draw the sources of their universal and
enduring interest from truths which are familiar to all human
experience. We love to journey with Christian, and to wander
with the Lady Una and the Eed Cross Knight, because we have
so much in common with them as human beings ; we fight with
them in their battles, we suffer their defeats, and exult in their
victories. But here the allegory symbolizes the fortunes of art,
GOETHE'S FAUST. 171
literature, science, all learning, ancient and modern ; and these,
too, in their very culminations, as they are reached in apprehen-
sion and sympathy only by men of the greatest refinement and
cultivation. Not many readers can behold and enjoy the glorious
forms of classic letters and art in the imposing assemblage of
allegorical figures in the Classical Walpurgis Night ; and it is
probably the rare lot of only the choice and master-spirits of the
race to sympathize with the exalted Faust in his intuitions of ideal
beauty in the sight of the conjured Helen of Troy.
For reasons such as these, this Second Part of Goethe's great
poem has by many been summarily condemned to the regions of
the obscure and unintelligible ; but the evidence is inadequate
to such a sentence. There are doubtless some parts which have
never been satisfactorily explained ; but the labyrinth is not so
intricate and dark but that by some friendly thread of guidance ^
we can trace the course of Faust through the windings of his peril-
ous way, and come out with him again into light and freedom.
Let us now go through with this Second Part, dwelling only
upon what is essential to a view of Faust's ever struggling but up-
ward career. We can take with us, as a guide, the significant re-
mark of Goethe himself, published in an announcement of the
" Helena," in his " Kunst und Alterthum," " that the composition
of a Second Part must necessarily conduct a man of Fausfs
nature into higher regions^ under worthier circumstances,''^ This
emerging into higher regions the poet represents in his best man-
ner, at the very opening of the first scene. Faust has resorted
to again meditative communion with nature, and this time has de-
rived the utmost good that this source of healing can yield. The
airy elves that breathe sweetest music over his unquiet slumbers,
at least soothe his troubled soul ; and he awakes to greet with a
fresh vigor and courage the coming of a new day, and to struggle,
though with calmer endeavor, in paths of better activity. Me-
phistopheles still goes with him, such were the terms of both the
contract and the Prologue ; and, according to his promise, is now to
conduct Faust to " the great world " of human life. So Faust is
now brought to an imperial court ; even as Goethe himself became
^ We have been indebted for such guidance, in some parts of the poem, to
Dr. Karl Kostlin's book, entitled Goethe^ s Faust, Seine Kritiker und Ausleger,
Tubingen, 1860. Eckermann has also preserved for us, in his Conversations
with Goethe, much valuable exposition, from the poet's own lips, of some pas-
sages in the Second Part.
172 GOETHE'S FAUST.
the central personage at the small but brilliant court of Weimar.
It is a time most propitious for able and aspiring men ; for the
affairs of the realm are in the utmost disorder, and the emperor,
a weak sovereign, and fond of pleasure, will welcome aid from any
quarter. What position of influence Faust himself reaches we
are not informed ; but Mephistopheles becomes court-jester, and
very soon jests with the emperor and all his subjects in a very
reckless fashion. A grand council assembles ; and the emperor,
more impatient of business than usual, for it is now carnival-time,
is vexed beyond measure with the complaints that come in from
all departments of the disordered empire. The bottom-line of all
the evils from which the state is suffering seems to be the extraor-
dinary scarcity of money. There is absolutely none in the em-
peror's coffers, next to none anywhere, the revenues are all
clutched by the Jews before they come in ; all property is mort-
gaged to the top, all trade is dead-locked, and .bread comes on to
the table eaten in advance ; in short, the whole empire is on the
brink of ruin. In this exigency, Faust seems to think himself
allowed to do what other men have done of more experience in
statecraft ; he is drawn by Mephistopheles into quite hollow ex-
pedients for a supply of money ; apparently forgetting what once
he told Mephistopheles, that the devil's gold, like mercury, always
slides away from the hand. Mephistopheles unfolds to the em-
peror a plan for a new kind of currency, far more convenient than
specie, and just as good when you know where the specie is, and
are willing to wait till you get it in hand. He dilates upon the
vast subterranean treasures in the realm, which, of course, belong
to the emperor, as well as the brains and hands which are needed
to get them. He pictures to his fancy the gold and the jewels
that, ever since the days of the mighty Romans, successive genera-
tions have, in times of trouble, buried underground. What vaults
and cellars were waiting to be blown up, and reveal their riches
of gold, and silver plate, and coined money ! How often has mere
chance turned up to the peasant a pot of gold, as he plowed the
soil! Now let all these treasures be deliberately dug for and
brought to light and use. The emperor is at first incredulous,
but finally is full of faith in the new scheme. Here is certainly a
prospect of relief ; the scheme shall be tried ; but, meantime, let
the trumpet sound, and all celebrate the waiting joys of carnival.
As if in preparation for the golden days that are coming, the
emperor and court now take part in a superbly appointed masquer-
GOETHE'S FAUST. 173
ade, in which Riches plays a prominent part. Without attempting
to describe this grand court-show, we need only mention that the
chief personages are Plutus, the god of riches, who is represented
by Faust, and Pan, the god of universal nature, who is repre-
sented by the emperor. Plutus appears in a chariot drawn
through the air by four dragons ; he scatters, as he passes along,
bright gifts upon the crowd below, who eagerly snatch them as
they fall. At length the chariot descends, and a huge chest, filled
to the brim with golden stores, is set upon the ground ; and as the
emperor Pan draws nigh, encircled by a chorus of nymphs, a
deputation of gnomes bear the chest, and with low obeisance lay
it at his feet. And so the emperor is symbolically declared lord
of the treasures hidden in the earth. A scene laid upon the fol-
lowing day, and appropriately called the Pleasure -Garden^ pic-
tures the carrying out of the scheme of Mephistopheles, and its
immediate result in a sudden plethora of the money market. It
appears that in a lucky interval in the masquerade, Mephistopheles
had contrived to secure a few pen-strokes of the great Pan's hand
to a certain bit of otherwise insignificant paper. These had been
multiplied, by clever hands, a thousand fold, signature and all, and
the blanks filled out ; and so had gone forth, to the unspeakable
relief of a distressed people, an abundant issue of Imperial Treas-
ury notes, of all convenient denominations ; the notes to be taken
up without delay when certain untold treasures buried in the
emperor's lands were raised up and put into the imperial vaults ;
and these, moreover, were to be raised up immediately. Great
were the mutual congratulations of emperor and heads of depart-
ments, and courtiers and common people, on that same Pleasure-
Garden occasion. The Commander-in-Chief announces that the
pay is settled in advance, and the army was never in such a loyal
mood. The steward of the imperial household is enraptured to
think that bill after bill has been paid, and that the claws of the
monster usury are dulled. The lord-treasurer brings word that it
is gala-day on 'Change, and all through the town ; that the people
have plenty of money, and without being plagued with big money-
bags ; and that one half of the world seems to think of nothing
but eating, while the other half is strutting about in brand-new
clothes. The emperor is strangely perplexed at these tidings. At
first he is in a rage. He remembers that he signed one piece of
paper last night, but these thousands he hears of must be forger-
ies. But when the treasurer explains it all, and when he learns
174 GOETHE'S FAUST.
how much good has been done, his emotion subsides through won-
der into a happy content. " And all this," he exclaims, " passes
with my people for gold ? Suffices with the army and court for
full pay ? Very well ; surprised as I am, I must let it pass."
The poet leaves the reader to imagine the final results of this
stroke of Mephistophelian finance; and if he be charged with
lightness in introducing such an episode into his great theme, it
may be said in defense that earnestness and humor are very near
together in human nature and in human life, and, moreover, that
wise men, no less than arrant knaves, have blown similar financial
bubbles in the real world. We have no theory to propose touch-
ing the meaning of this scene at the imperial court ; and we have
been somewhat perplexed by the ingenious but conflicting theories
of learned commentators ; but we may readily infer that Faust
must have soon discovered how hollow are often the ways of the
gi-eat world, how unsatisfying the life of courtiers, and how slip-
pery and perilous the paths trodden by statesmen and financiers.
But what has been now described marks only the introduction
and the transition to Faust's main career at the imperial court.
We have to confess, however, that it is very difficult at first to
know for certain what was really going on in Faust's own soul,
in his own inner life, for some time to come, from the two acts
which now follow. Gay and gorgeous as are all the scenes, they
are laid in far-off dream-regions of allegory; it is all phantom-
land, in figures, movement, all the shadowy goings-on, with Faust
himself seemingly the only veritable human element, and not a
word from any creature else, that seems to come out of real
human lips. But when we get beyond wonder, in all this mystical
world, and discern some significance in all these manifold forms of
brightness that flit in from all around, and unite in such harmony,
the Grecian Helen rediviva, brightest of all, courted and won by
the modern Faust, — we are sure that those " higher regions "
which the poet so dimly hinted at are the regions of ideal beauty,
and that thither Faust has now turned the strivings of his rest-
less soul ; to the love and pursuit of the beautiful, which he will
apprehend, and possess, and enjoy in all elegant letters and art,
and, most of all, in poetry. The love of beauty has been always
a strong element in his being. Beauty he has loved in nature,
for whom he has always had a true lover's devotion ; beauty in
woman, in form and in character, though there his love was mixed
with passion, and led to sin and sorrow. Now ideal beauty he
GOETHE'S FAUST. 175
will seek and apprehend, and make a real possession, in all purely
intellectual spheres, where it may be embodied in lasting forms.
For this new career he has at court, where all else is so unpromis-
ing, ample and alluring openings ; even as it was with Goethe
himself in his court-life at Weimar. The emperor, with all his
weaknesses, will be a patron of art ; he is not without culture
himself, and in his coronation visit to Italy caught some glimpses
of the wonders of beauty in the ancient world. It is under such
fortunate circumstances, that in these scenes, so brilliant, so elab-
orate, and withal so very fantastic, Goethe represents the exalted,
but at last unsatisfying experiences of Faust in a life of the
widest and truest literary and poetic culture, or, as Goethe and
the Germans are fond of calling it, of highest aesthetic culture as
an artist. In the portraiture of such lofty experiences as these, it
were natural in any modern fiction, whether in prose or in poetry,
that the author should educate his hero not only by solitary study
at home, but especially by residence in the ever-enchanted lands
of classic literature and art ; where, on the sacred soil once trod-
den by the long departed great, and yet bearing everywhere the
precious weight of the monuments of their genius, he should
commune with the spirit of the past and ascend to the very sources
of all which makes life ideal. But for a hero like Faust, who
belongs to the opening of modern civilization, when the reviving
glories of classical learning were just reddening the horizon, and
whose image, from such a time, has on us a kind of glamour of
sorcery, with Goethe, too, for the poet, who heralded and ushered
in a later new era of literature and art, a more striking, — if we
may so say, — a more sensuous proceeding was no less natural.
So Goethe, in these scenes, seizes and moulds to his larger uses
those portions of the tradition in which Faust plays his magic
part before Maximilian, and, among other necromantic achieve-
ments, conjures up the beautiful Helen, and woos and wins her for
his own. It lies outside our present purpose, and we have neither
the ability nor the inclination for the task, to attempt a detailed
unfolding of these complex parts of the poem. We shall touch
them in the briefest manner, venturing hints, as we pass, at the
probable indications they give us of the progress of Faust in this
exalted region of his new endeavors. The emperor wills that
Faust summon up the Grecian Helen ; in her must be seen, in
distinct form, the ideal of beauty. The wondrous task is achieved,
but with small aid of Mephistopheles. Beauty, he confesses, lies
176 GOETHE'S FAUST.
beyond his realm ; those long vanished heathen heroines are safe
away in a select place of their own ; but still there are means
within Faust's own reach. Faust must first penetrate to the
abodes of " The Mothers " of all, — mysterious divinities, dwell-
ing in deep, untrodden solitudes, — with whom are the archetypes
of all things, and so the original form of beauty; from whom
they all proceed, to whom they return, from whom and by whom
alone they can come back to the light of day. So does the poet
seem to represent, by an image drawn from classic sources,^ the
idea of beauty as intuitive, resting in the inmost nature of man.
For Faust himself the apparition of Helen is far more than an
emperor's holiday show ; she rises to his awakened sensibility, like
a golden exhalation, in all her ineffable loveliness ; there suddenly
breaks into his spiritual atmosphere the vision of the beautiful,
out of that buried but ever-living world of ancient art, hitherto so
strange to him, and strange no less to all modern life, before the
new birth of classic antiquity. And, as in the experience of so
many men of fine spiritual nature, — of Goethe himself, in his
Eoman life, — he is overpowered by the vision ; he is transported
by that glorious form, so suddenly revealed for an instant's gaze ;
and he wanders half beside himself, haunted by the image, insen-
sible to all else, and sighing for a prolonged and perfect sight to
follow that ravishing glimpse. This longing must be stilled, if
not satisfied. Faust must find his way to the world of classic
beauty, the ideal Hellas, for there, if anywhere, is the vanished
Helen. But a guide is needed ; and he is furnished by an inven-
tion of the poet, which is one of the strangest of the many strange
phantasms of this part of his work. We are suddenly back in
Faust's study, where our old friend Wagner is installed, and has
been all these years, now more learned than ever, and a great al-
chymist. He has long been busy in his laboratory, trying to dis-
cover the principle of life, and has just succeeded to a charm ; and
now out of one of his mysterious bottles springs forth a little intel-
lectual creature, a tremulous, ethereal being, pure intelligence, —
Homunculus by name, — and he is to be Faust's guide. Under
^ Goethe says himself in Eckermann's Conversations, that he "found in
Plutarch that in ancient Greece the ' Mothers ' were spoken of as divinities ;
and that all the rest was his own invention." The passage the poet referred
to is probably the one in Plutarch's Marcellus, c. 20. Duntzer also quotes Plu-
tarch, De defectu oraculorum, c. 22, and also Diodorus Siculus, iv. 80. Kostlin
cites also Plato, Phcedrus, c. 27.
GOETHE'S FAUST. 177
such questionable guidance, — whether Homunculus be the spirit
of learning, of study, or the personification of Faust's own ideal
strivings, we know not, — Faust is brought to the classic Hellas,
and sees revealed to his gaze all her ever-living forms of beauty
and grandeur. Her gods and goddesses all pass before his
delighted vision, her heroic men and her fair women, all the
bright forms of her mythology, the beings that people the sea
and the air, denizens of wood, valley, fountain, and river, — all
are to him real presences, as if they had imperishably survived
the historical passing away of the ancient world. But for our-
selves, we have been unable to sympathize with the enthusiastic
praise bestowed by some of Goethe's admiring critics upon this
part of the poem ; indeed, we have had to wonder at Faust's
words of passionate admiration at the many marvels that were
thronging around him. The famous scene of the Classic Carni-
val is certainly affluent in its stores of learning, in some passages
most elaborately poetic, and everywhere enlivened with most
genial humor ; but the impression it makes is not noble, it stirs
no grand emotions ; it is a ghostly, nay, a ghastly, company you
are in all the while ; surely a winter at Rome, a month of study
in the gallery of the Vatican and of the Capitol, a single reading
of the Iliad, were better than a dozen such carnivals, for a repro-
duction of the genius of ancient life and art.
But this Scene of the " Classic Carnival " is only subsidiary to
the Act of the "Helena," Faust's wandering amidst the won-
ders of Hellas to the discovery and possession of Helen herself,
his upward progress in aesthetic culture to heights of attainment
which have been reached only by the few Goethes of modern
times. We presume not to dwell upon the great merits or the
equally great defects of this part ^ of the poem ; on the one hand,
the poet's masterly treatment, in diction and in numbers, of the
simplicity and dignity, and the stately march of the classic Greek
muse, and of the various grace and pomp and freer movement of
the modern Romantic ; and on the other hand, the perplexed
mixture of the most incongruous elements, the real and the imagi-
nary, history and allegory, which gives a radically artificial char-
^ Carlyle wrote many years ago one of his most characteristic articles on the
Helena, which has been republished in his Miscellanies. If our readers are
not already familiar with it, and desire to pursue this subject further, they will
find in that article a very full and admirable exposition of this act of the
poem.
178 GOETHE'S FAUST.
acter to the total conception. It belongs to our plan only to indi-
cate its chief features and their probable bearings upon this stage
of Faust's career, and the mutual connections, which it seems
meant to illustrate, of ancient and of modern culture.
Like Orpheus and uiEneas, Faust makes the descent to Hades ;
and, more successful than the Thracian lover, secures the return
of Helen to the upper air. The Spartan queen appears, on her
return from Troy, before the palace of King Menelaus ; but though
she sees " Tyndarus' high house " standing there as erst in all its
grandeur, she is not destined to reenter as its queenly mistress.
New fortunes await her, such as Homer never dreamed of. A new
abduction is at hand. She must escape the wrath of her injured
lord, and be borne for refuge to a new world, which is to be made
bright by her beauty. Accordingly, with a truly romantic inde-
pendence of the unities, the poet transports her away from Sparta,
over sea and land, and lets her gently alight, herself and chorus
sadly bewildered, amidst worn, gray walls, in the court of a me-
diaeval castle, where the noble Faust, begirt with pages and
esquires, stands ready to greet her, and bid her knightly welcome
to his halls. With all homage of admiration is thus the beautiful
spirit of ancient art first greeted in the modern world ; and the
gallant wooing in these castle halls, not without happiest answer-
ing tokens, is most auspicious for Faust's onward progress, and for
the fortunes of the new culture which he represents. But the
course of true love never did run smooth ; and there is nothing
too strange for the errant course of this act aptly called by the
author " a Classico-Romantic Phantasmagoria." The wooing is
suddenly interrupted by the startling tidings that Spartan Mene-
laus is approaching, at the head of those heroic forces, once the
ruin of Paris and his sire, and of ill-fated Ilium. But the chival-
rous Faust, nothing daunted, goes forth with his gathered hosts to
the onset ; and, achieving a bloodless victory, the most renowned,
perhaps, of all the victories of peace, he proceeds with all seren-
ity to portion off conquered beautiful Hellas, with all her outlying
dependencies, among his brave followers, of hitherto unknown
speech and race, German and Goth, Frank and Norman. Yet
Sparta, Helen's ancient home, is enthroned over all ; and so Faust
and the world-famous queen of beauty now hie them to " Arca-
dia, near by Sparta's land," where they live in happiest union,
" thrones changed to bowers, and Arcadian-free their felicity."
With such marvels of invention does the poet shadow forth not
GOETHE'S FAUST. 179
only the consummation of Faust's aesthetic culture, but also by his
union with Helen, the harmonious blending, in all the domains of
that culture, of the ancient and the modern, the classic and the
romantic ; and, moreover and finally, by a crowning phantasm,
which we have not the courage to encounter, the offspring ^ of
this union, — a peerless offspring, nobler than either parent, —
the genius of the poetry of the nineteenth century. But not even
Arcadian bowers can be a lasting abode for Faust's aspiring soul ;
culture, though it were the truest, and of the truly beautiful, is not
all of life, nor yet the highest ; out from it Faust must pass up to
something nobler and better, which shall at last yield him satis-
faction. Of this we get a poetic glimpse at the very close of the
act where Helen disappears. With parting words she vanishes,
her form melting into thin air ; but her robe and veil dissolve
into clouds, which lift up Faust, and bear him away far above the
world, to which he is to return anon, and enter upon a new and
the last stage of his unresting career.
Faust returns to earth, and now to the real world of action, a
contemplative, ideal life left behind him with the vanished Helen.
He now desires to quit forever a life of enjoyment, even in those
nobler forms in which he has sought it, even in enthusiasm for
high art and elegant letters. He will now employ all his powers
in a sphere of practical activity, where he will have at heart the
weal of his fellow-men, and labor with cheerful freedom in the
service of mankind. Even his refined culture has yielded him
only a higher kind of selfish enjoyment ; but now in a career of
active exertion for the good of others, he sees a moral dignity ; he
will be conscious of himself as only a part, as one member of the
whole body of his race, for which it was designed that he should
labor with the full vigor of his faculties. But he brings out with
him from his recent pursuits one great element of success in his
new career ; a sense for the high, and the noble, and the perfect,
and an antipathy to all that is common, and hollow, and unworthy ;
so that with lofty ideas in his mind, he will project and execute
plans which will be fruitful of beneficent results. Accordingly we
find him turning again to nature, but with a practical purpose.
He gains from the emperor a large tract of coast-land, hitherto
1 Goethe says himself, in Eckermann, that he intended " Euphorion " to rep-
resent Byron ! His words, in speaking of Byron, are as , follows : " I could
not make any man the representation of the modern poetical era, except him,
who undoubtedly is to be regarded as the greatest genius of our century."
180 GOETHE'S FAUST.
uninhabited, and seemingly uninhabitable ; and this waste wilder-
ness he recovers from the elements that have desolated it, and
makes a fruitful soil, on which by and by grows up a great, free,
and prosperous community, rich and happy, and useful in indus-
trial arts, thriving trade, and extended commerce. To such busy
and fruitful activity he devotes his last years ; an activity which
ever gives him new occupation and new satisfaction, always richer
means to larger ends, in which he has a conscious joy of having
gained great possessions by his own exertions, and which he is
assured is promoting the physical and moral well-being of multi-
tudes of men. But the poet is not unmindful that in all this life
of useful occupation Faust is not free from error and wrong, that
Mephistopheles is still by his side, and though having ever less
power over his intentions and acts, yet continues to involve him
in evil and trouble. One episode he here weaves into the drama,
to show the evils incident to a sense of increasing prosperity, and
an ambition for yet larger dominions. Faust has built a palatial
residence, from which he can see his ships, as they go out from
the near harbor to all parts of the world, and come back laden
with their rich cargoes. But near by, and on a little eminence,
and intercepting his view, is an humble dwelling, under the snug
shelter of a few linden-trees, where live in quiet content an aged
pair, who rejoice in the classic names of Philemon and Baucis.
That little estate he longs for, and must have ; exactly on that
eminence he would build a high look-out, whence he may have a
survey over all his broad acres, and far away over land and sea ;
the very sight of the little cottage and the lindens, not his own,
stings him to the heart ; it were enough to spoil the possession of
the world. It is the old story of Ahab and Naboth's vineyards,
and a worse than Jezebel is at hand, to bid him, " arise and eat
bread, and let his heart be merry." He summons Mephistopheles
and orders him to get the old people away to a better estate he
has ready for them. It is the order of a covetous heart, but it is
executed by a foul wrong, which that heart had not bidden, at
least in words. On that night the cottage is fired and the old
couple perish in the flames. Bitterly does Faust repent him of
the rash command, and indignantly disavow its rasher execution.
And feeling how sin still clings to him in all his endeavors, he
looks back with deepest sorrow to his compact with Mephistophe-
les, formed in evil day, when he madly strove to break through
the limits of man's being, and in his despair cursed himself and
GOETHE'S FAUST. 181
the world, which he has since found so rich in beauty, and love,
and hope, and patience, such a wide and ever-widening arena for
free and ennobling and beneficent action. In this consciousness
and confession of his past errors, the poet seems to indicate the
final triumph in Faust of good over evil ; all magic arts of super-
human striving now abjured and renounced, he finds man's high-
est good in free activity within the appointed limits of his being,
for the general welfare. In such activity we see him employed to
the end, carrying forward his ever-widening, never completed
plans ; toiling under the burden of growing cares, and bearing up
under the increasing pressure of age ; even in outward blindness,
the inward eye undimmed, and the spiritual force unabated ; till
at last, in the joyful assurance of having created a space for the
home of millions of men, a free people on a free soil, he utters
that word of satisfaction to the passing moment, " Stay, thou art
so fair," and his earthly career is ended. On coming at last to
this conclusion, the reader may well have the greatest doubts,
whether this departure of Faust's was a Christian's death. And
with such doubts in his mind, he will approach that last scene, in
which Faust's destiny is revealed, with a wonder, if indeed such a
death is to be an entrance to a Christian's heaven ; and at the
same time he may have some perplexity at the thought that such
a man after such a probation should wander with Mephistopheles
and his like in all the endless hereafter. But the concluding scene
of the poem, which opens to us the unseen world, and brings us
quite to the verge of heaven, leaves no doubt as to the poet's own
conceptions. Like Dante and many other poets, Goethe avails
himself of the image in the epistle of Jude, of Michael the arch-
angel contending with the devil about the body of Moses, and so
describes a contest over the grave of Faust between the powers of
good and evil. But Mephistopheles and the rebel crew are awed
away by the throngs of descending angels and redeemed spirits,
who strew roses as they come, and make the air radiant with light
and vocal with their heavenly song. Then upwards the angels
soar, bearing the soul of Faust, higher and higher ascending, met
in the air by other hosts of heavenly ones, the glorified fathers of
the church, choirs of blessed Magdalens, among them the once
named Margaret, and still ever upwards they move, the heavens
all melodious with their song, till at last we hear wafted down
from the highest regions of air the words of the angels as they
bear into heaven itself the new redeemed soul : —
182 GOETHE'S FAUST.
*' Delivered is the noble soul
From evil's dread dominion ;
Who toiling ever struggles on,
Him it is ours to ransom ;
And if indeed 't was his to share,
A part in love celestial ;
Then hastes the blessed host to meet
And crown him with their welcome."
We have given this passage, though in an unworthy rendering,
because it contains the poet's solution of the salvation of Faust.
It is this onward striving of a ceaseless activity which Goethe has
made a chief characteristic of Faust's career. In all the stages of
that career, we see wrought into living practice the word of the
" Preacher, the son of David," " Whatsoever thy hand findeth to
do, do it with thy might." In all action, Faust has struggled with
difficulties, obstacles, temptations, evil, making them subserve yet
higher strivings and higher living ; and for him, while engaged in
this noble strife, have heavenly powers of love ever watched and
warded, and lent their celestial aid. Such, at least, is the poet's
own interpretation of the passage as he gave it to Eckermann.
We quote his words, as we leave the poem, only premising, that
we think every reader wiU find in them a far more distinct utter-
ance of Christian truth than he has discovered in the poem itself.
" These lines," he says,^ " contain the key to Faust's salvation.
In himself an activity becoming constantly higher and purer, eter-
nal love coming from heaven to his aid. This harmonizes perfectly
with our religious view, that we cannot reach heavenly bliss through
our own strength, unassisted by divine grace."
We have been so long occupied with our survey of the contents
of this poem, that we have but the briefest space left for any re-
flections on the lessons it teaches ; but perhaps these have been
anticipated in the course of our remarks. It may be enough to
add, that what has won for Faust so many willing ears and hearts
is the voice it has given to the longing of the human soul, im-
planted in its innermost being, for some all-satisfying good ; to its
restless and yet weary strivings to reach such a good, and the
manifold disappointments and despair with which it has so often
come back from its wanderings to and fro, nowhere finding rest.
How full is the world of such spiritual experiences, in the history
of the humblest and of the most exalted souls ! They enter into
1 Eckermann's Conversations (translated by Margaret Fuller), Boston, 1839,
p. 409.
GOETHE'S FAUST. 183
the most real life of men, in all times, under all skies ; they are
embodied in the truest literatures in every form of human speech.
And as we find the clearest witness to the divine source and true
destiny of the soul in this aspiration for real and lasting good, in
this restless craving for the satisfaction of vast and immortal
wants, so do all its dark struggles, and all its humiliating and de-
basing errors and delusions, and the unrest and unhappiness they
create, testify no less clearly to its present fallen state. The
" dream " of the poet thus becomes the experience of the race : —
" An infant crying in the night,
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry."
This cry of the soul for light has nowhere found a clearer utter-
ance in modern literature than in the " Faust " of Goethe. It is
this infinite longing for some true and all-sufficient good that
makes the central force in Faust's being, and furnishes the never-
ceasing press of motive to all his career. It is this which drives
him from one sphere of activity to another, from unsatisfied spec-
ulation to unsatisfying magic, from theory to real life, and through
all scenes of life, the highest and the lowest, sensual pleasure,
worldly ambition, intellectual culture. In the " vanity and vexa-
tion of spirit " of which Faust has constant experience in all these
scenes of endeavor and labor, the poet has clearly taught, at least
on its negative side, the great truth of the soul's high destiny.
Indeed, only in that sad but most instructive Book of Ecclesiastes
are we taught more impressively how vain is all earthly good, how
inadequate all human wit and travail, to the satisfaction of the
human soul. Like the Eoyal Preacher, Goethe has also inculcated
the wisdom of resignation and of strenuous activity within our
allotted sphere ; yet he has failed to bring us to that grand " con-
clusion of the whole matter. Fear God, and keep his command-
ments : for this is the whole duty of man." But only from the
experiences of those who have learned in the school of Christ, and
have been enlightened and renewed by divine grace, do we reach,
in its positive form, the great truth that man was made for God,
and only in Him can find fullness of blessing and peace. How
does this truth shine out in the writings of Augustine, who, after
having traversed the whole world, and consulted all its oracles,
and found them dumb to his anxious question, " Who will show
us any good," heard at last a voice ^ as from heaven, speaking out
1 Aug. Cmf. viii. 29.
184 GOETHE'S EAUST.
of " the lively oracles " to his stricken and contrite spirit, " Not
in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness,
not in strife and envying; hut put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ;''''
and in that voice found entire response to the cravings of his soul,
and by its guidance reached the crowning experience of perfect
and enduring peace, in the knowledge of God as revealed in
Christ and by Christ, and in His love and His service. How sim-
ply is this truth declared in that golden saying of his,^ " Our ra-
tional nature is so great a good, that there is no good, wherein we
can be happy, save God ; " and how is it summed up in that brief
prayer,^ the utterance alike of true wisdom and devout piety:
'''•Fedsti nos ad Te, Domine, et inquietum est cor nostrum, donee
requiescat in Tel "
1 Aug. de Nat. Boni, c. 7. ^ Aug. Conf. i. 1.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, DECEMBER 31, 1869, ALSO
PRINTED IN THE "BAPTIST QUARTERLY."
Mr. Gladstone's rising political honors, crowned now by the
highest distinction of an English statesman's life, have not weaned
him from his Homeric studies; from their renewal and further
prosecution he has not been withdrawn by the engrossing cares,
incident to his exalted position, as the head of the British govern-
ment, and the leader of its parliamentary councils. His intervals
of rest from public affairs he has devoted to the composition of
a work which in one volume embodies in a new form, by con-
densation and important modifications, the results of the three
volumes of his Studies on Homer and the Homeric age, which he
gave to the world in 1858. We are all so familiar with his
commanding person on the most recent fields of English parlia-
mentary strife, that we wonder at first, as we discern him in those
far-off times of Homer, the early morning of our race, gazing
with the spirit of a student of human nature and society upon
the poet's immortal pictures of the "Youth of the World, the
Gods and Men of the Heroic Age of Greece." Nothing but the
consideration of such a spirit in Mr. Gladstone, and of the estimate
it has won for him of the greatness of Homer's genius, and of his
unrivaled influence in the purely human culture of the world,
coulS sufficiently explain to us such a diversion from the absorbing
offices of public life to the various and profound studies which are
contained in this volume. It is not enough that we recall from
history examples like that of the great Roman orator, of men who
have sought relaxation from the harassing influence of public
affairs in literary or philosophical pursuits as remote as possible
from their daily avocations. Nor is it enough that we remember
the tenacious hold upon the mind in after life of the associations
of classical study in earlier years, the abiding force of those tastes
for all that is beautiful and ennobling in ancient letters, which
grew up insensibly in the season of youth, under the propitious
influences of place and books, and teachers and companions, the
186 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
lingering witchery of eloquence and song, which then first caught
the ear and led captive the soul, the enthusiastic admiration and
love for the great writers of antiquity which with so many scholars
was first awakened in that springtime of intellectual life, and
cherished in its subsequent periods, the grace of manhood and the
solace of age. All this doubtless belongs to Mr. Gladstone's
experience, but much more also ; far deeper sources it has, to feed
as from a perennial fountain the stream of his Homeric studies.
Such a source is his assured conviction that the works of Homer,
which form the delight of the scholar's boyhood, are designed yet
more for the instruction of his maturer years ; that coming down
to us from the earliest period of antiquity, and from the opening,
genial stage of culture in the intellectual life of its most highly
gifted people, they yield us most precious knowledge, fresh and
original, touching man's nature and life and destiny, founded
upon experience, and wrought into lifelike and living pictures of
human character and society, by a creative genius to whom has
been assigned, by general consent, the supremacy among poets.
The world's youth Mr. Gladstone sees in those creations of Homer's
genius ; but not in the sense in which Hegel uses the image, of the
entire life of the Greeks as it was opened by the fabulous youth
Achilles and closed by the youth of historic reality, Alexander the
Great; in that grand Homeric world, its Olympian heavens of
immortal gods overarching its earth, trodden by heroic men, he
beholds the youth itself of youthful Greece; when the Greek
mind was just exulting in the elastic play of its young energies,
unfolding its marvelous powers, and bounding forth into the
future, rejoicing in its strength to run the race of a great destiny
in the intellectual history of man. It is the consideration of this
destiny of the Greeks, not even yet all fulfilled, to be a chief and
original influence in moulding the intellectual education of the
world, which invests the poems of Homer with a quite inestimable
intrinsic value. For in these poems are the germs of that lofty
destiny; there are the sources of the power by which it was
achieved ; they had for the Greeks of all periods a place of honor
and influence, even as of sacred books ; they were an acknowledged
authority on all subjects of national concern, language, government,
letters, art, religion ; studied and quoted by philosophers in their
schools, listened to by the people in their solemn assemblies, their
preservation counted by statesmen a sacred trust, and made an
object of public policy, they entered as a vital and animating
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 187
force into that Greek mind which, by its literature, philosophy,
and art, has penetrated all modern culture and the entire civilized
life of Christendom. It is the impulse of such convictions as
these which has brought Mr. Gladstone before the public as an
interpreter of Homer ; .not so much in the interest of classical
studies and scholarship, to delight himself again in the surpassing
charms of Homer's poetry, and to make others sharers in his
renewed enjoyment, but in the larger interests of knowledge and
truth to held up the great poet as an appointed teacher of mankind,
and to commend the conclusions he has himself reached of the
vital connection of these poems with the whole history of human
culture and of the Providential government of the world. Some
of these conclusions Mr. Gladstone's readers will doubtless readily
accept ; from others, though the very ones which he himself deems
of essential moment, they will just as strongly dissent, as when
they first encountered them in his former writings; but all of
them must command admiration for the enthusiasm in Homeric
study which they display, and for the earnest spirit from which
they emanate, and which gives them an interest quite independent
of the consideration of their truth and importance. The present
work presents the results of Mr. Gladstone's Homeric studies far
more completely than the former quite too extended volumes ; the
repetitions which occurred in those three large volumes are now
withdrawn ; the minute particulars, which were sometimes tedious
and wearisome, are here wrought into general views ; and some of
his more peculiar opinions, to which exception was taken when
they first appeared, are at least toned down, with a manifest
improvement in the general effect. By the new treatment the
author's work has become a kind of manual which aims to furnish
practical assistance to the study of Homer in schools and uni-
versities, and also to " convey a partial knowledge of the subject
to persons who are not habitual students."
We propose, in this article, to touch upon some of the preliminary
topics discussed in this work, and to give special attention to the
subject of chief interest in it, — the Religion of the Homeric Age.
It is the surest of the results, that we reach anew, in reading
this latest of so many works on the poems of Homer, that not-
withstanding the unequaled influence which these poems have
exerted, the world has no definite knowledge of their author. It
is something which never ceases to be strange, that apart from
the poems themselves, the poet has for us no real existence ; and
188 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
for any real knowledge we have, the figure of Homer, even as of
Achilles or of Agamemnon, seems to be ever hovering on the
borders of an imaginary world. Where and when he was born,
who were his parents and kindred, under what influences of home
and society, of nature and life, he grew up, and developed his
wondrous poetic faculty, — on all such questions as these no light
is shed, save that which shines out from his own luminous poetry.
In antiquity itself, cities not seven alone, but cities without number,
contended for the honor of giving him birth ; and in the persons
of learned critics they are contending for it still, and the contention
no nearer its end ; and we must be content to leave this question
in the darkness in which we find it.
As little have we any external authorities to Bx the time of the
poet's life ; here, too, the poems themselves are their own most
trustworthy witness. But even if we rely alone upon internal
evidence, and admit the view that the poems depict a state of
Grecian society and manners far anterior to the earliest historic
period, we are hardly prepared for Mr. Gladstone's so quietly
dismissing, by inference, the opinion of Herodotus, which fixes
the poet's life so late as the ninth century before Christ ; for
certainly it were nothing improbable for a poet of Homeric genius,
an heir to a rich inheritance of traditions in story and song, to
fashion his material into such fresh pictures, even if he were
himself living long after the age from which those traditions had
come down. But yet where all is so uncertain, we may be inclined
to follow a writer of Mr. Gladstone's fine Homeric tact, and carry
back the poet to a period earlier than that of the ancient opinions,
and set him down in the congenial proximity of his own gods and
heroes.
Mr. Gladstone is inclined to put the fall of Troy earlier than
the received date of 1183 B. c, and it is his conjecture that
Homer may have been born before or during the war, and that he
was probably conversant with those who had fought in it. But
whatever date may be fixed for the poet's life, the poems themselves
have for Mr. Gladstone the highest historical character for the
age which they represent. Nowhere, either in the present volume
or in his earlier work, does he write with greater earnestness than
when he contends that the song of Homer is historic song. In
the sense in which the assertion is made nothing can be truer.
Not of course that he wrote history, and narrated and unfolded,
in the connection of time and of cause, events in the life of men
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDl. 189
and of nations ; admit, too, that lie used fiction, as indeed no
other writer before or since ; admit, too, the supernatural element
that enters so largely into the poetry ; still, as the Greek Strabo
contended long ago, the basis of the whole was history ; he was
historical in the representation of the ideas, manners, and customs,
characters and institutions of real men, and of a state of society
that had a real existence. Never ceasing to be poet, he is always a
historian. Far more than the great dramatists of his own country,
far more than any other epic or dramatic poet, it was his to
reproduce, in poetic form, the manifold life of an entire age and
people ; indeed, it is Mr. Gladstone's firm belief that he has told
more about the world and its inhabitants at his own epoch than
any historian that ever lived. It is clear from the concurrent
belief of the Greeks of all times, and from the whole economy
and texture of the poems, that the tales of Troy and the wanderings
of Ulysses, though unrivaled works of the imagination, yet have
in them the substance of historic truth; they are the record of
real events, during which and by which the Greeks were coming
into the reality and the consciousness of a united national life.
To adopt Mr. Gladstone's strong language, they make '' the first
and also the best composition of an age, the most perfect ' form and
body of a time,' that has ever been achieved by the hand of man."
Far less space than might have been expected has Mr Glad-
stone devoted to what has been called the Homeric question, —
that great controversy which has so profoundly agitated the
learned world for nearly a century, and has not yet wholly sub-
sided. Nothing in all the annals of criticism is more remarkable
or more fruitful of instruction than the history of this controversy.
Its very origin shows how the greatest results may come out of
the smallest beginnings, how the smallest seed of doubt or suspi-
cion may become the germ of a deep and universal skepticism.
For more than twenty-five centuries Homer had lived in the faith
of men, and the Iliad and the Odyssey, each as a great epic, one
and entire, had commanded general admiration as the works of
his genius. Through all the ages of Grecian letters, with all the
disputes concerning the time and place of Homer's life, there was
a general agreement on those fundamental points. The only note
that ever arose to break the harmony came from the so-called
chorizontes or separatists, who contended for a separate author-
ship of the two poems ; but this discordant note was effectually
silenced by the voice of Aristarchus, the Coryphaeus of the Alex-
190 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
andrine critics. For centuries after the revival of learning the
prevailing belief of antiquity was the unquestioned creed of all
modern scholars ; just as little doubt existed concerning the au-
thorship of those great epics which had arisen again as bright
as in that early morn of Grecian poetry, as of the great poem
which had heralded the day of English song, the Canterbury
Tales. But about the beginning of the eighteenth century there
were thrown out quite incidentally, by several writers, some sur-
mises touching the authorship of the poems, which led the way to
an entirely new view of their origin. In particular, the ingenious
Neapolitan thinker Vico, in his celebrated work, the "Scienza
Nuova," introduced into the illustrations of his great subject from
the Homeric poems the following passage : ^ —
" Homer left none of his compositions in writing; but the rhapsodists
went about singing the books separately, some one, some another, at the
feasts and public solemnities of the Greek cities. The Pisistratidse first
arranged, or caused to be so arranged, the poems of Homer into the
Iliad and Odyssey ; whence we may judge what a confused collection of
materials they must previously have been."
Out of the hint given in this brief passage was afterwards
elaborated the celebrated theory of Wolf, in his able and learned
Prolegomena to the Iliad. This work, by its destructive criti-
cism, founded partly upon the supposed impossibility, without the
aid of the art of writing, of the composition of poems of such
length by one mind, as well of their subsequent oral transmission,
and partly upon their acknowledged internal discrepancies, quite
overturned the old order of opinion. Wolf ascribed different
parts of the two poems to different authors, and assumed that
they were both for the first time arranged as well as committed to
writing by Pisistratus. Without attempting to narrate the con-
troversy which was opened up by this great critic all over the
learned world, and the manifold phases it assumed, it is sufficient
to note as the chief immediate results, that the two great epics
were variously divided up into rhapsodies or small songs, and so
in the multitude of Homers that arose on the field of view Ho-
mer himself was quite lost out of sight and out of being. But
now, after these many years, the sequel has shown, and is still
showing, that Wolf conferred a real service, not only to Homeric
criticism, but to the cause of classical and literary criticism in
general ; a real service of skepticism not unlike that rendered by
1 Quoted by Mure, in Hist. Gr. Lit. vol. i. p. 196.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 191
Hume in the domain of philosophy. This indeed is the lesson of
chief value taught by this great critical contest, the lesson that
the work of demolition of long-established human opinions may
be followed by their reconstruction upon new and more solid
foundations ; that the processes of an honest skepticism reestab-
lish the old faith on a basis of clearer and larger intelligence and
of enduring truth. The whole field of Homeric learning has
been explored as never before, and by hundreds of sharp-sighted
observers ; the text of the poems has been subjected to the most
searching scrutiny ; all the evidences, external and internal, that
bear upon their origin and history have been brought in from
all sources and rigorously applied to the questions in issue ; and
the result has been a gradual reaction, a progressive tendency of
return to the old view of the substantial unity of each poem and
of their common authorship in Homer. Such is the position of
Mr. Gladstone in the present volume, as in his earlier work ; such,
too, before him was the position of Mure, the author of the " His-
tory of Greek Literature," and the ablest of all English writers
on the subject. The most signal illustration, indeed, of the result
of the new examination of the whole question is found in the
experience of Mure, who began his career as a zealous disciple of
the Wolfian school, and after twenty years' diligent scrutiny of
its doctrines reached a thorough conviction of their fallacy, and
gave himself, with great success, to the duty of establishing that
conviction in the minds of others.^ The chief foundation of the
position which has been thus secured lies in the subjective evi-
dence furnished by the poems themselves; and this has been
allowed by all critics, during the more recent stages of the con-
troversy, to be the only valid basis on which the question can
be treated. The objections urged against the unity of authorship
of each poem by itself, and of both together, which are founded
on internal inconsistencies, signally fail of reaching their mark.
If they do not, when rightly considered, lend direct support to
the opposite view, they prove far too much ; they may be urged
with like success against modern works, the single authorship of
which is unquestioned and unquestionable ; indeed, most strikingly
has it been said by Mure,^ that if the principles of Wolf's school
were enforced against his own Prolegomena, that great essay
could not possibly, in its integrity, be considered the work of the
same author.
1 Hist. Gr. Lit. vol. i. p. 222. 2 £f^;. q^^ m^ vol. i. p. 198, note.
192 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
But we are not left to such a negative view ; there is an affir-
mative one still stronger. The unanswerable argument for unity
of authorship is derived from the general agreement of each poem
in itself, and of both with each other, in all that is vital in their'
character, in the marvelous consistency in conceptions, manners,
and institutions, and, most of all, in the delineations of character.
In nothing is the creative genius of Homer so great as in the
astonishing variety of his original characters, and in the unity
and individuality, no less astonishing, with which all these char-
acters are sustained, not by description, but by dramatic action,
as they live and move before us, under all diversities of situation.
Now, how were it possible for such conceptions of character, so
rounded into harmony and oneness, to have emanated from vari-
ous minds, each contributing by one or more minstrel lays his
share of the whole ? How, for instance, could the Achilles of the
Iliad, and the Ulysses of the Iliad and Odyssey together, be the
offspring of more than one mind? Nor is the difficulty of belief
entirely given in the well-known remark of Professor Wilson : ^
" Some people believe in twenty Homers. I believe in one. Na-
ture is not so prodigal of her great poets." It is worse than
this : you have to believe, not merely that nature is so prodigal
of her great poets, but that she cast them all in the very same
mould, and that their spiritual life, in itself, and in everything it
produced, carried on it the same identical stamp. Indeed, we must
all agree in the conclusion that if there is anything in the world
more marvelous than the existence of one Homer, that certainly
is the existence of more Homers than one. But whoever wrote
these poems, and wherever and whenever they first became vital
and vocal with their wondrous life and melody, one thing is sure,
here they are before us. Let learned critics settle at their leisure
the questions of authorship and integrity of the text ; we have
the poems themselves, — a rich legacy bequeathed to us, and
sacredly handed down from the earliest ages ; literary records of
antiquity, later than the Vedas, indeed, but far more valuable ;
second in time and value only to the earlier books of Scripture.
Here they are in our hands, to charm and delight us with their
transcendent poetry, to instruct us with their precious stores of
wisdom and knowledge, to bring before us, in speech and action,
the whole life and character of the Greeks in that early period of
their own history and of mankind ; how and for what they lived,
1 Blackwood's Magazine, 1831, p. 668.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 193
in the family and in the state, in peace and in war, what were
their thoughts and conceptions of nature, and of human life and
destiny, and of the nature and power of God, and his govern-
ment of the world.
The religious aspect of this ancient Greek life has justly had
for Mr. Gladstone far greater attractions than any other. He
has devoted more than one third of his work to the gods of the
Heroic Age, or, as he has entitled the theme, the Olympian Sys-
tem. All thoughtful minds must sympathize with the writer in
his sense of the profound interest which belongs to this theme.
With what and how much spiritual vision those heroic Greeks
were wont to look into the unseen world ; what were their concep-
tions of deity; what and how they believed; whom they wor-
shiped ; and what power their faith and worship had upon their
conduct in life, — these are inquiries of paramount and of uni-
versal and permanent concern. Mr. Gladstone's discussion has
also a special value at the present time ; for though not conducted
in the interest of the comparative study of the religions of the
world, it is nevertheless an important contribution to that study,
which, following close upon the track of comparative philology, is
now rising to the rank of a science, and is engaging the profound
attention of many distinguished writers. It is evident that Mr.
Gladstone has elaborated this part of his work with the most stu-
dious care, and with a certain fondness of mental application. It
exhibits best his characteristic qualities as a scholar, as well as a
thinker and a writer, his patient and unwearied toil in the study
of the Homeric text, and his fine sensibility, as well, for all that
is beautiful and noble in Homeric poetry ; his pure and elevated
sentiments, and his forcible and brilliant expression ; and yet, with
all his moral earnestness and sincerity, a strange turn of mind for
something close akin to a sophistical mode of reasoning, a tendency
to make his wish father to his thought, which sometimes issues
only in ingenious speculations and the most laborious building
up of favorite views upon a basis too slender for their support.
In his first chapter on this subject, which exhibits the great
features of the Olympian system, Mr. Gladstone claims for Homer
the unique distinction of having been " the maker of the reli-
gion " of his country. It is a bold form of assertion, and quite
characteristic of the author ; but it contains in it a great truth,
designed, as it is, to express in a single word the creative power
and immense influence of Homer's poetic genius in the realm of
194 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
spiritual ideas. Not that it was the poet's conscious purpose to
make a religion for his countrymen, or even to teach them religion,
or to exercise among them and for them any prophetic or priestly
office. He was preeminently a singer, the prince of singers, in an
age and a nation wh6re minstrelsy was a kind of national gift ;
and he sang of the manifold life of his people out of the fullness
and freedom of a musical soul attuned to all melodies of sound and
all moral harmonies of thought and feeling ; but in giving true
utterance to that life in song, he had such a knowledge and
mastery of the national heart, that by his poetical faculty he com-
bined, in a musical creation of his own, all those religious senti-
ments to which its many chords were wont to vibrate. We may
not suppose that Homer created " the gods many and lords many "
that peopled the Greek Olympus, or that he invented their various
and often conflicting attributes, with all that is in them of the
grand and the little, of the noble and the base ; it were a sole-
cism to suppose that he himself made the manifold elements that
entered into the Greek religion ; all these were already there in
the heart and life of the people, in affluent store, — actual beliefs,
inherited traditions emanating from different periods and diverse
races, original human sentiments, all apprehended with more or
less distinctness by the popular mind, and controlling its convic-
tions with more or less practical force ; but in his poetic represen-
tation of the heroic age of Greece, it was his, by his insight and
imagination, to give body and form to all this mass of material,
and to breathe into it a living soul. In this sense was he the
maker of the Greek religion ; thus it was that he set up once for
all in the firmament of Hellenic life the Olympian system, that
creation of marvelous splendor and of long-enduring influence to
which was drawn and fixed the upward gaze and faith of more
than thirty generations of the most thoughtful and most vigorous
races of the world, and destined to dissolve away only before that
religion from above, of divine beauty and divine power, which
was enthroned upon the mountains round about Jerusalem for
the spiritual sway of universal man. The material out of which
the poet constructed his system necessarily derived the variety of
its elements from the heterogeneous character of the Greek nation
itself. The successive streams of emigration which had flowed
into the peninsula had brought with them the most various and
often diverse conceptions of deity, with their corresponding names
and attributes and forms of worship. All these materials, as they
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 195
were now settling down in the real world, on the same soil, into
permanent relations of compromise and union, so in the world of
poetry were shaped by the hand of the master " into that intellec-
tual and ideal whole which we know as the Greek religion." The
ethnic origin of this material of religion Mr. Gladstone ascribes
chiefly to the Pelasgians, and to the Hellic families and tribes.
He claims, however, an important influence for the Phoenicians,
and the full development of this Phoenician element distinguishes
his treatment of the subject in this work from that which belongs
to his earlier volumes. Some influence, also, he allows, though
only a very limited one, to the Egyptians. The view which, on
the authority of some statements in Herodotus, once referred to
Egypt the chief origin of the Greek religion, is not sustained by
Homeric evidence. Scarcely any traces of Egyptian influence in
Greece are found in Homer, and such analogies as exist between
the mythologies of the two nations are easily explained without
the supposition of any direct connection of the one with the other.
In describing the manner in which Homer reduced to unity the
elements derived from all these sources, Mr. Gladstone dwells
upon the nature-worship of the Pelasgians which prevailed in
Greece before the poet's time, and was now in its decline, and
presents his view of the different modes by which, through the
application of the anthropomorphic principle, the poet fashioned
and shaped his own Olympian scheme. But we can rightly under-
stand neither the nature-worship nor the Olympian religion, with-
out recurring to that earliest conception which inheres in the very
heart of each, the primitive conception of the Greek religion and
of all religion, the conception of one supreme being as the high-
est object of human faith and adoration. Nothing is older, in the
language of the Greek religion than ^cos and Zeus,^ nothing older
in Greek religious thought than God, and Zeus as the God, the
God of the heavens, the God of light. Even Kronos, time itself,
is later than Zeus, and contradictory as it may at first seem, also
the patronymics of Zeus, Kronion, and Kronides, the Son of
Time ; for these do not express time as the origin of Zeus, but
the duration of his being as the God of Time, even as our own
exalted expression, the Ancient of Days. This fundamental con-
ception, together with its very name, the Greeks had as an original
common possession with all their kindred of the great Aryan fam-
ily of nations ; a clearly established fact which we owe to the com-
1 Welcker, Gotterlehre, vol. i. p. 129, seqq.
196 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
parative study of language and of religion, and to the foremost
expounder of their principles in English, Professor Max Miiller.
For its origin, we must go back from the Greek to the San-
skrit, the earliest deposit of Aryan speech, from the Iliad and
Odyssey to the Vedas, the earliest records of Aryan faith ; far
back we must go to the heights of the Himalayas, as the primi-
tive Olympus, the original seat of Aryan religion. The names
of deity in Greek and in Latin, both the abstract, as Oeos, deus,
and the concrete, as Zevs and Jupiter, or Diespiter, are identi-
cal with the corresponding Sanskrit names deva and Dyaus ; and
they are all formed from the Sanskrit root div, which means to
shine.^ From the same root comes the Latin word dies, with all
its cognates; and thus all the former words signify, fundamen-
tally, brightness, light the divine, and the latter, the God of the
bright heavens, the God of light and day. A single passage,
quoted by Miiller ^ from the Veda, pours a flood of light upon
the common origin of all these nations themselves, and of their
languages and earliest religious ideas. It is this : " When the
pious man offers his morning libation to the great father Dyaus,
he trembles all over as he becomes aware that the archer sent
forth from his mighty bow the bright dart that reaches him, and
brilliant himself, gave his own splendor to his daughter, the
Dawn." In reading such words, we seem to be reading Homer
himself ; nay. Homer and the people who listened to his song are
transferred, forthwith, back to the old Aryan homestead, and are
sharing there the thoughts, feelings, words, the whole life, of the
yet undivided Aryan household. But we may widen our view,
with the wider range of this comparative study of the languages
of the world. The Sclavonic word Bog, which expresses the idea
of God, is also of Sanskrit origin, and is the same word as the
Bhaga of the Veda, and the Baga of the Zend-Avesta, which
means, originally, the sun, and is also a common name for God in
both those poems. Indeed, we may take an illustration of the
same philological fact from a different and quite remote family of
languages. In many Tatarian dialects the word tangri, which is
used for God, means not only the heavens, but also the great
Spirit of the all-compassing heavens; and this corresponds en-
tirely to the Chinese Thian, or Tien, which is used for the physi-
^ Welcker, Gbtterlehre, vol. i. p. 131 ; also Miiller in Edinburgh Review for
1851.
2 Edinburgh Review, 1851, p. 335.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 197
cal heavens and for day, and also means the " Great One that
reigns on high and regulates all below." ^ Indeed, is not in the
human mind everywhere, and in all tongues, the transition easy
and natural from light and heaven to God ? Consider our com-
mon expression, " Heaven knows," and from the Psalms, " The
heavens are the Lord's," and from the New Testament the confes-
sion of the prodigal, " I have sinned against heaven ; " nay, does
not this strange touch of comparative philology make all Chris-
tendom kin with the whole heathen world, when we remember
that comprehensive word of Scripture, " God is light, and in Him
is no darkness at all " ?
But we may not linger on this earliest stage of the Greek reli-
gion. With the Greeks, as with all ancient nations, this primitive
idea of God came in course of time, we know not how and when,
to suffer disintegration ; out of ^co? grew Oeot; with Zeus came
sons and daughters of Zeus, also parents and ancestors of Zeus ;
and so, with the sense of the divine still remaining, there arose
out of the conception of the one God a belief in the plurality of
gods. Mr. Gladstone has said that " the unaided intellect of man
seems not to have had stamina to carry, as it were, the weight of
the transcendent idea of one God." The truth of this remark is
best seen in the perpetual turning to idolatry even of God's chosen
people, blessed though they were with direct revelation, and fenced
in and isolated from all other nations. Witness the single humil-
iating instance of the whole people worshiping a golden calf, and
that, too, under the very shadow of the awful mount ; into such
an abyss of spiritual folly the Greeks never sank, with all the
corruptions of their polytheism in its corruptest eras. This poly-
theism in that earlier form, the receding traces of which we see in
Homer, consisted, as is well known, of the worship of nature by
the deification of its manifold phenomena, and of the ruling
forces which produce them. Under 'the bright skies of Hellas,
and amid the enchanting scenery of its streams and hills and
vales, the susceptible and imaginative Greeks yielded themselves
willing captives to the potent spells of nature, even as their Aryan
kindred in India, when they had crossed the Himalayas, and had
come down into their new homes along the great rivers and the
fertile valleys of the Penjab. A recent writer ^ has aptly quoted
a passage from the book of Job, which shows how other Asiatic
^ Julius von Klaproth, as quoted by Welcker, Gotterlehre^ vol. i. p. 130.
2 Hard wick, in Christ and other Masters, vol. i. p. 176.
198 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
souls in those distant times and regions felt the same fascinations,
but could better resist them, through the control of a loftier devo-
tion : " If I beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walking
in brightness, and my heart hath been secretly enticed, or my
mouth hath kissed my hand, this also were an iniquity to be pun-
ished by the Judge; for I should have denied the God that is
above." But no such reverence for the God that is above kept
back the Greeks from deifying and worshiping the manifestations
of his power as they presented themselves to the senses in the nat-
ural world around them. Those great lights set up in the firma-
ment to rule their daily life and the on-going life of the world ; the
earth about them, with its ever-renewing wonders of growth and
decay ; the alternations of day and night and the changing seasons ;
the dewy freshness of the dawn and the warm glow of the west-
ern sky; the elemental air and fire and water, in all their varied
phenomena of storm and shine, of tempest and calm, of rain and
drought, — all these were for the Greeks endowed with a divine
life and exalted into objects of adoration. Thus, as in the Veda,
we find with Dyaus the names and worship of Indra and Surya
and Mitra and Agni and Varuna. So, too, among the Greeks,
come to be associated with Zeus, though always in subordination,
Here as the goddess of the earth, the sun-god in Helios and in
Apollo, the moon in Selene, the fire-god in Hephaistos or Vulcan,
Poseidon the sovereign of the ocean, and the other gods many in
this Greek Pantheon of nature-worship.
But in the world of Homeric poetry this elemental worship no
longer holds sway ; in the Olympian religion we behold and feel
the presence of divine personages, of human form and appearance,
however august, and of a human nature, however idealized. It is
a strange transition, but no less perfect and manifest. How those
gods of nature have passed out from their shadow-like figures into
persons of definite human form and quality, inner and outer, is a
subtle process, no less so than the actual processes in the material
world. As Welcker ^ has conceived it, the nature-god seems to
have fashioned for itself a kind of chrysalis of golden mythic
threads, and to have come forth in due time a divine human per-
sonality. But the accomplished result is that which gives the
Olympian system that distinctive character all its own, which, as
Mr. Gladstone has expressed it, " is the intense action of the an-
thropomorphic principle which pervades and moulds the whole."
1 Gdtterlehre, vol. i. p. 230.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 199
" Its governing idea of the character of deity is a nature essen-
tially human, with the addition of unmeasured power." It is
obvious that such a system gave expression to the most exalted
conception of humanity ; and though it necessarily debased the
divine idea by taking into it the lower along with the higher ele-
ments of the human, it nevertheless embodied a worthier concep-
tion of deity than the elemental system which preceded it. It
may be said to have presented, by a strange inversion, God formed
in the image of man, instead of man formed in the image of God;
but on the other hand it must be granted that it created gods in
the image of man, because it recognized the divine in man ; recog-
nizing in the gods the original source of the moral and spiritual
in man, it incorporated deity into an idealized manhood, as the
most adequate known expression of the divine nature. Thus the
creation of this Olympian system reveals a stronger and higher
spiritual tendency in the people whose religion it became, and a
more advanced stage of their culture, than those which gave origin
to the earlier nature-worship. A new inner world of thoughts
and conceptions must have arisen, a high sense of the greatness
and power of man's spiritual being, before the phenomena and
nature of forces so lost their influence that these new humanized
deities were formed, moving free and separate among the elements,
their true being and sphere no longer in the natural but in the
spiritual realm. A lofty consciousness must there have been of
free will and reason and intelligence in man, of all in his nature
that is truly akin to the divine, so that the religious sense could
no longer be satisfied with nature, or find its appropriate objects
in her manifestations. But it was the muse of Hellenic poetry,
as it culminated in the song of Homer, which finally spoke into
being this Olympian system, and reared it up over Hellenic life,
at once to reflect and to rule it in all its relations. It was con-
ceived not merely as consisting of individuals, but also as forming
a divine community both as a family and a state, with Zeus for
the father and the sovereign. Here, too, as in every stage of
Greek religion, is illustrated that line of Virgil : —
" Ab Jove principium Musse ; Jovis omnia plena ; "
and yet more the loftier verse of Horace, when he sings of the
parent : —
" Unde nil majus generatur ipso,
Nee viget quidquam simile aut secundum."
Indeed, the pure light of the idea of one God, which had so broken
200 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
into many rays through the action of the nature-worship, seems in
the atmosphere of Olympus to be struggling to recover its integ-
rity in the tendency to the union of all the principal Olympian
deities with Zeus under the form either of direct descent or of
other relationship derived from human analogy. Thus Poseidon,
the ruler of the sea, and Aidoneus, the Zeus of the lower world,
are his brothers ; and Here is at once his sister and spouse ; Ares,
Hermes, and Aphrodite are his children ; as also and especially
Athene and Apollo, who are inferior only to Zeus in power, and
in moral tone superior to Zeus himself. Indeed, the exalted char-
acter and worship ascribed to Athene and Apollo give them a
marked preeminence in the Olympian religion. They are united
with Zeus in honor as no other deities ; as in the words of Hector,^
" Were I held in honor as a god, Phoebus or Pallas," and the oft-
recurring form of prayer, " Father Zeus and Athene and Apollo."
Athene's relation to Zeus as his daughter is altogether unique in
the representations alike of her birth and her being and action.
She is his daughter without mother, begotten in the intelligence
of Zeus, and (though by a later representation than Homer's)
bidden forth into being from his head ; in the Olympian family
she is the father's favorite daughter, indulged at her will, and
restrained neither in word nor in deed.^ She is constantly named
with Zeus, as acting with him and for him, and directly declared
as in union with him, the highest and mightiest deity. In short,
the words of Horace give literal expression to the Homeric con-
ception of the goddess : —
" Proximos illi tamen occupavit
Pallas honores."
Similar is the relation of Apollo to Zeus. He is the son dear to
Zeus, addressed as such by him, ever the obedient son, in closest
union with his father, his organ, and, as the god of prophecy, the
revealer of his will. It is on the basis of the highest attributes of
these deities, together with their peculiar relation to Zeus, that
Mr. Gladstone has constructed that theory of tradition in the gen-
esis of the Hellenic religion which constitutes the peculiarity of
his treatment of the whole subject.
In the firm conviction that these conceptions of deity could not
have been the growth of the unassisted intelligence of the Greeks,
he ascribes them to a divine origin, in the form of a primitive
revelation made to man, and preserved in unbroken tradition to
1 Iliad, viii. 540. 2 jUad^ y. 875.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 201
the time of the separation of the Semitic and Aryan branches of
the human family, and so by and by brought with them into
Greece by the Hellenic portion of the Aryan branch, and at last
wrought by Homer into his Olympian scheme. Thus he claims
for Homer's Athene and Apollo a truly divine ancestry. He com-
pares them with the child in Wordsworth's ode : heaven lies about
them in their infancy ; and the soul that rises with them " hath
had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar." In the no less
firm conviction that there are features traceable in these deities
which are in marked correspondence with Hebraic doctrine and
tradition, as conveyed in the books of Holy Scripture, and handed
down in the auxiliary sacred learning of the Jews, he believes that
Athene is the Hellenic adumbration of the Logos, the uncreated
Word, and Apollo of the Messiah, the seed of the woman, a being
at once divine and human ; and so by consequence, Latona, the
human mother of Apollo, is the woman whose seed the Redeemer
was to be. It passes comprehension how a writer of Mr. Glad-
stone's ability, and enlarged and elevated views, can build up a
theory with devoutest diligence upon so slender proofs, and liable
to the gravest objections ; which is so repugnant to every Christian
sentiment, and forces the explanation, from such foreign sources,
of conceptions in the Greek religion which can certainly be ex-
plained without it, and without traveling out of the records of that
religion itself. The view which he presents, notwithstanding all
the captivating enthusiasm with which it glows, unfortunately
lacks the elements necessary to gain for it an intelligent convic-
tion in the mind of the reader. As you yield yourself to his guid-
ance, while he spreads before you the minutest details of sugges-
tion and illustration, all skillfully interwoven with the cunningest
hand, and embellished with a very large border of the finest writ-
ing, you are conscious of admiration, and of something very like
persuasion ; but when you have looked away in another direction,
and then come back for a renewed and more independent view,
you discover that the texture of the whole work that has so fixed
your gaze is made up of the airiest of nothings. It is marvelous,
the ingenious facility and alacrity with which he can proceed upon
premises of mere assumptions, and rest, with calmest assurance,
in conclusions which only credulity can believe. If we should
admit his remoter assumptions, which are indeed scarcely discern-
ible in those far-off primeval ages where they are laid, it were cer-
tainly an incredible supposition that the Greeks had older Messi-
202 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
anic traditions than the Jews themselves ; and it is certain that
the Jews had no such developed traditions old enough to have
been borrowed and reflected by Homer. The Apocryphal Book
of Wisdom, and the Hebrew Targumim, on which Mr. Gladstone
largely relies, belong to a time centuries later even than Plato ;
and in the Bible there is nothing which by any possibility could
give substance to this theory but the Messianic promises in Gen-
esis and the personifications of wisdom in the Proverbs of Solo-
mon-; and out of these, forsooth, the poetic genius of Homer has
created Olympian persons who adumbrate the Incarnate Redeemer
of man.
But even if we should lean to the influence of such traditions
in the nobler attributes of these deities, how can we reconcile
other representations of their character which run directly counter
to any such supposition ? What a strange look for such a theory,
the league of Pallas with Here and Poseidon to bind in chains
the great father of gods and men ! And how may we account for
the opposition to each other of Pallas and Phoebus in the Trojan
conflict, the former the protector of the Greeks, the latter of the
Trojans? What a rude clashing with Messianic ideas Apollo's
words of sublime indifference to the fate of mortals, when he
declined to enter the lists where gods and goddesses were in
furious combat over Ilium's destiny : —
" Earth-shaking God, I should not gain with thee
Esteem of wise, if I with thee should fight
For mortal men; poor wretches, who like leaves,
Flourish awhile, and eat the fruits of earth,
But sapless, soon decay ; from combat then
Refrain we, and to others leave the strife."
And Minerva's wisdom descends to something more than craftiness
when she comes down from heaven purposely to break the truce
of the Trojans with the Greeks, and in the disguise of An tenor's
son tempts Pandarus to aim his stinging arrow at the breast of
the unsuspecting Menelaus ; and still worse when she cheats Hector
under the guise of his trusted brother Deiphobus, and so deludes
him to the fatal combat with Achilles.
But it is the most conclusive evidence against this whole theory,
that it is entirely gratuitous. The conceptions of these deities
are adequately explained within the range of Homeric ideas,
as emanations of Zeus, as he is conceived alike in the realm of
nature and of spirit; and these are the clearest illustrations of
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 203
the monotheistic tendencies of the Homeric system. Born of Zeus,
as the God of the ethereal heavens, Athene represents the physical
side of his nature as a feminine personification of the ether ; hence
her epithet yXavKw-n-cs, the blue-eyed, or more properly the goddess
of heaven-bright eyes. On the other hand, as Zeus is the supreme
intelligence, so as his daughter sprung full grown from his head,
she represents also the spiritual side of his being, which the name
Minerva expresses, from the Greek /txeVo?, and the Latin mens,
and the Sanskrit manas, as the goddess of mind or of wisdom. In
like manner all the attributes of Apollo are explained in accord-
ance alike with the Homeric system and with the earlier worship.
Apollo, as the sublimest appellation for Helios, the sun, finally
supplants altogether the common name ; he is a solar deity ; and
all his attributes, natural and spiritual, issue from this his original
character. As son of Latona, which means what is hidden and
concealed, he comes forth out of the darkness, and reveals the
brightness of the God of heaven, even as the sun reveals the day.
So is he the Phoebus, the bright one ; and as the God of the silver
bow, the far-darting and far-destroying, the arrows of his burning
and destructive rays bring pestilence and death, even as his milder
heat and radiance bring fruitful blessing to the earth, and deliver-
ance to the children of men. In short, like Athene, he is an
emanation of Zeus, and reveals both his natural and his spiritual
attributes as the lord of air and light, dwelling in the highest
heavens, and as the god of justice and right, the moral governor
of the world.
Mr. Gladstone's hypothesis is the latest and the very mildest of
all the various theories put forth since the revival of learning,
which discover in the nobler elements of Homeric theology traces
of patriarchal and evangelical truth, and quietly relegate all the
rest to obscure realms, which are conveniently named heathenish
fable or absurd superstitions or degrading idolatry and demon
worship. Mure touched upon some of these in an article published
some years ago on Archdeacon Williams' "Homerus," and it
would be a very curious and instructive labor to follow out his
hints, and to coUect together and to present in order the doctrines
of their authors and all the subtleties of their allegorical exposition.
Gerardus Croesius, a D^utch scholar, maintained, in his " Homerus
Hebrseus," that the two poems of Homer embodied a complete
narrative of the history of the Jews, the Odyssey embracing the
time from the departure of Lot out of Sodom to the death of
204 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
Moses, and the Iliad narrating the destruction of Jericho and the
wars of Joshua and the final conquest of Canaan. He clearly-
discovered Jericho in Troy, and Joshua and the Israelites in
Agamemnon and the Greeks, and the harlot Rahab in Helen,
while Nestor was Abraham, and Ulysses Moses. The English
scholar, Joshua Barnes, the friend of Bentley and Regius Professor
of Greek at Cambridge, convinced himself that Homer was Solo-
mon, a conviction which he established by reading Omeros back-
wards, in Hebrew fashion, into Soremo, and then by metalepsis
into Solemo or Solomon ! But Archdeacon Williams, in his
" Homerus," published only twenty-five years ago, carries the
principle of analogy into a far wider range of application. Be-
lieving to the full Mr. Gladstone's doctrine of primitive revelation
and tradition, he even traces in Homeric poetry (we use his own
words), " most of the essential principles by which the Christian
religion is distinguished ; " with him, therefore, the Iliad was
" constructed for the express purpose of vindicating the justice of
the Deity^, and displaying the inseparable connection between sin
and eternal punishment." The fate of " sinful and accursed
Troy," as he characterizes Priam's city and people, illustrates
atonement and retributive justice, and so foreshadows the fall of
wicked cities yet to come, and " above all, of Jerusalem itself."
In this last view, however, of Troy prefiguring Jerusalem, the
Archdeacon was anticipated by about two hundred years, by the
Italian writer, Jacobo Ugone, in his "Vera Historia Romana."
But we think that the writer or writers of the " Gesta Romanorum,"
a work earlier by many centuries than those now mentioned, took
a much more fundamental view of this whole subject, for the
monk, in that celebrated collection, says that " Paris represents
the devil, and Helen the human soul or all mankind " !
But is there not "a more excellent way" of accounting for
the origin of the Olympian religion than the method employed
by all these and many other writers, and in its latest and faintest
form by Mr. Gladstone, a way far more in harmony with all
right views of human nature and of the wisdom and benevolence
of the Creator, and also in accordance with the results of the
comparative study of all the "religions which have existed outside
the pale of divine revelation"? May we not find the original
source of all these religions, not in any primitive revelation or
tradition, but rather in what we may call a primitive faith; a
faith in God, in the true, even though unknown God, and in
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 205
his rightful and righteous government of the world ; a faith im-
planted in the very constitution of the human soul, and so not
only anterior to all religious knowledge, but also essential to the
appropriation of such knowledge, whether communicated by natural
or by supernatural means? Alike the truths and the errors of the
Homeric religion, the conceptions of deity, whether noble or base,
of the Homeric mythology may be carried back to that inborn
tendency of the human soul to search after God, which is taught
by the apostle Paul in his sermon to the men of Athens, when he
says of all the nations of men, " That they should seek the Lord,
if haply they might feel after Him and find Him, though He be
not far from every one of us." The same apostle was wont to teach
his heathen hearers that God had not left himself without witness
in the works of nature and in the human conscience, and that
from the one men might " clearly see the invisible things of Him,
even his eternal power and Godhead," and that through the other
they " showed the work of the law written in their own hearts."
And while we are taught that the pagan nations are without
excuse, who when they knew God, yet glorified Him not as God,
we can set no bounds to the spiritual elevation which they might
have reached, or which individual souls or communities may have
reached, by giving heed to such witness, when we remember the
words of another apostle, " God is no respecter of persons, but in
every nation he that feareth Him and worketh righteousness is
accepted of Him."
In the life of the Greeks, as we see it in the poetry of Homer,
it is this feeling after God of which we are constantly reminded.
There is no aspect so perpetually present as the religious, nothing
so constantly seen as this striving of the soul after the one, living,
personal God, its upward turning for care and blessing to a divine
Being like itself, but in all things superior, the righteous ruler of
men and all human affairs, and alone worthy of devout worship
and obedient service. And yet no less constantly do we behold
the actual failure of the Greek mind to satisfy these longing
aspirations, that continual contradiction between the real and the
ideal through which the Deity is debased to the level of humanity,
even in the very act of lifting the Deity far above all human
limitations. The distinguished German scholar Nagelsbach has
treated this point with remarkable clearness and fullness.^ The
gods are endowed with omniscience, and yet, in many a passage,
1 In his Homerische Theologie.
206 GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI.
are ignorant of matters which most intimately concern them. The
gods are omnipotent, and yet Zeus himself is bound with fetters,
from which he is released only by the hundred -handed Briareus.
The gods are constituted as just and holy in the government of
the world, and invariably visiting punishment upon all wrong-
doing ; but in many instances they are patrons of the worst crimes
known among men, and are themselves the subjects of the fiercest
and most malevolent human passions ; and, indeed, in the Homeric
conception itself of the Deity, there is an utter absence of that
awful holiness which inheres in the Hebrew and Christian idea of
God. The gods also require and accept the worship of men, and
their favor is propitiated and their displeasure deprecated by prayer
and sacrifice ; in all the events and occasions of life, alike the small-
est and the greatest, the pious Greek approaches his God in prayer,
and in conscious dependence bows to the divine behests ; but yet
his gods are implacable to the last degree, and pursue the offender
with the most relentless hatred ; and nothing is so drearily indistinct
in the consciousness of the Greek worshiper as the prospect of
forgiveness and reconciliation. Human sin is certain, certain its
punishment ; but wholly uncertain, dependent on the arbitrary
will of his gods, is its forgiveness ; human life is a life without
any assurance of divine favor.^
However we may differ from Mr. Gladstone in respect to the
origin of the Homeric system, we can heartily accept his state-
ment of the lesson which its history teaches, that it shows " the
total inability of our race, even when at its maximum of power,
to solve for ourselves the problems of our destiny ; to extract for
ourselves the sting from care, from sorrow, and above all from
death." By revealing this inability, the Greek religion and all
other religions of pagan antiquity have each proved themselves,
even as the written law of the Jews, a schoolmaster to bring men
to Christ ; they all belong, with Judaism itself, to a continuous
development of preparation for the coming into the world, in the
fullness of time, of Him who was the desire of all nations, for the
coming of Christianity as the one true and universal religion, to
meet and satisfy the wants of human nature as they appear in all
nations and in all times. It is a remark of St. Augustine, often
quoted by Miiller, that there is no religion which does not con-
tain some element of truth. We may accept, also, when it is
rightly understood, that paradox of the same father of the church,
^ Nagelsbach, p. 355.
GLADSTONE'S JUVENTUS MUNDI. 207
that " what is now called the Christian religion has existed among
the ancients, and was not absent from the beginning of the human
race until Christ came in the flesh ; from which time the true reli-
gion which existed already began to be called Christian." The
religious aspirations of the heathen world, however unsatisfied,
however misguided, the glimmerings of truth that appear amid the
manifold errors of that religion, all their observances of worship
in their best and in their worst forms, why are they not " uncon-
scious prophecies" of the human soul under the teachings of
nature, even as the written prophecies of the Jewish Scriptures,
under the teachings of revelation, of the grace and truth to come
by Jesus Christ for the redemption of universal man ? Such a
view at once gives true significance to the pagan religions, and
fixes their true relation to the Christian, and in turn the relation
of the Christian religion to them. Christianity is not clearly
discovered to be a universal religion till all the natural religions
are seen to be preparatory to it, till all those religions which
could not have existed but for man's religious nature, allied to
God and bound to Him even amid all its errors, are recognized
along with Judaism as presupposing the New Testament revela-
tion. Christ is seen as the divine deliverer of mankind only as
his redemptive work runs through all human history, "one in-
creasing purpose running through the ages."
KOME AND THE ROMANS OF THE TIME OF
HORACE.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, DECEMBER 16, 1870, ALSO USED
AS COLLEGE LECTURES.
The late Dean Milman declared that no one could know any-
thing of Rome or of the Roman mind and manners who was not
profoundly versed in Horace. The remark is so true that one
may well be warranted in making Horace's writings the point of
departure for a view of the great city and of the life of its peo-
ple in those eventful times to which his career belonged ; so fitted
was he both by his genius and culture and by his fortunate posi-
tion in Roman society for the task which he executed of seizing
and interpreting in his poetry all that is characteristic in Augus-
tan Rome. By nature and by fondest habit he was a close ob-
server of the ways of men. He had also the amplest means of
observation through his connection, by his origin, with the hum-
blest orders of Roman society, and, by his rise, with the highest.
He was the son of a freedman and the intimate friend of the
emperor and his prime minister Maecenas ; he was vexed with no
aspiring that interfered with simple tastes and moderate desires
and a cherished sense of personal independence. He had no
cares of family, politics, or profession ; neither poverty nor riches
was given him, but that golden mean he loved and sung so well,
that brought him neither trouble nor anxiety. It was by such
means as these that Horace was qualified at once to study and to
teach his age, to apprehend and to represent it, to catch with a
poet's insight its living manners as they rose before him, and with
a poet's art to set them in imperishable literary forms.
It is in this attitude of Horace towards his country and his age,
in his clear and genial vision and knowledge of the Rome and the
Romans of the Augustan period, of the great city itself in all its
parts, and of all the life of its people, social, political, literary,
and moral, and in his ability to embody all that he saw and knew
in such perfect forms of poetic expression ; in these it is that we
find his chief distinction as a writer, and the secret of his fame
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 209
and influence. Of his distinctive poetic qualities in his lyrics,
satires, and epistles I have spoken in the " Life of Horace," in the
edition we have been using, and upon these I do not purpose now
to dwell. In such lectures as I wish to give you in a review of
Horace, we need specially to observe, that his poetry, like all gen-
uine poetry, had its roots in the life of its time and grew up under
its skies and in its air and light, and thus it represents what is
real and permanent in the ideas and events and characters of that
time, and thus it is that the writer is a truly national and Roman
poet. As you read you catch glimpses of the city, the yellow
Tiber, with its plains on either side and the hills that bound
them, the Capitol and its neighboring heights, the Palatine and
Esquiline ; the Forum with its Sacred Way, and the triumphal
procession coming down into it from the Velia, and all the town
following with their " lo Triumphe's ; " you see the thronged
Campus Martins, too, on election day, the noisy party-candidates
putting forth their claims to office ; and there, too, quite aside,
the brave, virtuous men, strangers to defeat, the real consuls of
all years. You visit the temples and hear the prayers there
offered ; also the places of amusement, the Theatre of Pompeius,
where you may, perhaps, regret the absence of PoUio with his
muse of severe tragedy, but yet may add " a good part of your
voice " to the rounds of applause which greet Maecenas after his
illness ; you may stroll out to the Circus with the lovers of the
races, and strain your eyes on the swift hot-wheeled chariots chas-
ing one another through the dust of the course, and at last you
may toss up your caps for the winners of the " ennobling palm."
Or you may share with the poet the life of Roman interiors,
whether the poor man's home, where are plain meals but no hang-
ings or purple ; or the rich man's palace, where you see costly
marbles and paneled ceilings of ivory or gold, but yet tables laden
with cloying stores, and black imps of fretting care flying about
the ceiling. But not alone these places and outward scenes of
Rome may you see in Horace's poetry ; you come to know also
the people themselves, the Romans of all classes, and in all their
occupations, whether peaceful or warlike; scholars and men of
letters, like Virgil, and Varus, and PoUio, in their studies ; states-
men in the senate ; orators on the rostra ; advocates hurrying to
meet cases at the courts ; or counselors at law rudely called up at
cock-crowing by impatient clients banging at their doors. Espe-
cially do you become conversant with the great political events of
210 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
the time and the great actors in them, whether on the republi-
can or the imperial side ; the recent civil wars, — so recent that
the fires of partisan passion, not yet extinct, may soon break
forth from the ashes which only seem to bury them ; — these, with
their sights and sounds, are all there in the poet's graphic verse ;
the murmur of martial horns, the glitter of arms, the fleeing
horses, the panic-stricken horsemen, and the chiefs soiled with no
inglorious dust. The battles are fought there before you with
their decisive, world-wide issues, in all of them, like that at Phi-
lippi, the old republic doomed and fallen in spite of the desperate
valor of its defenders, and the empire as the necessary outcome,
risen and established, with Octavian, the heaven-sent Mercury,
its august ruler.
With this general view of the relation of the poet Horace to his
time, I propose to give you in some lectures, Rome and the Ro-
mans as he has represented them ; the city in its extent, its exter-
nal appearance in its public works, its chief buildings, public and
private, and then the population and its different classes, and es-
pecially the Roman society, which is set before us in the Horatian
poetry.
The Rome in which Horace lived, and which now lives in his
poetry, had in its extent far outgrown the ancient limits of the
Servian walls ; these walls, indeed, then belonged as truly to the
antiquities of the city as at the present day, and their line could
scarcely be traced for the buildings that inclosed and concealed
them through their entire course. For the size and extent of the
Augustan city we have no immediate data, except those which
belong to the division of its area into fourteen regions or wards,
which was instituted by the emperor for municipal purposes. A
description of the municipal division, which has come down to us
in the ancient document called the " Curiosum Urbis," contains a
distinct enumeration of each of the fourteen regions, with its cir-
cumference in feet, a list of the principal buildings in each, so
arranged as to describe its circuit, together with much curious
information, such as the number of public establishments, the
granaries, the public baths, the heads of water for the aqueducts,
and also the number in each region of the private dwelling-houses.
Not only do the figures given under these heads all show how im-
mensely the Rome of the age of Augustus had extended beyond
the ancient boundaries, but also the enumeration of the principal
buildings in each region, which is made to mark its topographical
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 211
limits, yields an approximate view of its actual extent. These
buildings are for the most part familiar ones, and their sites dis-
tinctly known, and the line which they describe has been made
the subject of topographical study, and a plan of the city has been
constructed on the basis of their respective limits, by which the
extent of the whole city has been reached. It has thus been made
clear that the area of the city in the time of Augustus was sub-
stantially the same as in the reign of Vespasian, when its circuit
was exactly measured ; and as in Aurelian's reign, when the new
walls were begun. A passage in Pliny, which furnishes a very
particular account of Vespasian's survey, fixes the circumference
of the city, as ascertained by measurement, at 13|^ miles. As this
measure marks the extent of the outer line of the buildings of the
city, it agrees sufficiently well with the circumference of the Au-
relian and of the present walls. The line of the Augustan regions
was probably adopted by Aurelian when he conceived the purpose,
which revealed at once his own military greatness and the weak-
ness of his empire, of inclosing the city with a new line of forti-
fied walls. For nearly eight centuries (507 b. c. to 270 a. d.)
Eome had been a city without walls, but during all these centu-
ries, which include the periods of the rising and ever-extending
greatness of the republic, and the Augustan era of the imperial
universal dominion, the capital had never needed any outward
defense. Hannibal had been the last enemy that ever approached
it, and since the battle of Zama, Eome had never known any ap-
prehension of foreign invasion. But now that the imperial city
began to be in peril from the ever-nearing approach of the Ger-
man and other northern nations, it needed the protection of forti-
fied walls. The walls were commenced in 271, and rapidly carried
forward during the remaining years of Aurelian's reign ; but they
were completed by Probus in 276. This period of five years is
certainly a short one for so gigantic a work, and undoubtedly it
was carried through with undue haste ; and hence, 125 years later,
in the reign of Honorius (395-425), they were thoroughly re-
paired, and in some parts constructed anew, though without any
change of the line which they followed. Different ancient writers
have described the Aurelian walls, but only one, Vopiscus (300
A. D.), in his Life of Aurelian, has made distinct mention of their
extent, which he fixes, if we take his words in their usual sense,
at the fabulous estimate of about fifty miles in circumference.
Gibbon, in his eleventh chapter, speaks of this estimate as only
212 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
the result of popular exaggeration, and among eminent modern
writers it has found no defender except the Roman topographer
Nibby. The numerals of Vopiscus were long a vexed question
with the critics, but at length the Italian writer, Piale, hit upon
the happy conjecture that the word feet (^pedum) should be sup-
plied with the numerals quinquaginta millia, or 50,000, instead
of the usual word paces, or passuum, so that the passage would
read 50,000 feet, or between 10 and 11 miles, a very probable
estimate, and sufficiently near the result of Vespasian's measure-
ment, as well as the extent of the present walls of Rome. The
topographers had, however, still another difficulty to settle in the
account, given by Olympiodorus, of another measurement of the
geometrician Ammon, made in the reign of Honorius, just before
the first invasion of the Goths in A. D. 408. This measurement
would yield, according to the received reading of the text, a cir-
cuit for the city of twenty-one miles ; but this, too, is a number
quite improbable for belief and acceptance. Gibbon has, however,
adopted it in two passages, though in a third he has given, with-
out alluding to the preceding ones, another estimate, and undoubt-
edly the true one, of about twelve miles. Most ingeniously has
the text of Olympiodorus been conjecturally emended by Nibby.
The number is given in the text, as often, by letters of the Greek
alphabet, Ka, k standing for 20 and a for 1. Nibby conjectures t,
which stands for 10, instead of k, and so reads ta, or 11, and so
gains eleven miles for the result of the Ammonian measurement,
substantially the same result as that gained by the emended read-
ing of Vopiscus. From the reign of Honorius down to the pres-
ent, with the exception of the Vatican and St. Peter's, there has
been no essential change in the line of Roman walls ; and as the
line of the Aurelian walls was coincident with the outer limits
of the Augustan regions, we can have no doubt that the Rome of
the Augustan age had so far outgrown the old limits of the repub-
lic as to reach, with its streets and buildings, a circumference of
twelve miles.
In its external appearance, and in the splendor of its public
and private buildings, the city underwent far greater changes dur-
ing the reign of Augustus. Rome was not, indeed, wanting in
earlier times in great public works, as the Cloacae, the Aqueducts,
and the great highways ; but these, and such as these, ministered,
agreeably to the spirit of these times, more to utility than to adorn-
ment ; and even these, with the exception of the first, were con-
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 213
structed on a more magnificent basis in the earlier periods of the
empire. The most comprehensive fact on this subject is contained
in the well-known remark of Augustus (Sueton., Vita), that he
found Eome a city of brick,^ and left it one of marble. This is
hardly an exaggeration. By the large outlays of Augustus, and
under his auspices by the enterprise and skill of Agrippa and
other distinguished men, the work of improving and adorning the
city went on with inconceivable rapidity. Existing public works
were extended, and new ones constructed on a larger and grander
scale ; magnificent temples, halls, and political edifices arose on
every side, and far beyond the earlier boundaries ; and during the
forty years' peaceful rule of Augustus, a new Eome gradually
grew up, which far surpassed in external splendor the seven-hilled
city of the republic. Prominent among these improvements was
the new Forum, called the Forum of Augustus. In the war with
Brutus and Cassius, Augustus had vowed that if crowned with
victory he would build a temple in honor of Mars Ultor. With
the erection of this temple, which is reckoned by Pliny among the
architectural wonders of the world, Augustus united the plan of a
new Forum, the Roman Forum and the Julian being now inade-
quate to the wants of the city. At great expense in the purchase
of' private estates, space was gained on either side of the Temple
of Mars, and here were erected two semicircular lines of porticoes,
as places of exchange and of public business, which were adorned
with statues of distinguished Romans, and with other works of
art. The whole was surrounded with a high wall, so that, though
in the heart of the city, it afforded a quiet place for the transac-
tion of business. Other temples erected by Augustus were those
of Jupiter Tonans, towards the foot of the Capitol, and that of
Quirinus, on the Quirinal, the lattier adorned with a double row
of seventy-six columns. Still another was the celebrated Temple
of Apollo, on the Palatine, which was built of white marble, and
surrounded with columns of the marble of Numidia. Here was
deposited the Palatine library, founded by Augustus. The dedi-
cation of this temple Horace commemorated by one of his most
characteristic odes (Odes, I. 31, " Quid dedicatum," etc.). During
the sedileship of Agrippa immense sums were expended upon
public works, both useful and ornamental. The old aqueducts,
four in number, were repaired, and three new ones were built, two
^ That is, peperino and tufa. In the time of Augustus burnt brick was not
in use, but peperino in opus quadratum, and tufa in opus reticulatum.
214 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
of which, the Aqua Virgo and the Aqua Marcia, are still in use
in modern Rome. In connection with these there were erected
massive distributing reservoirs, one hundred and thirty in num-
ber, which were adorned with columns and statues executed in
the highest style of art; of the columns there were four hun-
dred, all of marble, 'and of the statues three hundred, some of
bronze and others of marble. The public squares all over the
city were furnished with a great variety of ponds or heads of
water called lacus, and jets, salientes ; in all there were seven
hundred lacus and one hundred and five salientes. The public
places were also adorned with triumphal arches and Egyptian obe-
lisks ; two of the latter still remain and adorn two of the finest
squares of modern Rome, one the Piazza del Popolo, and the
other the Monte Citorio. The new buildings for the amusement
of the people far surpassed in splendor those of the republican
period. Of these may be mentioned the Amphitheatre of Tau-
rus, the Theatre of Balbus, and the Theatre of Marcellus, all of
them magnificent stone buildings, erected in the Campus Martins.
Ruins of the last edifice are discerned, as is well known, in one of
the meanest quarters of the modern city, and the gray, worn
arches of the lower story now serve the ignoble purpose of front-
ing the dirty shops of locksmiths and other artisans. Other fine
monuments of the Augustan time, which once adorned this part
of the city, have come to like ignoble uses. Witness the grand
Mausoleum of Augustus, whose massive walls, within which once
reposed the remains of Augustus and others of the imperial fam-
ily, consecrated once by the ashes of the young Marcellus, and
spite of all its subsequent uses, consecrated ever by the verse of
Virgil, now serve for the exhibition of puppet-shows and tight-
rope dancers ! These and other buildings of the Augustan age
stood upon the Campus Martins ; and it is indeed the new appear-
ance which this entire region gradually assumed that most distin-
guishes, in its outward aspect, Augustan Rome from the Rome of
the Commonwealth. Formerly a vast open space for the meet-
ings of the Centuriate Comitia, and for military and gymnastic
exercises, it was now changed, under the creative influence of art,
to a grand assemblage of architectural monuments devoted to the
worship of the gods, to public business, and to the comforts and
amusements of the people. To allude to some of these which have
not been mentioned, here were erected the Thermae, or Baths of
Agrippa, the first of a series of magnificent establishments belong-
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 215
ing to the time of the emperors. Intended from the first to fur-
nish to the whole population the luxuries and diversions enjoyed
by the rich in their own houses, these baths were built on an im-
mense scale, and contained not only every convenience for bath-
ing, but also, by means of gymnasia, porticoes, reading-rooms, and
libraries, every facility for the tastes of the people, physical, social,
and intellectual. Horace has a jest in one of his satires at the
expense of some of the conceited poets who go to the baths to
recite their poems, because there they hope to find a large audi-
ence, and also because the resonance of the vaulted ceilings de-
lights their vanity. They were built in the most superb style,
enriched within with precious marbles and paintings, and in the
areas without adorned and refreshed with fountains and shaded
walks. Some remains of these baths are extant, but the extensive
ruins of the Thermae of later emperors give us definite concep-
tions of the nature and extent of these establishments. Close by
the Baths of Agrippa was erected, and is still standing, the finest
of all these Augustan monuments, the Pantheon, a temple conse-
crated to Mars and Venus, and probably also meant to be sacred
to all the successive Divi of the Julian family. Next to its own
beauty, it is doubtless the wise policy of the Roman church to
which the world is indebted for the preservation of this pagan
temple ; for its consecration as a Christian church, in 608, by Bon-
iface IV., then Bishop of Rome, is the chief circumstance which
has kept it from destruction during all the changes of time in this
ever-changing part of the city. Yet not even this circumstance
has saved it from the plundering hands of civil and ecclesiastical
rulers. It was one of the latest of these spoliations, achieved by
Urban VIII., who carried off from it 400,000 pounds of bronze to
adorn his family's palace of the Barberini, that elicited from the
Roman Pasquin one of his best pasquinades : —
" Quod non fecere Barbari, fecere Barberini."
Let me now add to this account of the public buildings of
Augustan Rome a brief mention of the private houses of this
period. In these, too, both in extent and costliness, there was
a great advance upon the architecture of the republic. Till
towards the close of republican times, the Roman dwelling-houses
were small, and made of wood or of brick, erected upon a stone
foundation. In one of Horace's odes, in which the poet laments
the prevailing luxury, when the estates of the rich left but few
216 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
acres for the plow, and their plane-trees and flower gardens
supplanted the elms and the olive-grounds, he dwells especially
upon the smallness and simplicity of the homes of the fathers of
the republic. Then, he says, private estates were small, the com-
mon wealth was large, and the laws, while they favored the
thatched roofs of private citizens, ordered the temples of the gods
to be sumptuously adorned at public cost. At about the middle
of the seventh century of the city the orator Crassus built a
house on the Palatine, which was severely censured for its ex-
pense, chiefly because it was adorned with marble columns (he
was nicknamed by Brutus " the Palatine Venus ") ; yet these
columns were only six in number and twelve feet in height ; this
then very extravagant house cost about 140,000. A like censure
was passed upon the Consul Marcus Lepidus (b. c. 78) for
using foreign marble in paving the threshold of his home. But
thirty years later these houses were inferior to at least a hundred
mansions in the city. The house of Cicero, for instance, on the
Palatine, cost about 1140,000, and that of Claudius, which was
much larger, cost nearly $600,000. But in the time of Augus-
tus the rich mansions of Rome, as well as the suburban villas,
far surpassed in magnificence even these instances of republican
luxury. Augustus himself led the way in his Palatine house near
by his temple of Apollo. Here, near the spot occupied ages
before by the humble abode of Romulus, stood the first Roman
imperial residence, called first domus Caesaris, then, by way of
eminence, domus Palatina, or Palatium, which was followed by
a succession of gorgeous palatial structures, which rose and had
their brilliant days and fell in turn, and still stretch over the hill
in massive ruins, but which, by their grandeur, have passed down
to the language of wellnigh every civilized nation the fitting
word for the dwellings of nobles, and kings, and emperors. An-
other princely Roman house, and more familiar to the writings as
to the person of Horace, was the house of Maecenas. This, as
Horace often reminds us, stood on the eastern side of the Esqui-
line hill. The grounds of the estate covered a part of the site of
the former Servian walls, and stretched out to the east and south
across the plain of the Esquiline. Formerly the gloomy burial-
places (Sat. I. 8, 14-16) of slaves and of the poorest classes of
citizens, they were now changed by the wealth and taste of Maece-
nas into an extensive and elegant park, laid out with walks and
gardens, and adorned with fountains and statuary. On one of
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 217
the highest points was erected the palace, one part arising above
the rest, in tower-like form and in several stories, in Horatian
phrase massive and nearing the clouds (Odes III. 29, 10), and
commanding a view of the whole city, and especially of the plain
of the Campagna, and over and beyond this, of Tibur and Tuscu-
lum, and the entire line of delightful hills which bound the hori-
zon to the east of Rome. The way up to this place was a well-
worn one to the often hastening feet of Horace, and the interior
was consecrated in his own mind, as well as in the minds of Virgil
and Varius and the other choice spirits that formed the circle of
Maecenas, to the most elevated and cherished associations of art, let-
ters, friendship, and social intercourse. It is probable that some
of the ruined walls and chambers which still cover this part of the
Esquiline are remains of this classic residence ; and the traveler,
as he gazes upon the massive ruins, gladly believes that he is
standing within the spaces once graced by the presence of Virgil
and Horace and their brother poets and men of letters and their
common friend and princely patron Maecenas.
What has now been said of the private houses of Rome illus-
trates only what were called the domus^ the separate mansions of
the richer citizens. These, however, though they formed the
court parts of the city, crowning the summits of the hills, yet
formed the homes of but a small portion of the population. But
in the lower districts, such as the Subura and the Velabrum and
along the sides of the hills, were large houses, called insulce^
which were, however, not insulated single houses, but blocks of
houses, isolated from other similar blocks or other buildings, and
containing numerous tenements for the abodes of the poorer
classes. These were built in ordinary style, and many stories in
height, and were rented by floors or chambers to families or in-
dividuals. The height of these insulce was limited by Augustus
to seventy feet ; they had often six or seven stories, called tahu-
lata or contignationes, and sometimes even ten stories, and so
gave accommodation to a very large number of inmates, many of
the upper rooms or attics being used only as lodgings. The base-
ment on the street was generally occupied by shops which had no
immediate connection with the tenements above, these having
their own entrance by a flight of steps from the outside. Of these
insulce there were in the city in Augustus' time upwards of 46,000,
while there were only about 1,700 domus. The domus^ when
compared with the dwelling-houses of modern cities, was lower
218 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
and deeper, and covered a much greater area. It generally-
opened through the vestibule and the ostium or entry-hall, into
the atrium or family room and reception room for guests ; this
was roofed over with the exception of an open space in the centre
called the compluvium; around the atrium were the chambers,
dining-room, and other apartments, which varied, of course, with
the taste and means of the owner. In large houses, however,
there was beyond the atrium a similar hall called the cavum
cedium or heart of the house, and still beyond sometimes another
called the peristyle, which was surrounded by porticoes and had
a large area open to the sky, and planted with trees and flowers.
These domus^ as they were detached houses and often surrounded
by gardens, must have had a more isolated appearance than the
so-called insulce themselves.
Of the population of the city, the appearance of which I have
now sketched only in outline, we have estimates by different
writers who vary from one another in their figures not only by
hundreds and thousands but even by millions. We have no
accounts of any Roman census instituted like a modern one to
reach a full numerical estimate of population. If Augustus
among his many wise measures had taken such a census of his
capital, embracing children as well as adults, women as well as
men, and foreigners as well as citizens, and slaves as well as free
Romans, and its results had been preserved, authenticated from
official sources ; or if any Augustan writer had recorded and
sent down to us the actual number by count only of the slaves
that lived in Rome in his time, many writers and their readers
would have been spared some very laborious calculations, which
have started on conjectural premises and reached widely different
conclusions, and all alike uncertain. Of these many estimates
the largest and the smallest are easily set aside. One of the
largest, for instance, that of Lipsius, who sets down the popula-
tion at 4,000,000, doubtless grows out of a confounding of the
population of Italy, or perhaps of the empire, with that of Rome ;
while that of Bureau de la Malle, which gives the number of
562,000, and that of Merivale, who for the most part follows de
la Malle, but goes up to the number of 630,000, are not only at
variance with some clearly established facts, but also rest upon
inferences from the capacity of the area of the city in compari-
son with that of Paris, which are quite inadmissible. Bunsen
and also Marquardt compute the population at 2,000,000 ; Dyer,
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 219
in Smith's " Dictionary of Antiquities," at 2,045,000 ; Boeckh, at
2,265,000: Gibbon, at 1,200,000, and Carl Peter, in the third
volume of his " History of Rome," recently published, at about
1,250,000. Of all these the last two seem to me by far the most
probable. Singularly enough the only sure data on this subject
are derived from an inscription on the so-called Monumentum
Ancyranum^ or Monument of Ancyra, a city in Asia Minor and
the capital of the Province of Galatia. Augustus, at the close of
his life, wrote himself a record of his chief acts during his reign,
and had them inscribed upon bronze tablets at Rome ; of this in-
scription the citizens of Ancyra had a copy made and cut upon
marble blocks and deposited in a temple dedicated to Augustus
and Rome. This Ancyran monument has fortunately been pre-
served to modern times; and the inscription, which was first
copied in 1701, contains, among other facts, the number of citi-
zens to whom the regular corn distributions were made, and also
on particular occasions largesses of money were bestowed by the
emperor. He mentions two occasions on which he gave donatives
to 320,000 of the common people of the city (^plehs iirhana)^ two
others when the donative was given to 200,000, and still another
when it was granted to 250,000. The largess was in all these
instances limited to the male population, but it included on these
occasions children of four years of age. The mention of the
200,000 is coupled with the remark that this was the number of
the citizens who received the corn gratuities. There can, there-
fore, be no doubt that this smaller number represents the poorer
citizens, and the larger, the entire population, male and free,
below the senatorian and equestrian ranks. If, therefore, the
number be doubled to comprehend females and children, we
should have 640,000 for the entire plebeian population. To this
sum must be added at least 10,000 for the senators and knights
with their families, 15,000 for the military of the city, and 50,000
for the foreigners, making a sum total of 715,000 for the free
population. In respect to the number of slaves there is more
difficulty in attaining any reliable result. In general we know
that in the Augustan times the number was immense. Some
senatorian and equestrian families had hundreds of slaves. Hor-
ace mentions one citizen who had 200, and in the same passage
intimates that ten was a small number. The praetor Tillius,
whom he satirizes for his meanness, goes to Tibur with only five ;
and the poet himself is waited upon at his bachelor table by three,
220 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
though he was at the time in very humble circumstances. From
the data we have it would be safe to reckon at least ten slaves to
each person of senatorian and equestrian rank, two to each of the
resident foreigners, and one each to the military of the city. To
these must be added at least 100,000 in the service of the state.
We have thus 315,000 slaves for the population exclusive of the
plebs urbana, A common estimate has been to reckon one slave
for each of the commons, but this is certainly too high. We
have indeed the record of the estate of a rich freedman which had
belonging to it 4,116 slaves, but this was doubtless a rare in-
stance of wealth among even the richest freedmen. A large part
of the common people were dependent for their subsistence upon
government gratuities, and these certainly had no slaves. Hardly
more than a third had regular and sufficient incomes of their own,
and only these could afford to keep slaves. At the lowest calcu-
lation there was probably one slave for every three of the com-
mon people, which would give a proportion for the whole of about
200,000. This added to the numbers already given makes a total
of about 1,200,000 for the entire population, an estimate which
is the smallest of the many which have been made, with the excep-
tion only of de la Malle's and Merivale's.
Let us now come nearer, and try to get some view of the life
itself of this great population of Augustan Rome, and of the
physical and social condition and welfare of this assemblage of
human beings who thronged its streets and public places and lived
in its many homes when Augustus reigned and Horace wrote.
We have seen that the city contained within the circuit of
about twelve miles more than a million of souls. Of these about
500,000 were slaves, upwards of 700,000 were citizens, and 50,000
foreigners. The social relations of these portions of the popula-
tion were of the most diverse character. There was not only the
broad contrast between the free and the slaves, a large subject in
itself, which I do not propose to consider, but the free citizens
were parted from each other by rank, and still more by riches and
poverty to a degree and extent which have no parallel in modern
life. Of the free citizens, the higher or privileged classes were
the senators and knights. The old patrician nobility was extinct
in influence, well-nigh in being. A few ancient families still lin-
gered, dim and faded figures, about the haunts of their pristine
glory, and at set times in the year went through a dull round of
old curiate forms, out of which all vitality had long since van-
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 221
ished ; but the order itself had no more significance either in society
or in the state. Augustus, indeed, from a politic desire to adorn
the new regime with something of the lustre of the old, endeav-
ored to prop up the declining fortunes of some of the old families,
and to keep them from extinction ; but it was all in vain ; the
patrician order had no real life, save the little it drew from the
memories of the republic. The new nobility was one of no ante-
cedents ; it was the promiscuous offspring of imperial patronage,
and of cleverness of talent to discern and seize all opportunities
for gaining power and wealth, with no drawbacks of moral prin-
ciple to their fullest appropriation. But the senate, though de-
generate in character and power, still remained in entire form,
and its members had chief influence in society and some acknow-
ledged share in the government of the state. In the early years
of Augustus's reign the number of the senate had risen to a thou-
sand, but it was soon reduced to six hundred. It had been at
first the policy of Augustus, as of his uncle before him, to degrade
and debase the senate for his own surer elevation, by enlarging
its ranks and filling them with creatures of his own, who would
be subservient to his ambitious designs. It was thus that for-
eigners and common soldiers and freedmen had come to be in-
vested with the senatorian title and privileges. But when the
usurper's designs were accomplished, and the usurpation had in-
sensibly assumed the aspect of legitimate government, Augustus
took summary means to dispense with these unworthy instruments
of his elevation. In his function of censor, he cleared the curia
of this disorderly rabble which had thronged it, the new men,
who by their low character and coarse life had brought reproach
and disgrace upon it. He also took vigorous measures, which,
however, could only be partially successful, to revive in the sena-
tors themselves the old dignity of bearing and lofty sense of
character which had once been hereditary and well-nigh innate
senatorian qualities, and so to restore with the people the old
prestige of the body. He had so far at least a negative success,
that no senator whose merit lay in suppleness of limb or a natural
turn for theatricals any longer ventured to dance and act upon
the public stage, nor one whose forte was in muscle to fight with
wild beasts in the arena. By similar stringent measures he also
purified the equestrian order by a summary ejectment from it of
at least the worst of its bad members, who were beings of the
meaner quality, with no claim but ill-gotten wealth to the rank
222 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
and prerogatives of a knight. Horace lashes with cutting satire
one of this class who had often been flogged as a slave with the
triumvir's rods, but who now haughtily swept the Sacred Way
with his long trailing toga, and plowed his thousand acres, and
sat in the equestrian seats in the theatre. The number of the
equites at this time is nowhere, so far as I know, exactly stated.
Mr. Dyer cites a passage from an ancient writer which mentions
" that in the annual procession of the knights to the Temple of
Castor they sometimes mustered to the number of 5,000." But
we cannot be going too high in giving with Bunsen and other
authorities the number of 10,000 as the total of the two classes to-
gether of the knights and the senators. The property qualification
of the senatorian rank was fixed by Augustus at 1,200 sestertia,
about §48,000 ; that of the equestrian was the same as it had always
been, 400 sestertia, about $16,000. This sum was the minimum
for respectively the senatorian and the equestrian census, and
whoever possessed this amount might live in a manner not un-
worthy his rank. It is probable that the number of those whose
property did not exceed this minimum was not a small one. For
besides the general fact that the very rich always form the excep-
tions in the most favored circumstances, it is well known that
Augustus in many instances made grants of money to individual
senators and knights to keep their property at the amount
required for the census, and to enable them to support their rank.
But whatever may have been the difference in the fortunes of
different senatorian and equestrian families, there was concen-
trated in these two orders all the enormous riches which had
flowed into Rome from all parts of the world. The senate num-
bered among its members the generals and the proconsuls and
the propraetors, who, by the spoils of war, or by the plunder of
rich pro\H[nces, had accumulated immense fortunes. The pay
itself of the provincial governors was large, varying with the size
and importance of the province from 100,000 sesterces up to a
million, or from f4,000 up to $40,000. To the equites belonged
exclusively the privilege of farming the public revenues, a privi-
lege which in its legitimate exercise was always a fruitful source
of wealth, but now, by means of the numberless perverse devices of
extortion and oppression, was made a hundred fold more lucra-
tive. Into one or the other of these two privileged classes had
forced their way the numerous parvenus who had taken advan-
tage of the recent troubled times to enrich themselves by usury,
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 223
and especially by the reverses in families occasioned by the merci-
less proscriptions, had contrived to possess themselves of large
estates. The moneyed wealth of Eome and the landed property
of Italy were almost entirely in the possession of these senatorian
and equestrian families. It is chiefly the sentiments and tastes
of these two orders, their manners and style of living, which we
find delineated in the poetry of Horace. We gaze even to satiety
upon the pictures of their villas and city mansions, environed
without by porticoes and gardens and parks and fishponds, and
adorned within by costliest furniture and the finest works of art ;
but the glimpses that we get of their social life seldom suggest
ideals of nobleness of character or of dignity of manners. The
entertainments which they give to their friends are only luxu-
rious banquets ; and these, though often graced by the presence
of men distinguished for intellectual culture and tastes, and the
studious pursuit and liberal encouragement of letters, yet often
illustrate the prevailing idolatry of wealth and its coarser sensual
uses than any social intercourse informed by intelligence or en-
riched by kindly and generous feeling or enlivened by convivial
wit and humor. Cicero in his delightful dialogue on old age
makes the elder Cato boast with an old Roman's national pride of
the superiority of the Latin word for a feast over the Greek one,
because the former exalted the social element of the occasion, and
the latter the sensual ; the one was a convivium where men lived
together in rational intercourse, the other a symposium where
they were only boon companions in eating and drinking. Such a
boast was only just and true when made of old Cato's Sabine
suppers, where he feasted his rustic neighbors with small and
dewy cups, and with abundant cheerful conversation, protracted
till deep in the night ; but the conviviality of these Romans of
Horace's time was fully equal to that of the Greeks of any period
in its voluptuous devotion to the pleasures of the table. We
may hope that Horace and his literary friends were wont to have
the simple suppers (inundm coence) he so finely commends to
Maecenas, under poor men's roofs, where were no hangings and
purple, where they enjoyed together their plain living and high
thinking and cheerful mirth, not at least without the common
Sabine wine in moderate tankards, and the festive lamb of the
Terminalia, or the tender kid snatched from the jaws of the wolf.
But the high-life feast of Nasidienus, which the poet so elabo-
rately describes in one of his satires, at which Maecenas assisted
224 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
with several of his friends, was chiefly remarkable for the extrav-
agant and interminable biU of fare, and the ruinous drinking by
the nobler guests of their host's costliest wines. The host, a low-
born man suddenly become rich, his coarse nature and vulgar
manners unchanged and more conspicuous by fortune, was perhaps
a fair enough subject for Horace's light facetious satire ; but the
low jests which the gentlemen themselves indulged in at the host's
expense were a theme for satire of a graver tone, which only the
moral indignation of a Juvenal could have adequately treated.
Indeed at this feast, as well as at the festive scenes of the famous
journey to Brundusium, one is surprised not only at the absence
of anything like genial entertainment, but also at the low license
of manners displayed ; poets are there, men of letters, the choi-
cest wits, the first Roman gentlemen of the day ; but hardly a
good thing is said by any one in the company, not a wise thought
or a happy allusion or turn of festive wit, not a story or a song
from the guests to relieve the dull, heavy round of extravagant,
luxurious dishes. It seems most surprising of aU that Horace
himself could have been so easily pleased with the scurrilous con-
test between the two parasites of Maecenas, which with its one or
two good hits, was after all only a show of low buffoonery, turn-
ing on the grossest personalities. The truth is, in spite of the
boast of worthy Cato Major, the chief thing at these Roman
suppers was eating and drinking; the pleasures were those of
the senses indulged by the host with an extravagance in providing,
and by the guests with an excess in partaking, as unbounded as
it was wanting in reason and taste ; the palate and the stomach
were first excited and whetted, to be afterwards gratified and
gorged, and the most monstrous means taken to enjoy such a sup-
per twice and even thrice the same night, and at last to avoid the
dangerous consequences of such multiplied enjoyment. This
inordinate love and pursuit of wealth and its coarser pleasures
seems to have become the engrossing Roman passion, now that the
changed relations of the empire, the old honors of military and
civil life were no longer to be sought and won. Riches was
counted the chief good ; all men hasted to be rich ; for the
attainment and enjoyment of riches all things were made subser-
vient, all things were sacrificed. In a comprehensive satiric
passage Horace declares that virtue, fame, honor, all things divine
and human, are subject to beautiful riches ; whoever has riches,
he shall be illustrious, brave, just, wise, a king, whatever you
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 225
please. Poverty was no longer an evil, it was a positive reproach.
To shun this dread reproach, the poet says in another place, we do
anything and suffer anything, and quit the path of lofty virtue.
A single illustration of the vicious devices engendered in such a
state of society is furnished in the burlesque satire upon the so-
caUed legacy-hunters (the hoeredipetoe^ Sat. II. 5), a base class of
men, who had grown up in the general struggle for money, and
whose sordid trade — for a regular trade it had come to be —
consisted in courting the favor of wealthy people who had no
children or near relations, in the hope of being made their heirs.
Their easiest victims were rich old men who had arisen from a low
origin, and were flattered by attentions and professions of esteem ;
and these, to catch and hold, they descended to the meanest arti-
fices and shrank not from crime and infamy. These people Hor-
ace classes with the publicans and other sinners of the town, and
describes them (Epist. 1. 1, 76) as hunting down avaricious widows
with sweetmeats and fruit, and catching old men and sending
them to their fishponds. Hard was the task of Horace as poet-
priest, sacerdos musarum^ to teach and reform such a perverse
generation ; to expose in satire their vices and follies, and in ode
and epistle to inculcate temperance and sobriety and contentment ;
to condemn the vanity of social ambition and the cares and fas-
tidious discontent of wealth ; and to hold up the simplicity and
frugality, the integrity and bright honor of the forefathers of the
republic for the imitation of their degenerate sons. On dull ears
and duller hearts fell ever the ever-returning refrains of his
exquisite song, that true happiness is in nothing outward, but only
in the soul ; that wisdom is better than wealth and fame, and
virtue the only true good. No less difficult was it for Augustus
by his personal influence, and by his regulations and enactments as
censor of morals and as legislator, to eradicate these social evils.
Well aware that the elevation of the general tone of society could
only be secured by improvement in private and family life, he
endeavored by precept and example to restrain excess and culti-
vate frugal habits in domestic and social living ; himself abste-
mious and rigid in his own diet, and spreading for his guests
only a moderately furnished table. His sumptuary laws exceeded
in strictness all preceding ones. They allowed an expenditure
of 200 sesterces (circa $8.00) for a dinner party on ordinary days,
300 ($12.00) on holidays, and 1,000 (140.00) for a wedding
feast. But these laws were of no avail, and soon fell into disuse
226 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
and oblivion, like all the earlier enactments of this class. Hardly-
more effectual was the long legislative contest which the emperor
carried on against the prevailing licentiousness of the time. The
chief evil from which Roman morality and all Roman life was suf-
fering was the ever-increasing celibacy, and its shocking conse-
quences in the licentious habits of both sexes, and the frightful
increase in the number of illegitimate births. In the times of the
civil wars it seemed to many advisable and even a duty to live with-
out wife and children. But even when peace again established
security of life and property, the number continually increased of
those who were averse to the restraints and burdens of married
life. Even in republican times marriage was often considered a
burden in itself, but at the same time a tribute due to the state
from the citizen. The remark of Metellus was recalled and quoted
in Augustus' times, that " if men could be true citizens without
having wives they would gladly be rid of the burden." But in
these times, when sacrifices of any kind for the blessing of citizen-
ship were very rare even as they were rarely deserved, the number
of marriages was ever on the decrease. Augustus carried through
several laws which aimed to encourage matrimony by penalties
upon the unmarried and rewards to the married, and also to limit
divorces. The extent of evils which were suffered from the lax
morals of the time is easiest discovered by the provisions of the
laws. All Romans were required to marry, and to marry to raise
children to the state ; the requirement extending with men to the
sixtieth year, and with women to the fiftieth. Whoever violated
the law suffered certain penalties, which bore, however, harder
upon the unmarried than upon the married who were without chil-
dren. No unmarried person was legally capable of receiving an
inheritance or legacy, and a married person without children could
receive one half of what was willed to him ; in case there were no
other heirs, the property went to the state. If the person were un-
married at the time of the testator's death he could inherit pro-
vided he married within a hundred days. Also certain honors and
other advantages accrued to the married ; they had privileged seats
in the theatres ; of two consuls he had t\\Q fasces first who had the
most children ; they also had preference as candidates for office
at home, and also in the provinces. The having a certain number
of children made the parent exempt from certain duties, as, for
instance, serving on juries, or, in the case of freedmen, from any
service to their patron. These laws also aimed to check the ten-
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 227
dency to divorces which had begun to be common at the end of
the republic, and which were now still more easily and oftener
obtained. They affixed pecuniary penalties or losses upon the
party whose conduct caused the divorce, in the case of the hus-
band by requiring him to return his wife's dowry, in the case of
the wife by allowing the husband to retain one half of the dowry.
The divorce was also made more difficult by requiring certain
forms, without which the separation was invalid and another mar-
riage was illegal; the letter of divorce had to be given by a
freedman of the party who made it, in the presence of seven wit-
nesses, all Roman citizens of age. But these statutes failed of
securing their end. With the decline of interest in public life,
and the decline of public life itself, the advantages which were
offered the married in respect of civil offices acted as motives
upon very few persons, and the disabilities of the unmarried were
more than balanced by the consideration they had in celibacy.
If now we turn from these notices of the lives of the privi-
leged classes to the condition and welfare of the common people,
we are presented with a contrast in respect to all the means of
outward well-being of the most astonishing kind. Such a luxu-
rious life as that of the Roman nobles would in any modern city
open to the rest of the population a thousand sources of lucrative
business, and might diffuse general prosperity among the working
classes ; but in Rome such results followed only in the most lim-
ited extent. Hundreds of men were indeed supported by a single
opulent Roman ; but these were not citizens but slaves. Every
great establishment was independent by its numerous slaves of
free and hired labor. The slaves of a great family were not only
its domestics, but also its bakers and its shoemakers and tailors
and even its physicians ; the landed proprietor had also in his
slaves his farmers and shepherds, his fishermen and sportsmen ;
thus, too, the builders found their artisans and laborers. This
great evil, which thus cut off the poorer citizens from the ordinary
means of living, was still further aggravated by the policy of the
state, which not only had in its employ great numbers of its own
slaves, but also allowed the contractors for public works to make
use of slaves as their agents and workmen. We may thus readily
discover the condition of the citizens who formed the mass of the
common people. Real estate they owned scarcely at all. The
small estates of the commoners had, by the numerous wars and the
debts which wars entail, long since been alienated, and were now
228 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
absorbed in the villas and gardens or other possessions of the
great proprietors and capitalists. A part of these citizens secured
regular support by trade. But Rome was at no period, and now
less than ever before, a commercial city or a city of extensive
trade, and whoever was inclined to these departments of business
was sure to settle in the provinces. In the immediate surround-
ings of Rome and in all Italy very little was raised for export.
The republic even in its best days was unable to furnish its armies
with corn grown in Italy, and now that agriculture in the penin-
sula, by the withdrawal of regular labor through the civil wars,
and especially by the appropriation of the soil by the great pro-
prietors to the uses of luxury, had wholly declined, the little grain
that was raised was wholly inadequate to the home supply. Even
the wine and oil, which had always been staples of Italy, and in
earlier times were largely exported to the provinces, were now
never raised in sufficient quantity for Italy ; and the wines im-
ported from abroad far exceeded in quality and value those grown
at home. Italy now produced little and consumed much. It was
the provinces that were the producers, and it was the provincial-
ists and the Romans who lived in the provinces that grew rich by
commerce. It was thus, indeed, that the provincialists made peace-
ful retaliations upon Rome, and were receiving back the immense
sums they had lost by tribute and plunder. The carrying trade
of these and numberless other imports was also in the hands of
the provincialists ; and such trade as was carried on in the city
was conducted mostly by foreigners. To these adverse consider-
ations must be added another, and a radical one : the aversion
well-nigh innate in a Roman mind, and cherished and strength-
ened by long usage against trading in every form. Indeed the
only branch of business that was deemed respectable was banking
and money lending in all its forms ; and this, which was extended
and lucrative, was now in high repute and conducted by persons
of the highest consideration, though indeed the business had its
low grades as in modern times and its usurious and fraudulent de-
vices. The number of bankers and money-brokers who had their
offices and stands in the Forum and its vicinity was very large.
At certain hours of the day this entire quarter was one vast ex-
change crowded with borrowers and lenders and exchangers ; the
very atmosphere was redolent and well-nigh vocal with gold and
silver ; indeed, to borrow an image used by Horace (Epist. I. 1),
the grand arches of Janus, which looked down upon the busy
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 229
crowds, if they could have caught from Mercury the gift of
speech, would have proclaimed aloud the current doctrine of
young and old, " Get money above all things else ; rightly if you
can, but at all events get it. Get money first, virtue afterwards ;
get money in all haste, virtue at your leisure." There were, of
course, mechanics among the citizens, but very few, as their busi-
ness ranked among the so-called sordid arts ; and these few were
in little demand, because the rich employed their slaves for me-
chanical purposes. To a small portion of citizens the govern-
ment afforded means of support in the departments of public
business. These required scrihce or clerks, and other subordi-
nates, who had a salary from the public treasury. Horace him-
self before he became known to fame held the office of a quaestor's
clerk. So, too, the colleges of priests, and the offices for the
registry of deaths, and the care of funerals, gave occupation to a
small corps of salaried men. Still the number of those who in
these ways secured a subsistence was small compared with the
bulk of the commoners of the city. The great evil from which
Rome was thus suffering was the loss of that industrious and
prosperous middle class of citizens who had formerly been the
strength of the nation ; this evil was incurred partly through the
prostration of agriculture by the heavy tread of war, and partly
by the introduction of an immense slave population. The evil
had its earliest origin far back in the times of the republic ; its
beginnings were discerned just after the second Punic war ; it had
grown to a fearful height in the period of Tiberius Gracchus, and
its pernicious effects gave rise to the patriotic though rashly con-
ducted measures of that eloquent and fearless tribune ; but now in
the reign of Augustus it had reached a rank maturity. The bulk
of the Roman commons had now been changed from prosperous
citizens into state paupers dependent upon the state for their
daily bread. The monthly distributions of corn kept over 600,000
free Romans from starvation, and when the number was reduced
to 400,000, the reduction was made possible either by extraor-
dinary money largesses, or by shipping poor colonies to foreign
parts very much as European countries have sent to our own
shores ship-loads of their paupers and discharged criminals. It
was, however, a difficult task even to diminish or control the
influence of these social evils. Their causes lay too deeply im-
bedded in earlier political relations, and also in the usages and
spirit of the people. The sense of political importance stiU
230 ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE.
lingered in spite of changes in government in the consciousness
of every free Eoman ; even the meanest citizen from among the
rabble of the city was inspired with a feeling of consequence and
honor characteristic of the people of a country which had been
for centuries the home of free institutions. Besides, the mildness
of his climate rendered the Roman more independent of physical
influences which press with so much force upon dwellers in colder
countries. Hence he could more readily keep aloof from the
necessity of daily labor, and doubtless many were the free Ro-
mans, genuine prototypes of the lazzaroni of Naples, who had no
home by day but the squares and other lounges of the city, and
none by night but the friendly shelter of the vestibules and por-
ticoes of the temples and other public buildings. To check the
general idleness, Augustus sometimes resolved to take radical
measures and to give up altogether the gratuities of corn or
money. But such a resolution he always abandoned, and things
went on as before. As long as slave labor rendered all labor
servile so that the free citizens preferred to be poor and dependent
rather than lose respectability by working with their own hands,
so long the efforts of the emperor to do away with idleness and
poverty were ineffectual. Indeed, he was obliged to do more than
feed his people ; he had to find them in amusements. The poor
of any people or country, when systematically fed, grow very
exacting. The more you cherish in them a sense and habit of
dependence, and so impair their character, so much the more
they require and seem to need ; and what once they took as a
favor they come to claim as a right. This familiar truth was
illustrated on a large scale in Augustan Rome. These beggarly
Romans came to be dependent upon the government not only for
their bread but also for their recreations, the only business they
generally pursued. Hence the systematic and costly measures of
Augustus for public games and holiday shows. The regular fes-
tivals now approximated over sixty days in the year, and to these
were added extraordinary spectacles of various kinds which ex-
ceeded in number and splendor all that had before been known
in Rome. In his records upon the Ancyran monument, Augus-
tus enumerates in a long list the gladiatorial combats and the
fights with wild beasts and mock naval engagements which he
gave sometimes in his own name, and sometimes in the name of
the magistrates whose means were inadequate to the outlay. This
whole system of holiday shows had come to be a kind of neces-
ROME IN THE TIME OF HORACE. 231
sity. If conducted with a magnificent generosity on the part of
the state, it was a generosity of such questionable sort that a
shrewd policy could not withhold it ; and if it was met by the
people as a bounty, it was such bounty that the total withdrawal
would have aroused feelings akin to a sense of wrong and injus-
tice. The words of Juvenal of the " rabble of Remus " in his
time would as well apply to the Romans of the time of Horace,
" the people who once conferred the imperium and the fasces and
the legions, now anxiously longs for only two things, bread and
the Circensian games."
THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, JANUARY 5, 1872, ALSO
PRINTED IN THE "BAPTIST QUARTERLY."
Mr. Jowett's translation of Plato ^ is probably the ablest con-
tribution made by any living English scholar to the literature of
classical philology. This work may be considered as an ample
discharge of a debt long due from English scholarship to the writ-
ings of the great master of the Academy, who held imperial sway
in the realm of Grecian thought and speech in the culminating
era of its splendor and power. The classical scholars of England,
though in more recent times they have risen above their traditional
devotion to Greek metres and their studious fondness for the
graces, the delicice litterarum, of classical studies, and have emu-
lated their learned neighbors of the continent in aspiring to the
comprehension and interpretation of those leading minds of an-
tiquity which, by their thinking, have to this day influenced the
thought of the world, have yet hitherto fallen far behind the Ger-
mans in penetrating and working the veins of wisdom and truth
which enrich the Greek 'of Plato, and in bringing forth to use
their precious stores, whether by translation or by criticism or by
commentary and exposition. It was one of the many distinctions
achieved by Schleiermacher, that, by his learned and enthusiastic
labors on Plato's works, he introduced early in the present century
by far the most fruitful of the many eras of Platonic research and
study which have arisen at different periods in modern times, and
given impulse and onward movement to the progress of human
thought. That many-sided German, who by his writings and his
lectures exerted a no less powerful influence upon the intellectual
life of his times than upon its religious character by his eloquence
and piety as a preacher, busy all the week, both at the university
with his lectures two hours every day, and in his study in writing
1 The Dialogues of Plato, translated into English, with Analyses and Introduc-
tions, by B. Jowett, M. A., Master of Balliol College, Regius Professor of Greek
in the University of Oxford. In four volumes, octavo. Oxford : At the Clar-
endon Press. 1871. Reprinted in New York, in four volumes, duodecimo, by
Charles Scribner & Co. 1871.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 233
for tlie press, and crowning all this activity by preaching every
Sunday to crowded congregations of the most thoughtful and cul-
tivated people in Berlin, yet found time amidst all these labors
for a profound and thorough study of Plato, continued through
more than twenty years, the fruits of which he gave to the world
in a masterly translation, accompanied by special introductions to
the several dialogues, unfolding their plan and contents, together
with a general introduction to the whole series. This great work
of Schleiermacher affords a signal example of the quickening and
productive influence of an original mind, occupied with all its
powers upon exalted subjects of inquiry ; like the living voice of
Socrates and the written words of Plato himself, it planted the
seeds of germinant thought in many kindred minds ; it stimulated
to a new intellectual life, not only the classical scholars of Ger-
many, who by professional occupation were lovers and teachers of
Plato's Greek, but all thinking men among that intellectual peo-
ple who, through their interest in other studies, theology, or phi-
losophy, or morals, shared with these the love and pursuit of the
imperishable thought enshrined in that matchless diction ; and
thus it gave rise to a succession of able works, exegetical, histori-
cal, and philosophical, in themselves a copious Platonic literature,
which furnished ampler and better means than ever existed be-
fore, of gaining a comprehension and appreciation of the genius
of Plato, and of the great and manifold value of his writings.
This renewed ardor for the study of Plato was soon shared with
the Germans by French scholars, and, most of all, by Cousin,
whose residence and studies in Germany and intimate acquaint-
ance with Schleiermacher and Schelling and Hegel contributed
to prepare him not only for his after brilliant successes at the Sor-
bonne, but for the higher and more enduring honor of doing for
his countrymen the same noble service which Schleiermacher had
done for the Germans, in the translation and exposition of the
entire works of Plato. In England, too, the German Platonism
was felt, and, though later, yet with a no less quickening force
and with equally conspicuous results. The most general and most
notable of these results was the marked change which was made
in the plan of education at Oxford ; where the range of philosoph-
ical reading and study was so widened and liberalized that Aristo-
tle, who had so long had exclusive sway in Greek philosophy, now
came to hold a divided rule with the ascending influence of his
master ; and thus the hard logical discipline imparted by the Aris-
234 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
totelian ethics was blended with the far richer and more various
mental culture yielded by those masterpieces of Platonic dialogue,
in which poetry and philosophy join their forces in friendly con-
test of wit and reason, with all the muses assisting at the noble
strife. Mr. Jowett was the earliest and foremost, not only of Ox-
ford, but of all English scholars, in promoting this revival of the
study of Plato in England, and the great work which he has now
published is its latest and ripest fruit. It is a work which makes
an epoch not only in the history of Greek study in England, but
also, and far more, in the history of English literature, and in the
general history of philosophy. So eminently has the author suc-
ceeded not only in translating Plato's language, but also by his
introductions to the separate dialogues in translating the ideas of
Plato ; indeed he has created an English classic by reproducing,
in a form alike fitted for general readers and scholars of higher
culture, the entire works of the greatest literary and philosophical
genius of ancient Greece. The author's beautiful dedication to
his " former pupils in Balliol College who, during thirty years,
have been the best of friends " to him, makes a very suggestive
sentence on the first page of his book ; it suggests with many other
topics of thought on which one would gladly linger, the literary
history of the work, and the genial air and fortunate conditions in
which it gradually came into being. It is the mature production
not of a thinker and scholar who has passed his life in the seclu-
sion of lettered ease, in the solitary and luxurious enjoyment of
delightful studies, but of a lifelong teacher and educator of the
young, for whose training and culture all his own mental resources
have been both acquired and employed, — a richly gifted and as-
piring mind, possessed with a genuine philosopher's love of know-
ledge and truth, kindling in other and younger minds the same
noble passion, and feeding and enriching them out of the stores of
Attic wit and wisdom itself has so busily gathered.
Of Mr. Jowett's many qualifications for the great task accom-
plished in this work, his Greek scholarship, ripe and ample as it
doubtless is, is not the one which excites the most admiration.
The reader must infer that his mind is not one distinguished by
what we may call the philological quality ; it does not take kindly
to niceties of verbal criticism ; it certainly is not of the kindred of
that unenviable scholar who, at the end of a long life devoted to
the elucidation of two Greek particles, profoundly regretted that
he had not confined himself to one ; it is evidently rather impa-
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 235
tient of that study and appropriation of the minutiae of grammati-
cal knowledge which belongs to the highest order of faithful and
accurate translation. But whatever defects may perhaps be set
against Mr. Jowett's account in strict philological merits, espe-
cially in comparison with the elder English school of the Bentleys
and Porsons, or with his immediate predecessor in the Oxford
Regius Professorship, Mr. Gaisford, these are amply made up by
the presence of other merits never possessed by those classical
scholars, and which are especially required for the adequate trans-
lation and exposition of Plato. The chief of these, and that which
must awaken the grateful admiration of his readers, consists in
the fullness and fineness of his well-digested knowledge not only
of Plato's thought, but of the whole history of philosophic thought
in ancient and in modern times. During all his life a diligent
student in philosophy, not only of the Greek masters, but of all
who, in different countries in subsequent times, and especially the
German in our own, have illustrated its successive annals, he has
been able to avail himself of the lights of all the great philoso-
phies of the world in contemplating and exhibiting that of Plato,
his favorite and greatest master of all. This wealth of philosophic
culture Mr. Jowett has dispensed with like wisdom and liberality
in his admirable introductions, which for students of philosophy
will make the chief value of his work, and for all minds have a
surpassing educational value, and which will doubtless secure for
him a permanent rank among the ablest interpreters of Plato's
mind and philosophy of the present or of any age. But for a
larger circle of readers, for all scholars of whatever degree of cul-
ture, the great charm and distinction of the work will be found in
the rare assemblage of literary qualities which enrich and adorn
its pages, and which invest it with the character of an original
production of high literary art. Besides the fine gifts and large
resources of a broad and generous scholarship, of the possession
of which Mr. Jowett has given ample evidence in his former writ-
ings, he has here displayed the truly poetic faculty of conceiving
and appreciating, with the charming scenery of Plato's Dialogues,
his manifold moods of thought, and tones of feeling and sentiment,
and the varying hues of his many colored diction, and also of cre-
ating an English diction capable of bearing all this precious bur-
den of intellectual wealth. It is this dramatic power of entering
into and expressing in fitting English the subtleties and elegances
of Platonic thought and speech, which makes at once the boldness
236 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
and tlie success of Mr. Jowett's style of translation ; and for all
readers of literary taste and sensibility, and especially all connois-
seurs and lovers of Plato, it gives his performance an excellence
quite unattainable by the utmost accuracy and fidelity of a merely
verbal scholarship. It may be, indeed, that those who know Plato
best and love him most, may miss, even in this translation, the
great original ; but on these the translation must act even as Pla-
to's favorite theory of reminiscence ; these fair images must kindle
in the delighted memory the remembrance of those original forms
of beauty and truth they once directly saw, and bear them back
to that higher sphere where, as in a happy home, they may again
gaze upon them face to face. For it is Plato in English, Plato as
he lives in his Dialogues, who is here brought before you in liv-
ing reality ; Plato himself shines through the English as through
an aerial transparent veil, all bright and luminous. As you read
you seem to be transported to the days of Plato and to Plato's
Athens. You are by turns in the Palsestra, the Lyceum, the Acad-
emy, or out by the "cool Ilissus," reclining on the soft grass,
under the shading plane-tree ; or again you are within courtly
Attic interiors, as the house of Agathon or of Callias ; you have
the very atmosphere of Athenian society created about you, and
you feel all its Attic urbanity of bearing and language ; and there
you have reproduced before you those illustrious personages of
Platonic dialogue in all that exquisite dramatic portraiture and
grouping, and you may follow their high discourse on things of
profoundest spiritual moment, as under the supreme conduct of
reason, with all ministering aids of imagination, wit, humor, irony,
raillery, it is ever striving onward to the bright, alluring goal of
absolute truth and good.
A conspicuous phase of this richly appointed discourse, as it
thus goes forward in these Dialogues, is presented by the Myths
of Plato, a subject most fruitful in interest and instruction,^ of
which I propose to attempt, in the remainder of this article, some
unfolding and illustration.
The mythical form of discussion, though foreign to modern
^ Hegel has touched on this subject in his Geschichte d. Philosophies Bd. II.
188-217; also Zeller, Phil. d. Griechen ; Bd. II. 361-363, and 384-387; also
C. F. Hermann, Gesch. d. Platon. Phil.; also B. F. Westcott has discussed it
in the Contemporary Revieio, vol. ii. The German work by Dr. J. Deuschle,
die Platonischen Mythen, I am acquainted with only through a notice of it by
Susemihl in Bd. 70 of Jahn's Jahrbiicher.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 237
philosophical writers, is constantly employed by Plato ; it is no less
germane than the dialectic form to his philosophy and to his own
mind ; his genius, in its freest movement, is alike native and
familiar to the processes of the imagination and of the reason ;
and both it ever pursues with the same earnestness of spirit, and
for the same intellectual and moral ends. In reading his Dialogues,
you pass, by the easiest transitions, from the severest logical in-
vestigations to poetic representations of truth, which are fashioned
from sensible images or from analogies of human life ; from an
atmosphere where has reigned the light of pure thought, you
enter regions all aglow with various coloring through the prismatic
touch of the imagination ; the discourse of Socrates, or some other
leading speaker, glides into what he is pleased to call an old
world story, or a tale, or a narrative which he professes to have
heard from some sage priest, or a certain wise woman ; or into
a scene or a series of scenes, which under the cunning agency of
art gradually expand into the rich fullness of a grand epic, or of
a solemn drama.
All these varieties of mythical representation have this general
feature in common, that they give expression to ideas in the
language of sensible imagery; the substance is speculative, the
form is poetic. Of them all, too, it may be observed, that so
far from being, as some have supposed, mere outward adornments
of speech, or graceful embellishments of thought, or mere poetic
fancies, void of reality, they belong essentially to Plato's entire
manner of thinking and of expression,^ and are conceived by him
and directly affirmed as resting upon a substantial basis of truth.
" Listen," Socrates says, at the beginning of one of his mythical
narratives, " listen to a tale, which you may be disposed to regard
as only a fable, but which, as I believe, is a true tale, for I mean,
in what I am going to tell you, to speak the truth." And so at
the end he says, "There might be reason in your contemning
such tales, if by searching you could find out anything better or
truer." Such is Plato's language in regard to all his myths.
When, however, we make a comparative study of these poetic
representations, we find that, while they have these general features
in common, they are separated by marked distinctions in their
nature, and in the occasions and uses for which they are employed.
Some, and these among the best in substance of thought and
finest in form of art, are rather allegorical than strictly mythical,
^ C. F. Hermann, Abhandlungen^ § 291. •
238 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
and in some instances rise into elaborately constructed allegories,
which illustrate the most perfect style of this kind of figurative
discourse. Here the thought is first present in its entireness in
the mind of the writer, and might just as well be expressed in the
language of the thinking faculty, but yet, by the profoundest
motives to the preference, is cast in an imaginative form. This
form is most congenial not only to the native bent of Plato's
genius, but also to his habitual and ever present view of the
intimate relation between the natural and the spiritual world, and
to the ethical and religious spirit of his whole philosophy. In all
the world of sense visible to the bodily eye, he beheld ever the
faint reflection of a world of spirit, visible to the eye of reason ;
in the changing, passing phenomena of the seen, he discerned
only images of the changeless realities of the unseen ; the sun and
moon and stars and the earth, with all their light and beauty
and glory, for him were shadowy imitations of original patterns
of perfection in the Divine Ideas. Thus to his habitual concep-
tion all nature and the whole life of man was one vast and vari-
ous allegorical emblem of spiritual truth; and so it was by a
natural and spontaneous choice that in discoursing upon such
truth, he should set it in pictures after the manner and likeness
of the universal picture by which he felt himself to be ever
surrounded. This form of teaching was also in harmony with the
ethical spirit of Plato's writings. It is this spirit which pervades
and informs, as an animating soul, the whole body of his writings.
The world affords no other instance of a philosophic writer of
such genuine speculative powers, concentrated upon such practical
moral ends, who so perfectly united and identified life with science,
action with knowledge, morality and religion with philosophy.
With him philosophy was not, as in the modern sense, a theory of
the universe, or of man ; it was not a methodical exposition of any
intellectual system already worked out in his own mind ; he was
from first to last an inquirer with other inquirers, bent with
utmost intent upon the pursuit and appropriation of truth, in all
the fair realms and forms in which it exists, which are accessible
to the nature of man. In his view, philosophy was first and pre-
eminently moral, in that, as its name imports, it is the love of
wisdom ; this noblest of human passions alone supplied the suf-
ficient and constant force to the scientific search and discovery
of wisdom in its ultimate principles, and then the due force of
motive for its reception and assimilation in the character and
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 239
the life. Excelling in science his great master, by establishing
the Socratic principles upon a broad and firm scientific basis,
he emulated his noble example as a teacher of virtue, in striving
to enlighten and inform his generation in all right sentiment
and action, in an age and society no less noted for refinement
of manners and literary culture than for looseness in the theory
and the practice of right living. When we remember that these
were the ultimate ends of all Plato's philosophical teachings, we
can readily understand why he laid under contribution all the
resources of the imagination in the illustration and enforcement
of truth. None knew better than he, nor better exercised the
moral functions of this creative faculty ; and never were they
more fitly employed than in the instruction of a people so alive
as the Greeks to its influence, and so susceptible of its educating
power. Finally, we are also to remember that in the religious
aims of his philosophy, in his purpose to reform such religion
as the Greeks possessed, he had to deal with conceptions of the
gods which, in the forms of mythology, were originally the off-
spring of the imagination, and which, notwithstanding the mix-
ture of false elements they contained, yet through the enduring
beauty of their poetic garb still lingered in the popular faith. In
re-creating the natural religion, of which Homer had been the
maker ages before, and whose poems had been the Bible of the
Greeks for succeeding generations, it was his far higher office,
himself a philosophical poet, to clothe in forms of like poetic
beauty, truer and better creations of the Supreme Being, as the
supremely true and good, and supremely worthy of man's know-
ledge, adoration, and service.
Let me now present some illustrations of these allegorical myths.
Out of the many I will select two, which are among the most
perfect of their kind and which also represent what is most char-
acteristic in the substance and manner of Plato's philosophical
teachings.
The first is the well known allegory of the Cave, in the seventh
book of the " Republic." Lord Bacon has drawn from it, to exhibit
in his " Idols of the Den " the wayward prejudices of individual
human character ; but in Plato, it is a picture on a broader
canvas, of the world of the truly educated philosopher, and of
that of ordinary men, with their imperfect education. Towards
the end of the sixth book, Socrates has declared his doctrine, that
only philosophers must be guardians of the ideal state, and has
240 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
touched upon the progressive discipline they must undergo to be
qualified for their high office. Of this discipline, the highest
stage of all is the study of the good. When asked what is the
good, he says that he can convey a notion of it only by a figure.
In the world of sense, he says,^ we have the sun, the eye, and
visible objects; in the intellectual world, and corresponding re-
spectively to these, there are the good, the reason, and the ideas.
The good, then, is the sun of the world of pure intelligence ; it
sheds the light of truth on all subjects, and gives to the eye of the
soul the vision of knowledge ; and as in the visible world light
and sight are like the sun, and yet not the sun itself, so in the
intellectual, truth and knowledge may be regarded as like the
good, but are not the good itself, which must be valued as more
precious than they. Then follows the allegory. It is too long
for direct quotation. It may suffice to present its principal phases,
which show the chief truths it teaches.
Imagine, Socrates says,^ to conceive our condition as educated
and as uneducated, imagine an underground cave-like dwelling,
having a long entrance open to the light, and in this dwelling
men confined from childhood, their legs and necks so bound that
they cannot move and can see only before them. At a distance
above and behind them a fire is blazing, and between the fire and
the prisoners runs a road, along which a wall is built up, just like
the screens which jugglers put up in front of the spectators, and
above which they show their wonders. Along this wall men are
passing, carrying vessels of all sorts, and statues and other images
variously wrought in wood and stone, aU which project over the
wall ; and some of the passers-by are talking and some are silent.
You see that these prisoners can see only the shadows of these
men and these objects as they are thrown by the fire-light on the
part of the wall which is in front of them, and if they should
talk to one another they would give names to the shadows just as
if they were the things themselves. And if the cave returned an
echo when a passer-by spoke, then they would suppose that the
shadow itself spoke, which alone they saw. In short, for them the
shadows of these men and these things would be the only realities.
So is it, Socrates teaches, with the life of ordinary men; they
live imprisoned in the world of sense, and contemplate its objects
alone, which are only the shadows of the realities of spiritual
truth. But suppose now, the allegory proceeds, that one of these
1 Republic, vi. 505-609. ^ Ibid. vii. 515-517.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 241
captives were unbound, and made to rise and face the light and
gaze upon the objects themselves ; he would be dazzled by the
sudden splendor, and when told that he had been looking only at
shadows he would be sadly perplexed, and even believe that the
old shadows were more real than the substantial objects he now
beholds. But suppose further that he be snatched from the cave
and dragged by a steep pathway to some height on which he may
gaze upon the full lustre of the sun itself. At first his eyes will
be yet more cruelly dazzled by all this blaze of light, and he will
be unable to behold real objects at all. First he will discern only
shadows and images in the water, and then the moon and stars in
the heavens, and finally he will behold not only the images of the
sun, but the sun itself as it is and where it is. Such, now, is the
educated philosopher in comparison with uneducated men ; he has
escaped out of the world of sense, where only shadows appear,
and mounted, by the steep path of knowledge, to the upper world
of intelligence where are seen by reason the substantial realities
of being, and has gazed at last upon its sun, the supreme idea of
good, which once seen is inferred to be the cause of all that is
beautiful and good ; which in the visible world produces light,
and the orb that gives it, and in the invisible. Truth and Reason.
Yet further Socrates carries out his analogy. As it was necessary
for the prisoner, in order to see aright, not to have eyes given
him, for these he had before, but to have his whole body turned
round, that his eyes might look in the right direction, so it is the
task of the right education to turn the whole soul round, that its
eye, the reason, may be directed straight to the light of truth,
and endure the sight of being, and of the brightest and best of
being, that is to say, the good. Finally, to the question by what
agency this conversion of the soul is to be wrought, the answer is
given : By the agency of true philosophy, by those studies which
turn the mind from the things which are seen to the things which
are unseen, from shadows to the substance, from the transient and
phenomenal to the permanent and real, — in short by all pursuits
which bring the mind to reflect upon the essential nature of
things. Then is set forth the ascending series of these studies,
which culminate in dialectics, as the science of real existence.
The pursuit of these studies imparts the power of raising the high-
est principle in the soul to the contemplation of that which is best
in existence, just as in the figure the clearest of the senses was
raised to the sight of that which is brightest in the visible world.
242 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
There is another aspect of philosophy which is seen and exhib-
ited by Plato in allegory. As in the " Republic " the world of
sense is the exhibition of ideal truth and goodness, contemplated
on the side of intelligence by the eye of knowledge, so in the
" Symposium "it is the exhibition of ideal beauty, contemplated
on the side of emotion by the eye of desire. Hence arose out of
the imagination of Plato the allegorical representation of the phi-
losophical impulse in man as " the passion of the reason," the
Platonic Eros, or philosophical love. I shall not attempt a full
discussion of this subject. There we're needful for that an ex-
position not only of the whole of the " Symposium," the most per-
fect in artistic form of all the Platonic dialogues, and more pecu-
liarly Greek and Platonic in subject and style than any other,
but also of the Greek mind and society in Plato's time, and espe-
cially of some elements of Grecian sentiment and practice, which
need not here be touched, and which are hardly less strange to
Homeric than to Christian feeling,^ and in their relation to
humanity are scarcely intelligible to modern thought. I only
purpose, before adducing the allegory, to present some considera-
tions which may show the place it has in the teachings of Plato,
and how it is wrought by him into the general conception of the
" Symposium."
The Greek name for philosophy as the love of wisdom fur-
nishes in itself the thought which is the germ of the whole anal-
ogy. But absolute wisdom is identified with absolute goodness,
and so with absolute beauty, and thus wisdom as beauty is the
object of the emotion of love, which rises through its successive
stages to what in Platonic phrase is a pure and divine affection.
Socrates says in the " Phaedrus," God alone is truly wise ((to<^6<s) ;
but man may only be called <^tAocro<^o9, or lover of wisdom. And
in other places we are taught that ^ " to approach God as the sub-
stance of truth is science, as the substance of goodness in truth is
wisdom, as the substance of beauty in goodness and truth is love."
Thus, too, philosophers are called (/>iAoKaA.ot, or lovers of the beau-
tiful, or simply lovers (epwrtKot) 3 ; and in the " Symposium " So-
1 Schleiermacher's Einleitung zum Gastmahl, p. 380. Becker has a full
discussion of the subject in his Charides, Exc. ii. to Scene v. Jacobs, Verm.
Schr. iii. 212-254, had discussed it before, and more favorably. See, also,
Grote's Plato, ch. xxiv. ; also Jowett's Introduction to the Symposium.
2 Butler's History of Ancient Philosophy, ii. p. 277.
8 Phcedrus, 248, quoted by Butler.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 243
crates declares that his whole science is nothing but a science
of love. Another element needs to be added to make the anal-
ogy more complete between love and the philosophical impulse.
This impulse is never thought of as limited in its ends to the
philosopher's self, but, in harmony with Plato's entire manner of
thinking, as directed to the production of knowledge and virtue
in others ; thus, in reference to the practical realization of truth,
it is a generative impulse. That we may be brought into proper
relation to our allegory we must also first bring into view some of
Plato's favorite thoughts from the " Phsedrus," which on this sub-
ject of love is a companion piece to the " Symposium." In the
" Phsedrus," Plato, in order to explain the origin of the transcen-
dental ideas, represents, also in mythical form, that preexistent
state of the soul in which she has directly seen, in the heaven
of true being, the divine ideas. With Plato, philosophy, as all
higher life, springs from madness,^ or the frenzy of inspiration.
As there is an inspiration of prophecy, an inspiration of poetry, so
in philosophy there is an inspiration of love. When the remem-
brance of those divine ideas which the soul has seen in the heav-
enly state is awakened by the sight of their earthly images, the
soul is rapt with amazement. She is beside herself, — borne away
by the enthusiasm of inspiration. It is this overmastering might
of the idea which causes that admiring wonder which Socrates says
is the feeling of the philosopher and the beginning of all philoso-
phy, so that, as he adds, that poet was a good genealogist who said
that Iris, the messenger of heaven, was the daughter of Wonder ;
hence, too, that excitement and irritation of feeling, those pangs
and pains described by Socrates with such truth of humor as
undergone by the soul to which has just come the boding of a
celestial message ; hence, too, the strangeness and awkwardness,
in sublunary matters, of the true philosopher, just as Alcibiades
wittily describes Socrates as now stalking through Athens like
a pelican and now standing in one spot fixed in abstraction of
thought all through the day, and all night long, and next morning
at sunrise seen standing there still. How that this ideal inspira-
tion takes the form of love is ascribed in the " Phsedrus " to that
peculiar splendor which distinguishes the images of the beautiful
beyond those of all other ideas, so that they make the strongest
impression on the soul. This passage shines with such a beauty,
as if a direct emanation from the primal source, that we will
1 Zeller, ii. 384.
244 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
quote it as a transition to the " Symposium." In quoting this
passage and other passages that will follow, we may be allowed
to offer a version which, without having such merit as belongs
to Mr. Jowett's English, seems to us to follow the original more
closely.
Plato says ^ in describing the superior force of the images of
beauty : —
" Of justice, temperance, or whatever else is dear to souls, the earthly
copies have no splendor ; but with our dull organs there are few, and
these with great difficulty, who on approaching the images behold the
model they represent. But beauty was then indeed resplendent to be-
hold, when with the happy choir of the blessed, we, following in the train
of Jove, and others in the train of other gods, gazed upon the glorious
sight and were initiated into what one may rightly call the most blessed
of all mysteries ; which we celebrated, ourselves all innocent and yet
without experience of all the evils which awaited us in the future ; ad-
mitted to visions innocent and simple and calm and happy, and look-
ing upon them in pure light, pure ourselves, and as yet unmarked by
that body, as we call it, which we now drag about, imprisoned in it just
like an oyster. All this out of grace to memory, for whose dear sake,
through a fond longing for the visions then seen, our speech has lingered
too long. But as to beauty, as I said, it shone there, as it went, among
those other forms ; and now that we have come to earth we have appre-
hended it through the clearest of our senses, itself shining clearest of all.
For sight is the sharpest of all the bodily senses, and yet by means of it
is not wisdom seen, for indeed all too mighty loves would arise if of her
and the other lovely ideas like brilliant images came to the sight ; but
now to beauty only has fallen the lot to be at once the brightest and the
most lovely."
Such is the view given in the " Phsedrus." But in the " Sym-
posium " love is not of beauty only, but also of the production of
beauty, or of " birth in beauty ; " and this is explained as the
striving of the mortal nature for immortality, the necessity of its
nature for self-preservation through the ever new production of
itself. The " Symposium " is, to be sure, a real Athenian ban-
quet, where wine is drunk in the largest Greek measures ; but yet
it is a feast of reason, and the whole entertainment is Love. Five
of the guests have spoken in lofty discourses the praises of Love,
and all with the approbation of the company, especially the host
Agathon, who has been heartily cheered, and pronounced to have
spoken in a manner worthy of himself and the god. Yet all have
1 Phcedrus, 250.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 245
fallen short of the great argument. Socrates alone, who last of
all comes to his turn, is able to rise to its height, nor yet he of any
wisdom or knowledge of his own, as he says with the politeness
of a good guest, and with his usual confession of ignorance. He
has been instructed in the science of love by Diotima, a wise
woman of Mantineia, who is a priestess and inspired, and so
knows and can tell the truth ; and he will tell the marvelous tale
of Love as he has heard it from her inspired lips. It is quite
noticeable that in this company of the choicest wits of Athenian
society, Plato, through Socrates, exalts a woman to the chief place,
and makes her the teacher of all. Perhaps the simple reason is
that the theme of discourse is love. But to proceed. In his dia-
lectic way Socrates puts the questions to Agathon which Diotima
once put to him, and then he gives the answers just as they were
drawn out by her. The chief answers were these : As love is of
the nature of desire, what it desires is not what it is or has, for
no one desires what he already is or has. And love is desire of
the beautiful, and so love has not the beautiful, and as the beauti-
ful is also the good, Love in desiring the beautiful has not, but
desires the good. So, too, Socrates had said to Diotima, as Aga-
thon had just now said in his speech, that Love was a god ; but
Diotima had taught him that Love was not a god, but only a
being intermediate between divine and human. On this he had
begged to know the parentage of Love, and the wise woman had
told him the following tale of his birth : ^ —
"At the birth of Aphrodite the gods held a feast, and among the
guests was Resource, the son of Counsel. The feast over, Poverty came
to beg, as she knew of the good cheer there, and she lingered about the
doors. Now Resource, who was very much the worse for the nectar, —
for wine there was then none, — went into the garden of Zeus, and there
sank, overpowered, to sleep. Then Poverty, taking quite insidious
means, on account of her want of resources, to get offspring from Re-
source, lay down by his side, and conceived Love. So it was that Love
became the follower and servant of Aphrodite, because he was born on
her birthday, and because by nature he is a lover of the beautiful, and
Aphrodite is beautiful herself. Seeing then that Love is the child of
Resource and Poverty, he has corresponding fortunes in the world. In
the first place he is poor, and far from being delicate and fair, as most
people suppose, he is rough and squalid, and goes barefoot, and is house-
less, always lying on the bare earth, sleeping under the .open sky, at
1 Symposium^ 203, 204.
246 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
people's doors and on the streets, and according to his mother's nature,
always a mate of Want. But, on the other hand, taking after his father,
he pursues the good and the beautiful, he is courageous and hold and
intent, a mighty hunter, always weaving wiles, longing after intelligence,
full of resources, philosophizing his life long, a terrible enchanter, sor-
cerer, sophist. Moreover, by nature he is neither immortal nor mortal,
but in the same day he lives and flourishes and then dies, and then again
comes to life again by virtue of his father's nature. The resources he
gets flow away again, and so love is never without resources, and never in
possession of wealth. So also he stands midway between wisdom and
ignorance, for the matter stands thus : No god is a lover of wisdom or
desires to become wise ; for he is already wise. Nor when any one else
is already wise is he a seeker of wisdom. And just as little do the igno-
rant seek after wisdom ; for that is just the evil of ignorance, that with-
out being fair and good and wise, it yet is quite satisfied with itself ;
since whoever thinks himself not in need of a thing has of course no
desire for it. ' Who, then, Diotima,' said Socrates, ' are the lovers of
wisdom, if neither the wise nor the ignorant ? ' ' Why that,' said she,
* must be plain to a child ; for they are those who are between the two,
and of these, too, is Love. For wisdom belongs to the most beautiful, and
Love is of the beautiful, and so Love is a philosopher, or lover of wis-
dom, and as such stands between the wise and the ignorant. And the
cause of this, too, is his parentage ; for he is of a father who is wise and
wealthy, and of a mother who is poor and ignorant. Such, my dear
Socrates, is the nature of Love.' "
Thus it is that Plato allegorizes the genesis and nature of the
impulse of man to wisdom. It springs on the one hand ^ out of
the higher nature of man. It is a striving, in accordance with
this nature, after spiritual and everlasting good. In the figure,
Kesource, the father of Love, is the son of Counsel, or intelligent
forethought, and so Love is of a spiritual, immortal kindred ; and
as all acquisition, even of worldly good, is the result of intelli-
gence, so especially the acquisition of all higher good depends
upon the rational nature of man. On the other hand, it is only
striving, and not yet possession, and so presupposes want and
desire. So Love is the child of Resource and Poverty, and thus
a mean between having and not having, between aspiration and
attainment, desire and real possession. The other and higher
lessons taught by Diotima, which are not given in figurative form,
I will briefly add, but not in Plato's words. The object of this
striving of ,the human soul is the good, or, yet nearer, the pos-
1 Zeller, ii. 385-387.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 247
session of the good, and its everlasting possession. The outward
condition of this love is the presence of the beautiful ; for it is
the beauty of spiritual good that kindles in the soul the desire of
its lasting possession. But this love varies in its degrees accord-
ing to the various manifestations of beauty. It reaches the ulti-
mate end towards which it is ever striving through a gradual
upward progression from the imperfect or less perfect forms to the
more perfect, and finally to the most perfect of all. The first is
the love of fair bodily forms, first of one, then of many and of
all, in every one of which will be discerned one and the same
quality of beauty. A higher is the love of beautiful souls, which
will reveal a more precious beauty than any of outward form ;
and such love will show itself in creating conceptions of wisdom
and virtue, and wise and virtuous character in education, in art,
in legislation. A third is the love which finds its wide sphere in
all aesthetic science, in the search and discovery of the beautiful
in whatsoever form. And finally the highest of all is love itself,
which is fixed upon true, absolute beauty, unmixed with aught
material or finite, formless, unchangeable, eternal, and so attains
its final end of immortal and blissful being.
" ' Here, my dear Socrates,' said the stranger of Mantineia,^ ' here, if
anywhere, is for man the life which alone is worth living, in contemplat-
ing the beautiful itself. If of this you once get a vision, it will seem to
you not after the kind of gold and garments and fair boys and youths,
which when you behold you are beside yourself for amazement, and are
ready, as also are many others, when seeing your loves and conversing
with them, neither to eat nor drink, if that were possible, but only to gaze
upon them and always be with them. What then if it were one's for-
tune to see beauty itself pure and unmixed, and not defiled by human
flesh and colors and other vain tinsel of mortality, — the divine beauty
itself in its simplicity ? Think you that man's life would be a poor one
who was ever looking at that and ever conversant with it ? Or do you
not suppose that only such a one, beholding beauty wherewith one must
behold it, will be able to produce not images of virtue, as he is not
attached to an image, but realities, because he is attached to the real ?
But whoever produces and educates true virtue, to him it belongs to be
dear to God, and to be immortal, if any man may be.' "
From this discussion and illustration of the myths of Plato
which are allegorical, I pass to speak of the nature and uses of
those which are genuine or proper myths. It is peculiar to these
^ Symposium, 211, 212.
248 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
that in them the sensible representation is not, as in the allegory,
the embodiment of thought before grasped and fully appre-
hended ; but the thought and its poetic expression are coincident.
They come into being together, and are not only not separated,
but are inseparable; the story or the narrative is in itself the
truth which is taught. As in all genuine myths, so in these of
Plato, the imaginative form of presenting truth is not the choice
of a poetic and artistic nature, but a necessity ^ which is caused
by the limits of existing knowledge or by the limitations of the
human mind. Plato resorts to it when the subjects he would
treat are those which, as in some instances, transcend his own
knowledge and the knowledge of his times, and which, as in
others, transcend human experience and the logical processes of
human reasoning ; he employs it when he represents what for him
is reality and truth, but for which there has not yet been gained
or cannot be gained at all any adequate scientific expression.
Such Platonic myths are thus in their relation to matters of
science the strivings of a clear and far-seeing nature to peer into
the unknown, and to light up by the imagination its dim, undis-
covered regions; they are theories in the literal sense of that
word, sights of truth, descried by a kind of prophetic vision in
the dawn of science, to be verified by and by in the revelations
of its perfect day. But the , myths of this class, which treat of
scientific truth, are far inferior in interest and value to those
which set in truly prophetic scenes the great spiritual things that
lie outside the range of scientific knowledge, but are reached and
apprehended by the instinctive convictions of man's spiritual
nature. They are answers to the earnest questionings of the
soul, touching its origin and destiny, and the origin of the world
in which its present life is going on ; they are bold reaches into
that unseen world for which man was made, and which he is ever
nearing, representations, by sensible imagery, of great thoughts
that come to all human minds, like instincts, unawares. They give
at once utterance and assurance to the faiths which all men cher-
ish as their inborn and most precious possessions ; and though, as
affirmed by Hegel ^ as the modern hierophant of the absolute
Idea, they may be confessions of the impotence of philosophy,
they are yet truly philosophical as having in them that quality of
true wisdom which is content to confess ignorance in certain things,
but meets and sufficiently satisfies universal human wants.
1 Zeller, ii. 362. 2 Q^s^h. d. Phil ii. 188, 189.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 249
I shall confine myself in illustration of this class of myths to
those, by far the most interesting and valuable, which shadow
forth in Plato's view the spiritual condition and destiny of man.
His thoughtful meditations on this theme of transcendent mo-
ment come in upon his mental vision in pictures, and, as they are
projected into form, unfold and exhibit so many successive scenes
or groups of scenes. In the '' Phsedrus," as already intimated, they
are scenes of the soul's preexistence ; in the " Symposium," of its
present condition ; and in the " Gorgias," the " Republic," and the
" Phaedo," where the judgment and its retributions are portrayed,
they are scenes of its future destiny ; and, taken together, they
form a kind of trilogy, after the manner of the Grecian drama,
representing in dramatic form the history of the human soul.
It is only these last to which we will now look, those in which
Plato, through the light of his intuitive moral beliefs, opens to
view the unseen world and its retributions. Let us remember that
it is these intuitive beliefs, — whether shining only through their
own light, or whether and how far yet more illumined by that true
light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world, it is
not for me to say, — to which all these teachings of Plato are to
be ultimately referred. Remember, too, that these teachings all
presuppose Plato's faith, not only in the spiritual nature of the
soul, but also in its immortality. This faith in the soul's immor-
tality, whether a conclusion or an intuition, seems to have been
present in the consciousness of Plato clear and steadfast as now
in any Christian consciousness ; and it were well, indeed, if for
all Christian minds this faith had a like vital force and a like
supreme moral interest. These mythical narratives are too long
for entire quotation. They also differ from each other in contain-
ing more or less fullness of detail, and in being more or less per-
fectly elaborated in form ; and to some of the details Plato evi-
dently attaches no essential moral value. I must confine myself
to such portions as illustrate those central truths which they aU
have in common.
In all we discover the general view, that the condition of souls
in the other world, whether it be happy or unhappy, is of the na-
ture of retribution, and, moreover, a retribution which, though
assigned by judgment and sentence, yet is determined in the case
of each individual soul by the character it has formed during the
probation of its earthly life. It is remarkable with what clearness
the future of the soul is portrayed as only the carrying out of the
250 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
process of education begun upon earth. The soul, when unclothed
of the body, appears in the presence of its judges with its charac-
ter visibly stamped upon it, and goes straight to the lot and place
appointed for it by the eternal laws of moral being. Let us note
in the " Gorgias " the telling of this truth ; and let us remember,
while we read, in order to keep in mind the moral ends which
these myths subserve, those words of Socrates which immediately
precede it. He has just said : ^ " For death itself no man but an
utter fool and coward fears, but it is the doing wrong that he
fears, for a soul indeed to go to the other world loaded with many
wrong-doings, — that is the last of all evils ; and if you are will-
ing I will tell you a story to show that this is so." The story fol-
lows then on this wise : —
" In the time of Cronos there was this law which, as formerly, so now
also obtains, that whoever had lived justly and piously should at death
go to the isles of the blest, and dwell there in all happiness beyond the
reach of evil, but that whoever had lived in injustice and impiety should
depart to the prison-house of vengeance and punishment, called Tartarus.
And in the time of Cronos, indeed, and yet later when Zeus was holding
the rule, both the judges and the judged were still alive, and the judg-
ment of the former was given on the very day when the latter were to
die. So the judgments were ill given. Therefore Pluto and the author-
ities from the isles of the blest came to Zeus and said that men came to
both places undeservedly. Then, said Zeus, I myself will see to it that
this does not take place in future ; for the judgments are ill administered,
for they who are judged are still clothed, because they are alive ; many,
therefore, who have wicked souls are indued with fair bodies and with
rank and wealth, and when the judgment occurs, many witnesses come
forward and testify that these have lived well. The judges are put in
awe by these, and besides they, too, when judging, are clothed, their eyes
and ears and their whole bodies acting as a blind to their souls. All this
now stands in the way, alike the clothes of the judges, and the clothes of
the judged. In the first place, then, I must see that an end is put to
men's having a knowledge of death beforehand, and indeed Prometheus
has already been told to have this stopped ; then they must be judged
when unclothed, for they must be judged when they are dead ; and the
judge must be unclothed by death, so that with the soul itself he may be-
hold the soul itself of each one, immediately after death, when bereft of
all his kindred, and all that fair adornment left behind wherewith on
earth he was arrayed, in order that the judgment may be just. Indeed,
having come to know all these things earlier than you, I have made my
sons the judges, two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and one from
1 Gorgias, 523, E.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 251
Europe, ^acus. These, after their death, shall judge in that meadow
where three ways meet, and out of which two roads lead, the one to the
isles of the blest, the other to Tartarus. But to Minos I shall assign the
prerogative of arbitration in case the two others are in doubt, in order
that the judgment may be as just as possible touching the journey that
men must take."
Another passage may be quoted to illustrate what has been said
above of the character which the soul carries upon itself in the
other world : —
" When ^ these have come to the judge, Rhadamanthus places them be-
fore him, and gazes upon the soul of each, not knowing whose it is ; but
very often laying hold of the soul of the great king or of some other king
or ruler, he sees nothing sound in it, but finds it fouled by scourges, and
full of scars from perjuries, the stamps which each one's conduct has im-
printed upon his soul, and so he sees all crooked on account of lying and
vain-boasting, and nothing straight, because his life has lacked the train-
ing of virtue ; he sees this soul all full of baseness and deformity by rea-
son of license and luxury and arrogance and incontinence ; and having
seen it, he straightway sends it in dishonor to the prison where it is to
undergo the sufferings meet for it."
The general view given in these passages we find also in the
"Phsedo " and in the story of Er in the "Republic ; " but with dif-
ferences worth noting in the conceptions of the judges and of the
time and manner of judging, and especially in the description of
the abodes of the blest and the seats of torture for the wicked.
In the " Phaedo " Socrates adduces his story to enforce the same
truth as in the " Gorgias." " The soul," he says,^ " comes to Hades,
bringing with it nothing but education and nurture, and these
indeed are said greatly to help or to harm the departed at the
very outset of his pilgrimage thither." Then he tells Simmias ^
that the story is that after death every soul is conducted by its
genius to the place where the dead are gathered together before
they go to Hades under the charge of the appointed guide. Now
the wise and well-ordered soul follows in the path conscious of
her position ; but the impure soul, yet turning with longing desire
for the body and the world of sense, is at length forcibly carried
away by the attendant genius. And when such a soul reaches the
gathering place, every one flees from it and shuns it ; without com-
panion and guide it wanders about in dire distress, till at last it is
borne to its own fitting habitation. But the pure and just soul
1 Gorgias, 524, E, 525, A. « pj^cedo, 107, D. s lUd. 108.
252 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
which has gone through life under the companionship and guid-
ance of the gods comes also to its own proper home.
But there is a more marked difference between the " Gorgias "
and the " Phsedo " in the conceptions of retribution they respectively-
present in the situation and character of the abodes of the good
and of the bad. While in the former these are only generally
mentioned as the isles of the blest and as Tartarus, in the latter
they are described with utmost distinctness even of geographical
detail, and are made all glorious and heavenly or dismal and awful
by the most affluent material imagery, so that they seem like dis-
tant pagan glimpses of apocalyptic vision. The heaven of Plato
is like and yet unlike the Elysian fields of Homer or Hesiod's
isles of the blest. Like them it is on the earth indeed, but not as
they in far-off land or ocean of the setting sun, but on some upper
supernal earth, in regions that come so near the heavenly world
that all nature in it shines with a celestial beauty, and its dwell-
ers walk with the gods. Socrates tells his hearers ^ that there are
many marvelous places of the earth, and very different from any
that geographers tell us of. He is persuaded that the earth is
very vast, and that those who live along the borders of the sea in
the region from the Phasis to the Pillars of Hercules are like ants
or frogs living about a marsh, and inhabit only a small part of it,
and that many others live in many other such places. There are
many other hollows like this of ours where the water and mist and
air gather, but the true earth is pure and lies in the pure heavens,
where are also the stars. But we who live down in these hollows
fancy we are on the surface of the earth ; very much as if creatures
down at the bottom of the sea were to fancy they were on its sur-
face, and that when they saw through the water were to think the
sea to be the heavens. If we could only take wings like a bird
and fly upward, like a fish who sometimes puts his head out and
sees this world for a moment, we should see a world beyond, and
that is the true upper earth. And then he goes on to picture that
upper realm. There the trees and the flowers and the fruits and
all other things that grow are all fairer than any here, and there
are hills and stones in them clearer and fairer than our most pre-
cious emeralds and jaspers and other gems ; there are hills, indeed,
which are solid gems, of which our jewels are only little frag-
ments. And there are animate beings, too, and men, some in a
middle region, others dwelling about the atmosphere, as we do
1 Phcedo, 109-113.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 253
about the sea, and others on islands which the atmosphere encir-
cles; for our atmosphere is their sea, and their atmosphere is the
ether. Then, too, they have temples and sacred places where the
gods really dwell, and men see them and hear them, and commune
with them, and they see the sun and moon and stars, just as they
are, and all their other blessedness is like to this. From this
bright supernal heaven the seer now passes to the dread abodes of
the wicked, in the lower parts of the earth. In the earth are
deeper and vaster hollows, and vastest and deepest of all is Tar-
tarus, a huge chasm, which pierces its inmost depth, and thither
are ever flowing immeasurable rivers of fire and torrents of mud.
Then follows the description of the four rivers of Tartarus, a pas-
sage which I may perhaps give briefest and best from that kin-
dred one of Milton's,! which indeed the Christian poet seems to
have wrought from the pages of the pagan philosopher into his
picture of the lower world. With his fine sense for language the
poet gives, with the names themselves, their moral import : —
" Along the banks
Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge
Into the burning lake their baleful streams:
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate;
Sad Acheron, of sorrow, black and deep;
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage."
Such in the view of Socrates is the nature of the other world ;
and to these upper or to these lower realms the dead are brought
after they have been judged and sentenced according to their
deeds.
Yet this general doctrine of retribution unfolds itself still more
in its applications to individual souls among the good and among
the bad according to the differences of their lives on earth ; in the
one class, higher heights of goodness and blessedness with some
than with others, and in the other deeper depths of sin and misery.
Both in the "Gorgias" and in the "Phsedo" some of the sinful are
represented as curable, such as have been neither very good nor
very bad, and for these a place of purgatory is assigned, and for
them punishment is corrective, and even as on earth suffering is
remedial. Their relief from suffering seems also to be conditioned
by the forgiveness of those whom they have wronged on earth.
^ Paradise Lost, ii. 288, sqq.
254 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
Thus in the " Gorgias " ^ it is said : " But some are benefited in
the punishment they have received alike from gods and men, and
such are they who have been guilty of curable sins ; yet only by
pains and sufferings does the benefit accrue to them both here
and in the lower world, for it is not possible otherwise to be set
free from iniquity." And still more clearly in the "Phaedo:"2__
"Those who are adjudged guilty of sins curable indeed but great,
as for instance doing violence in a moment of anger to a father or
a mother, and have gone sorrowing for it the rest of their lives, or
who in like circumstances have become murderers, these must needs be
cast into Tartarus, but after a stay there of a year the wave casts them
forth, the homicides into the Cocytus, the patricides and the matricides
into the Pyriphlegethon ; and when by way of these they have come
nigh the Acherusian Lake, they cry aloud and call upon those whom
they have slain or wronged, beseeching them to allow them to come
out of the river into the lake ; and if they prevail, they come out
and are set free from their evils; but if not, they are conveyed back
into Tartarus, and thence again into the rivers, nor cease to suffer these
things till they prevail by their entreaties over those whom they have
wronged."
But on the other hand Socrates teaches that there are souls
incurably sinful, whose sin has become by the force of evil habit
so wrought into the texture of their being as to be past all healing ;
for these suffering is remediless, and for themselves punitive, and
in respect to others, monitory. No words of Scripture teach more
clearly or vividly than Plato's, in respect to such souls, the doctrine
of everlasting punishment ; you seem to hear, as you read, a
distant prophecy of " the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is
not quenched." In the " Phsedo " ^ this is taught in a single sharp
sentence : " But those who are found incurable on account of the
magnitude of their crimes, by the commission of many and great
acts of sacrilege, or of unjust and iniquitous murders or the like,
— these a fitting lot hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come
out." But in the " Gorgias," and especially in the " Republic," this
teaching is drawn out with far more fullness and vividness of
statement and illustration. To quote first from the " Gorgias : " * —
" But those who have perpetrated the most unrighteous crimes, and on
account of such deeds have become wholly incurable, these derive no
longer any benefit from their sufferings, but others derive benefit from
them, when they see them hung up as examples in the prison-house in
Hades, as a spectacle and warning to all the unrighteous."
1 525. 2 113^ 114. 8 113, E. * 525, C.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 255
And these souls of bad eminence in guilt Plato thinks are
usually those of tyrants and kings and public men ; for these
have the power of doing wrong, which is denied, fortunately for
themselves, to persons of humbler quality. He cites Homer for
the truth of this, if)v he always describes the sufferers of endless
punishment as the kings and potentates of the earth, such as
Tantalus and Sisyphus, while a Thersites, or a private person such
as he, is never so described. A far more fearful passage occurs
in the " Republic ; " but for its full understanding a preliminary
word is necessary touching the general conception of the story
there given of Er the Pamphylian. This story is the completest
in thought and form of all Plato's myths. It is the peculiarity
of it, that the souls of the dead are represented as passing after
the judgment a pilgrimage of a thousand years in the upper or
in the lower earth, and then returning to this world to enter
upon a new probation. Er had died in battle and had lain on
the funeral pyre twelve days, when he came to life again and
told all he had seen in the other world. He had gone with
many others to a strange place, where there were two openings
near together in the earth beneath, and two like ones in the
heaven above. Judges sat in the space between, and bade the
just ascend the heavenly way on the right hand with the seal
of their judgment set upon them in front, and the unjust having
their seal on their back to descend by the way on the left. And
then as he stood there he saw some coming down after their
thousand years from the other heavenly opening, and others coming
up from the other opening in the earth, and there they rested
on the meadow, and he heard them tell one another of all they
had respectively experienced. The spirits from heaven spoke of
glorious sights and of bliss beyond compare, while the spirits
from the lower earth told with sighs and tears their tales of
dreadful suffering. For every deed of wrong a tenfold suffering
had been endured, and all deeds of justice and goodness had
been rewarded in like proportion. And there he had heard one
ask another of the fate of Ardiaeus, the notorious tyrant of Pam-
phylia, who on earth had committed so many atrocious crimes ;
and the answer was, " He is not coming up, and he will never
come." And then he told in support of his words a terrible
sight he had seen. Just when he was nearing the mouth of
the cave, and was on the point of ascending he saw Ardiaeus
and other despots with him ; and when they approached, and
256 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
fancied they too were coming up, the mouth uttered a fearful
roar, as was usual when any incurable sinner tried to ascend,
and suddenly appeared some wild men of fiery aspect, and seized
Ardiseus and the others, and bound them hand and foot, threw
them down and flayed them with scourges, ^nd dragged them
along the road, carding them on thorns like wool, and telling
all passers-by what were their crimes, and that they were again to
be cast into Tartarus.
If finally we turn to the other side of this picture of the other
world, we notice as very remarkable the simple brevity with which
Plato treats the blessed lot of the righteous as they enter upon
their everlasting rest. In the " Gorgias " ^ he says of the judge
Rhadamanthus : —
" And sometimes when he has looked upon some soul that has lived in
holiness and truth, whether of a private man or some one else, generally,
as I should say, of a lover of wisdom, who in his life has done his own
work, and has not been a busybody in many matters, he is filled with
joy, and sends it to the isles of the blest."
Andinthe"Ph2edo:"2 —
" And those who seem to have been distinguished by the holiness of
their lives, these are they who are liberated from these places on earth,
and, set free as it were from a prison-house, rise upward to their pure
home, and dwell in that upper earth."
And then he adds ^ the thought that a yet fairer lot awaits the
select holy souls : —
" And of these such as have attained sufiicient purity by the love of
wisdom five henceforth without bodies, and in mansions more beautiful,
which it were not easy to make visible, and of which time now fails me
to tell."
With one or two remarks I will close this discussion of the
myths of Plato.
And first let us not fail to observe, as in accordance with all
that has been said of the tendency of Plato's teachings, the practical
conclusions which Socrates reaches and enforces at the end of
these narratives. Thus, for instance, he concludes the "Gorgias"
with these words : * —
" And of what I have said, supposing that all the rest were refuted, this
remains firm, that the doing of injustice is more to be avoided than the
suffering of it, and that above all else not the seeming to be good, but
the being good ought to be the zealous aim of every man in private and
1 626, C. 2 114^ B. 8 PhcBdo, 114, C. * 527, B, C.
THE PLATONIC MYTHS. 267
in public life ; and that if a man have in any respect done wrong he is
to be chastened, and that the next best thing to a man being just is the
becoming so through the chastening of punishment. Be persuaded, then,
and follow me, where you will be happy alike in life and in death."
And so, though more briefly, in the " Phaedo : " ^ —
" On account of these things we have gone through with, we ought,
Simmias, to strive in all ways to be partakers, in this life, of virtue and
wisdom. Noble is the reward, and the hope great."
And how nobly he ends the more elaborate myth in the " Re-
public," 2 the noble ending, too, of that longest and greatest of all
the dialogues : < —
" And so, Glaucon, the story was saved and not lost ; and if we believe
it, it will save us, and we shall cross well the river of Lethe, and not
taint our souls. Yes, if we all follow these words, believing the soul to
be immortal, and capable alike of all good and evil, we shall ever follow
the upward way, and always practice justice and wisdom, that we may
be dear to ourselves and to the gods while we remain here, and also
when we receive our reward, even as the men at the games who carry
off the prizes and go round to gather the gifts, and that we may fare
well both here and in that thousand years' pilgrimage we have just
described."
It is also to be observed how these myths which pertain to the
hereafter have for Plato all the force of truth and reality, and so
as the utterances of his best wisdom and knowledge are taught in
the form of historical narrative. These things, or such things as
these, he believes to be facts ; and he tells them, we might almost
say he reveals them, as facts. Towards the end of the " Grorgias"^
Socrates says : —
" For my part, Callicles, I have faith in these narratives ; and I look to
be found of the judge in that day with a soul all undefiled. Having
bidden farewell to the honors that most men covet, and looking at truth,
I shall make my best endeavors after the utmost excellence of being,
alike during life, and at death, when for me that time shall come."
These noble answers to the universal questionings of the human
heart touching the hereafter have not lost for us, though we are
blessed with a divine answer, their interest and value. Across the
chasm of ages of time, across the wide interval that parts the
religion of Christ from all religions of men, it is good to hold
converse with one who, like Plato, found in the very nature of
the human spirit and its instinctive aspirations the sure promise
of an immortal life ; who himself aimed and exhorted all others
1 114, C. 2 X, 621, C. 3 526, D.
268 THE PLATONIC MYTHS.
to value the soul above all price, and so to inform and enrich it by
all knowledge and goodness as to fit it for its true and high des-
tiny. And these teachings find their peculiar and crowning inter-
est as given by Plato the disciple in the last words of his master
Socrates, in the last hours of that great master's earthly life,
when standing on the very border of that life and of the life to
come he was now to put to the crucial test the central truth of all
those teachings, " that no evil can happen to a good man in life
or in death." And well and worthily did he endure the test.
When all about him were troubled and in despair, he only was
serenely calm and full of hope. When as a criminal condemned
to die, and soon to meet his fate, he would have seemed to need the
comfort of others, it was his alone to comfort all that sorrowful
and sorrowing prison company ; and all his comforting thoughts
and words came from the very source of their grief, from that
death which in his view was no evil, but rather an unspeakable
good. All the noisy clamor of the outside world, the rude dis-
cords of unbelieving and gainsaying men he heeded not, he
scarcely heard, his ears already catching the notes of that celestial
harmony on which he was meditating and discoursing. And what
sweet and musical words are those which he uttered in that part-
ing conversation : —
" You seem to think me poorer in prophecy than the swans ; for these
when they are aware that they are to die, having sung all their life long,
sing then more than ever, rejoicing that they are to go away to the god
whose servants they are. But men, because of their own fear of death,
falsely say of the swans that, lamenting death, they sing out their life
for grief, not considering that no bird sings when it is cold or hungry or
suffering from any other pain, not the nightingale itself, or the swallow
or the hoopoe, which are said indeed by men to sing a song of lament ;
but it appears to me that neither these sing for grief, nor the swans
either. Rather, as I think, do these swans then sing and rejoice more
than ever before because, being Apollo's birds, they are gifted with
prophecy, and know beforehand the good things of another world. And
I too seem to myself a fellow-servant of the swans, and a consecrated
servant of the same god, and to have received from my lord no less than
these the gift of prophecy, and so to be departing from life just as
cheerfully as they."
" Such was the end " [and these are the last words of the *' Phaedo "],
" such was the end, Echecrates, ' of our friend, of whom I may say that
he was the best and the wisest and most just of all the men whom I
have known."
THE EELATION OF PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY TO
CHRISTIAN TRUTH.
AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE ALUMNI OF NEWTON THE-
OLOGICAL INSTITUTION, JUNE 10, 1873, AND PRINTED IN THE
" BAPTIST QUARTERLY."
I HAVE read somewhere of a learned statesman of England,
that he was wont to call the Dialogues of Plato the most beauti-
ful book in the world, after the Bible. Some may count this only
the expression of a fond admiration; and yet, what uninspired
thought of man makes nearer approaches to the Bible, in its con-
ceptions of virtue and virtuous character, than that which shines
out upon us from these dialogues ? And when we think of the
writer, and of the principal speaker in them, what relation do we
recall of master and pupil outside the life of the New Testament
so luminous with moral beauty, and so fruitful of elevating influ-
ence, as that of Socrates and Plato? Memorable was that day,
when the youthful Plato, his fine genius just flowering into poe-
try and beautiful letters, was brought by his companions to So-
crates, and, when listening to the new teacher, was seized with
such a view of the true ends of Athenian and all human life,
that he straightway forsook all his young dreams of literary am-
bition, and followed his acknowledged master, drawn by an irre-
sistible moral attraction. That day determined for Plato the
course of his long after-life. It marked his conversion to philoso-
phy, and to philosophy in the Socratic sense — not as professed
wisdom, but as the studious love of wisdom. It was a lifelong
search for truth, and a search no less ardent in its moral aims
than intense in its intellectual effort. It is this devotion to truth
for the truth's sake, so religiously sought, so largely found, by
virtue of which, far more than by aught else, Plato was supreme
in Grecian thought during the forty years of his career as Master
of the Academy, and in all the ages since has ruled from his urn
the spirits of men. For us, too, in these later Christian times,
his writings have a like value and interest, which commend them
to our thoughtful study.
260 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
I propose, then, that we consider some of the relations of
Plato's thought to Christian truth. And let me state from what
point of view I wish to treat in a brief discussion so large a
theme. It is something familiar to the experience of the Christian
student, that he is wont to compare the teachings of those an-
cient writers to whom he owes so much of his culture, with the
words of Jesus, to whom he owes the incomparably higher debt
of his religious hopes and faith. In accordance with such expe-
rience, I wish only to offer some views of what we find in Plato's
thought, with which we can have sympathy as Christians, and
of what we miss there, and can find in Christ, and in Christ
alone.
As a first and preliminary view, I remark, that we find in
the spiritual character of Plato's philosophy a near and most
friendly relation to Christian truth. That is a noble conception
of Plato which Raphael has wrought into his grand picture of
" The School of Athens " — where the philosopher stands, the
central figure of that august group of Grecian sages, his lifted
right hand pointing to heaven. So, too, is he pictured by the poet
Goethe, as a genius ever tending upward, and striving to kindle
in every breast the same soaring love for the beauty of spiritual
truth. How true to Plato's nature and life are these conceptions
of art ! And even so on a broader canvas, on the larger page
of history, he stands there ever to the inward eye, pointing not
Grecian sages alone, but all thoughtful minds, above the world
of matter and sense, to a world of spirit, to a world of ideas
as divine and eternal things, and the true home of the soul as a
spiritual being. I know of no writer's thought in antiquity that
has in it so distinctively this spiritual quality so familiar to us in
the substance of Christian truth. Everywhere are you kept
aware of that contrast and union as well, at once so mysterious
and so real in man's double nature and life, of the seen and tem-
poral, and the unseen and eternal. However thinkers may differ
about Plato's theory of ideas, or his views of the origin of mat-
ter, yet all will agree that, as in his conception of the world the
divine intelligence and goodness are prior and superior to material
nature and to man, so in man is the soul superior to the body,
and the things of the soul to the things of the body, and parted,
too, in a difference of kind and worth by a distance " which no
geometry can express. " How nobly does he speak of the origin
and worth of the soul I
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 261
" The soul [he says] came from heaven, but the body is earth-born ;
and so the soul is the divine part of man, and to be honored next to God ;
nor does a man honor his soul, when he sells her glory for gold, for not
all the gold in the world is to be compared with the soul ; but a man can
honor his soul only by making her better."
Are we not at once reminded of the words of Jesus, " What
shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul ? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul ? "
Only such a spiritual philosophy can establish a real basis for a
spiritual religion. Recognizing the primary conceptions of reve-
lation, God, virtue, immortality, in the facts of consciousness, as
the intuitive faiths of the soul, it finds man able to apprehend and
receive the positive truths of Christianity, and to partake of its
renovating and redeeming power. Hence it is that Platonism has
had such strong attractions for so many great and good men in
the Christian church, from the days of Origen and Augustine
until now. Hence, too, in every great epoch, in every new mental
struggle, in all the conflicts of Christian faith with doubt and
error, Plato has reappeared, and always in alliance with what is
noblest and best in Christian thought and action. And in these
days of ours, when there is such a pronounced tendency in physi-
cal science to resolve all vitality into material force, all thought
into cerebration, and all mind into matter, and so to exalt mate-
rial phenomena as the only possible subjects of human interest,
there seems to be needed a new infusion of Plato's ideal thought
to preserve the equilibrium between physical and spiritual truth.
It is instructive to remember that Plato's philosophy was at the
beginning a protest against the skepticism engendered by the
physical speculations of his time. In a quite remarkable pas-
sage he describes a race of people living in his day — earth-born
giants, he calls them — who were ever dragging down all things
from heaven to earth, who would hear of nothing but body and
matter, and denied the existence of everything which they could
not hold in their hands. By some strange provision of " natural
selection " this race seems to have survived till now, and to ex-
hibit, with some variations, the characteristics of that generation
which grew out of the soil of Athens. Probably we all set far
more store by matter than Plato was wont to do ; and we have, as
Plato had not, a physical science, which in its discoveries and
applications has won the respect and admiration of mankind.
But the speculations of some of the leaders of this progressive
262 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
science have inherent in them the same material and earthly
quality as those of their predecessors in Plato's time; and the
doctrine that all positive knowledge is of the physical, and that
all the universe consists of matter, is no less repulsive now than
it was then. When we are expected, and indeed bidden, to keep
up with the march of such a science, so omniscient of matter and
so nescient of mind, we feel willing to linger yet awhile in Athens ;
and there, in the groves of the Academy, listen to that calm voice
which, with uplifted hand, discourses still of the human soul as a
separate being, endowed with reason, and destined to immortality.
From this general view let me pass to the remark that in the
spirit and substance of Plato's ethical teaching we find a still
nearer relation to Christian truth. In nothing else was Plato so
genuine a disciple of Socrates as in his ultimate reference of all
philosophic inquiry to the practical ends of a righteous character
and life. It is true that, unlike his master, he was wont to push
his inquiries into the highest and rarest regions of speculative
thought ; but the end of his speculation in its utmost reach and
bound was to see and possess those immutable ideas of moral
being which, wrought into ideals of character and realized in
action, might bring man into likeness to God, and his disordered
life into harmony with the divine government. Do not suppose
that in thus speaking I am interpreting Platonic thought by
Christian speech. Remember that utterance in the " Theaetetus,"
" God is altogether righteous, and he of us is most righteous who
is most like Him." Remember, too, that word of Plato in the " Re-
public," when he had laid the foundations of the state in perfect
justice and virtue, and was asked where, then, was such a state.
" In heaven," he said, " there is laid up a pattern of such a city,
and let him who desires contemplate that, and live accordingly."
Fond as Plato was of speculation, and bent upon securing a meta-
physical basis for morality, yet he was never wont to present
moral truth in the form of abstract teaching. We are to look in
Plato for no doctrinal system, no inquiry into the nature of virtue
or theory of the moral sentiments, in the sense of modern ethics ;
these you find only in his commentators, never in himself. They
are not after his manner. You are made aware, indeed, in all
that he writes, of the ruling power of the truest theories of mor-
als ; you feel ever the presence of an assured conviction of right
and wrong as ultimate moral contradictions, which can be resolved
into no other principles ; you discover the supremacy in man of
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 263
that faculty which they address, and which itself intuitively dis-
cerns them ; and you see the paramount value in human life of
their unconditional recognition and observance. But Plato was
born for letters no less than philosophy, and his power of thought
was equaled by his marvelous skill in language ; and in the use
of these rare gifts in rarer union, he aimed to bring moral truth
close to human feeling, and into alliance with the common senti-
ments of men. He wrought it by the vital and plastic force of
his literary genius into all forms of beautiful and impressive con-
ception, and of gracious and eloquent speech, fitted to quicken the
sensibilities and kindle the imagination by visions of the beauty
of moral excellence, and to win and carry the will in purpose and
effort to its attainment in virtuous life. And here is the unspeak-
able charm of Plato's moral writings, and here the secret of their
power. They are living illustrations of the beneficent influence
of letters, when guided by wisdom and virtue in bringing the
principles of moral and religious truth close home to the common
thinking and living of men. All honor to the Christian thinkers
who have established great principles in ethical science, and have
taught them in didactic form. Their power is enduring and sure ;
but except in rare instances it is not felt by the general mind, and
only slowly and through " the fit audience, though few," whom
they address. When we study the works of Bishop Butler, which
perhaps many of us more dutifully praise than love to read, or
those of Jonathan Edwards, and try for instance to put to practi-
cal use that definition of " Virtue as a love to Being in general,"
are we not apt to think how immeasurably the direct influence of
those profound writers would have been widened if, with their
power of speculation like Plato's, they had also had something of
his genial style, if their talent for communication had borne any
proportion to their talent for its investigation and discovery.
These ethical writings of Plato, then, are not treatises or disquisi-
tions; they are dialogues, conceived and composed not for the
few, but for the many; for the whole Athenian public, and
through them for the world of mankind. They are conversations
after the manner of Socrates, and hardly less lifelike and real
than those actually held by Socrates in the streets of Athens.
They are the conversations of the master idealized as the master
was idealized himself by the genius of the pupil ; cast in a larger
mould, and adorned with all the finish of consummate art, but
instinct with the same moral spirit, and^ever striving to the same
264 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
moral ends. They are all drawn out from real human life, and
have in themselves its vital quality ; not Socrates alone, but all
the speakers are real men, types of Athenian character, represen-
tatives of Athenian opinion ; and the places of discourse their
daily familiar haunts, the market-place, the palestra, the courts of
law ; but wherever or by whomsoever held, or starting out from
whatever natural incident or description, they soon leave behind
them outward and earthly things, and touch and pierce to the
quick the profoundest questions of moral being, uncoiling with
sure dialectic skill a chain of moral sequence that reaches on
through all the present world far away into the unseen and eter-
nal. This method of teaching by the sharp questioning process
of dialogue was eminently fitted to the need of Plato's time. His
life and career fell on an age and among a people marked by in-
tellectual force and activity, but no less by moral weakness and
confusion, when the leaven of immorality and irreligion had
spread through the mass of society. Alike the leaders of the
people and the people themselves were complacently content to
live only amid the shows and shadows of truth and good; the
conceptions of a divine superintending Power and a future retri-
bution were only outworn fictions of credulity and superstition ;
virtue was a thing of tradition or opinion, right only might, and
goodness and badness only conventional terms, changing with
changing circumstance ; and thus the substantial ideas of morals
and religion were only empty sounds to the ear, and flitted before
the eye ever as dim unreal figures amid the dissolving scenes of a
passing world. Now it is in Plato's teachings which aim at a
practical reformation of these radical evils that the Christian
reader discovers near approaches to revealed truth, bright gleams
of moral light, issuing from the law written on the heart of man,
which foretoken the perfect manifestation to be made in the full-
ness of time in the ethics of the gospel, and the perfect life of
Christ. You are ever conscious, it is true, that it is only human
teaching, sometimes wrong, always limited ; but often are you
startled at the enunciation of principles which in themselves and
in their expression approximate to what is most characteristic in
New Testament teaching. As the philosopher exposes the conven-
tional morality of his time, which rested only on a kind of Athe-
nian " tradition of the elders," and aimed only at social or civic
respectability, you are reminded of Him who spake as never man
spake, when He told his hearers that unless their righteousness
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 265
exceeded the righteousness of the Scribes and Pharisees, they
could in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven. By his dia-
lectic process in these Dialogues how does Plato sift to the bottom
all that perverse Athenian life, and bring up to the light its mon-
strous delusions, and how earnestly he seeks to establish in private
and public life the supremacy of moral ideas ! What solemn
words he uttered in the ears of Athenian youth who affected to be
superior to a belief in the divine existence, and the divine gov-
ernment of the world. " God moves according to his nature in a
straight line to the accomplishment of his ends. Justice follows
him, and is the punisher of all who fall short of the divine law.
To that law he who would be happy holds fast and follows in all
humility." And in respect "to the ways of Providence," he
says : —
" O youth, who think you are unheeded by God, boast not of having
escaped his justice. Never shall you be lost sight of by it. Not so small
art thou as to hide in the depths of the earth, nor so high that thou canst
mount to heaven ; but either here or somewhere else thou shalt pay the
penalty. So, too, shall it be with the wicked whom you saw in prosper-
ity, and made the mirror of divine justice, not considering their latter
end."
It were difficult in brief compass to mention those elements of
Plato's ethical teaching which have a likeness to Christian truth.
His fundamental thought is that of a living virtue, resting upon
knowledge, and pervading the inner being of man, and ennobling
all human relations. This he represents in some Dialogues in
individual virtues, as temperance, justice, piety, in others in an
ideal unity ; and in one work, the " Apology," the conception is
set in the real example of Socrates, the highest illustration known
to himself and the pagan world of a genuine human life. In his
Dialogues of a wider compass this conception is fashioned into an
ideal for the individual of a comprehensive rule of life, and for
society of a state founded in the laws of reason and virtue ; and
in each aspect, and in both together, the conception is bound to
the great and governing thought of a divine moral order of the
world. Let me try to illustrate these elements by some of the
chief thoughts of the two Dialogues, the " Gorgias " and the " Re-
public." The " Republic " is treated sometimes as only an inquiry
into the nature of justice, sometimes only as the construction of
an ideal state ; but the two unite in one — in the idea of justice
visibly embodied in the perfect state. So, too, we are apt to look
266 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
only at separate phases of the many-sided " Gorgias." Some look
only at the contrast between true and false rhetoric as suggested
in the conversation with Gorgias ; others only at the contrast be-
tween true and false statesmanship, as portrayed in the conversa-
tion with Callicles ; but in truth these and other minor contrasts
are only means to one great moral end ; they are employed with
most earnest aim and consummate art to set forth the larger an-
tagonism of the true and the false art of life itself, and to lift up
the conception of an all-comprehensive imperial moral art of life
which takes up into itself all arts, all knowledge, and all action,
and sways all individuals and society by the laws of justice and
virtue. But it is especially in the conversations with Callicles in
the " Gorgias," and with Thrasymachus in the " Republic," that
we have the best moral teachings of Plato. In these sophists he
combats the teachers of the selfish theories of morals of aU times,
and their willing pupils of all generations — the larger Demos of
a world loving darkness rather than light, hating truth and loving
appearance, and bent upon gain and pleasure rather than the
right ; against them all he vindicates the ideas of truth and virtue
as not only real, but born of a divine right to a supremacy in the
soul, and alone yielding supreme good. None of his other Dia-
logues unfold their lessons in more dramatic form than these.
You seem to see the great forces of right and wrong, good and
evil, moving on over the world's stage in human chai^acters and
scenes, and shaping the action and destiny of men for the life that
now is and for the endless hereafter. You are taught that in spite
of all cunning appearance truth and goodness are real things, and
the divinest and best that men can seek, and to be sought for their
own dear sake, with no side-look to what may come of them ; that
it is not essential to be happy, but that it is essential to be virtu-
ous, even as Socrates said when they begged him to escape from
prison, that the thing to be cared for was not to live, but to live
well. There, too, is maintained the noble paradox, that to do evil
is far worse than to suffer evil, and that the next best thing to
being just is to become just, and that if a man have done injus-
tice, it is better even for himself that he be punished for it. And
what impressive scenes you witness there of virtue triumphant and
made perfect in suffering, and of vice defeated and made wretched
in success ! The unjust man, though on a throne and master of
thousands, is beheld as his own slave, his heart haunted by pas-
sion and fear, and himself the unhappiest of men. And that other
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 267
picture, too, on which the world yet gazes even as on a master-
piece of Grecian art — the just man robbed by an unjust world of
all earthly good, and clothed only in justice, but clad in that even
as in truly regal attire ; defamed, stricken, and scourged, and
finally crucified ; but his virtue proof against all infamy, and his
soul serene even in excruciating death. In this picture Plato was
doubtless portraying the fate of his master; but the Christian
beholder may seem to see it transfigured into that unapproachable
scene of the Divine Sufferer who gave up his life for the life of
the world.
But yet other scenes with their living lessons pass before the
view. Not only have the just and the unjust men in themselves
the highest good and the worst evil, but even in this life they have
each their sure recompense. Men may waver about them for a
while, but they are at last fixed in a right estimation of both.
Look long enough, and you shall see that the clever unjust who
made so brave a start, now come in foolish at the goal, and with-
out a prize; while the just man, like the true runner, perseveres
to the end and wins and wears the crown, these words proclaiming
the coronation : " All things in life will work for the good man,
for the gods have a care of him who desires to be like God, so far
as one can be by the pursuit of virtue." " Yet all this is as no-
thing compared with what awaits the just and unjust after death."
With this language the last scene of all then opens before us, dis-
closing to view the unseen and eternal world and its recompenses
of everlasting rewards and punishments. You behold the dread
tribunal there, and there the judges seated; and before them come
the souls of the just and unjust all unclothed and bare, bright
with the visible stamp of justice and virtue, or all foul and scarred
by injustice and vice, and they severally pass when judged straight
to their appointed lot and place. And as you look with strained
eye and ear, you seem to hear, as the lost go down to their doom,
their swift beginning woes, even as of "the worm that dieth not;"
and as the just rise upwards to mansions so fair they may not be
described, you seem to catch distant sounds sweeter far than music
of the spheres as they enter their everlasting rest. Thus it is that
these remarkable representations of the future world which con-
clude these Dialogues lift us up to the highest moral idea which
they aim to teach, and in true accord with their dramatic tone
they form the epilogues even as of solemn tragedies of human be-
ing. The antagonism of the twofold life of man and its twofold
268 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
art which has moved on through all their scenes, comes out at last
in clear entireness, the laws of human morality merge in the moral
laws of the universe ; and herein run and blend together all the
threads of the manifold tissues of the dramatic action.
But when we pass from the ethical to the religious thought of
Plato, and seek to find there a solution of the disorder in man's
relations to God, and of the means for its cure, it is then that we
see how his philosophy is at best only preparatory to Christianity
and parted from it, even as reason from revelation. There runs
through it all, indeed, a sad undertone of conviction that man has
somehow fallen out of a sphere in which he was made to move ;
and this mingles with a yearning sense of the need of some influ-
ence to uplift him and restore him there ; but what that fall was,
and what the means of recovery, are questions it fails, and must
needs fail, to answer. Let me touch upon some of the elements
of Plato's answers to these questions of sin and redemption, which
have been so solved for us by the words and work of Jesus. How
far short does he fall of the Christian conception of God ! He
rendered, indeed, a great service in the preparation of paganism
for Christianity, by teaching, in opposition to polytheism, the truth
of one God ; and I think, too, in opposition to pantheism, of a
personal God. He purged the Hellenic mythology of its unworthy
ideas of deity, and banished Homer from his ideal republic, be-
cause he adorned them by his verse ; and those ideas he replaced
with the doctrine of God, as the only Good and True, and as will-
ing only good and truth. But I find no word in all Plato's afflu-
ent Greek for the revealed conception of the holiness of God.
Never had reached his ear and touched his soul such a voice as
that caught by Isaiah from seraph's lips, " Holy, holy, holy, is the
Lord of Hosts." Never in the utmost reach of his genius had
he won that height to which the servant of Christ was borne by
the Spirit, when he looked through the opened door into heaven,
and heard that strain which rests not day and night, " Holy,
holy, holy. Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to
come."
With this defect in Plato's conception of God is connected his
imperfect view of sin. Manifold are the aspects which he presents
of moral evil in man. It is described in general as a parting of
the soul from God, and, quite in Scripture language, as living
without God in the world ; as a moral discord, a disease of the
soul, and especially as a bondage of reason to desire, of the spirit
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 269
to flesh. The body, indeed, is always with Plato the soul's mortal
foe. So controlling is this element in his thought, that he seems
to teach in allegory even the present bodily state as resulting from
the fall of the soul from its pristine purity. Once the soul en-
joyed a winged being, and, in a triple form of charioteer and two
steeds, careered in some ethereal paradise, and gazed in open vis-
ion upon absolute truth and goodness. But while one of the
steeds was white and obedient to the rein, and ever tending up-
ward, the other was black of color and yet blacker of nature, and
always gravitating earthward, and so by and by quite dragged
down his nobler mate, all wing-broken and plumes draggled and
finally gone, and doomed the soul to earth and bodily form. But
in all these aspects, evil in man is unlike the revealed conception
of sin. Its root is made to be intellectual rather than moral — a
disease of the intelligence which blinds the eye of the soul to true
good. Seldom does it approach the view of the ground of the evil
as lying in a perverted direction of the will, or in alienation of
the heart from God by voluntary transgression. It seems strange
that with all the earnest religious feeling which Plato so often
expresses, we discover none of that sense of ill-desert and need of
repentance and forgiveness so familiar to the Christian conscious-
ness. We could well part with the whole of that exquisite myth
to which I have just alluded for one word that might resemble the
parable of the publican, who would not lift up so much as his eyes
to heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, " God be merciful to
me, a sinner."
And with all his effort of searching, how far does Plato fall
below a conception of the remedy needed for the fallen state of
man ! Yet some profound students of the philosopher think that
his speculations have in them the germs of the Christian doctrine
of redemption and atonement. Such a view wrongs Platonism no
less than Christianity itself. The philosopher, indeed, is ever
teaching the bitter need of a moral deliverance of man, and
striving to reach and realize it ; and in his teachings we are often
startled at the likeness of his language to that of Scripture. The
soul, he says, must be turned from darkness to light, must die to
sin by rising above earthly passion and desire, must now be loosed
so far as possible from the bondage of the flesh, and look with
hope to death as the only perfect release from its thralldom. But
yet the only redemption which he can reach is, like the evil, an
intellectual one. It is a salvation to be wrought by philosophy.
270 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
the soul rising by its aid through contemplation to the intuition of
truth. In a remarkable passage he describes the upward course
of the soul through successive stages of purifying knowledge,
until it gains a sight of the idea of good dwelling in its fullness
only in God, and illumining even as a sun the moral universe.
And still this laborious process is not a merely intellectual one.
These ideas of truth and goodness are conceived as invested with
moral beauty, and thus fitted to awaken in him who beholds them
the feeling of love ; and this love, when awakened, exerts over
him a transforming power, by which he grows into their likeness.
When we study as Christians these upward strivings of Plato's
human wisdom, we cannot but think, What if to him had been
revealed, even as to us, the divine way of redemption, not by man
mounting on wings of contemplation to heaven and to God, but
by heaven bending to earth, and God himself condescending to
man, and the Son of God taking upon Him man's nature, and en-
tering as a personal living power into human life and history, that
God in Christ might reconcile the world unto himself. In the
personal divine Redeemer, as the Word made flesh, he might have
seen embodied and illustrated that idea of God which he strove to
contemplate, — that perfect beauty of virtue, that perfect rule of
life, — and he, intellectual Greek though he was, might have seen
that divine Redeemer in the form of a servant by the voluntary
humiliation of his sufferings and death, shown forth as the Lamb
of God to take away the sins of the world, and by the might of
that divine love set forth by such humiliation, touching the heart
of man as no ideal thought could touch it, and, by inspiring a
faith working by love, re-create the soul and bring it into the real
likeness of God. And here, too, he might have found that reve-
lation from God of which he once uttered a conjectural hope,
which could have given a religious basis of the morality which he
taught, and furnished a sufficient motive through a living faith
for its realization in a righteous life. And lastly, such a faith
standing in the power of God would have been discovered as ade-
quate to the calling and salvation — not as the wisdom of philoso-
phy, of the intellectual elite of the race, the wise men after the
flesh, the mighty, the noble, but of the foolish as well ; and yet
more, and the weak, and the base, and the despised — a saving
faith for all mankind.
This discussion of the moral and religious thoughts of one of
the most eminent of the writers of antiquity yields us as one les-
PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY. 271
son an insight into the ultimate end of those classical studies which
enter so largely into all our higher education. Not alone to form
a basis for mental discipline and culture, by furnishing models of
consummate excellence in thought and expression, are those stud-
ies designed. The true and ultimate end is a moral and religious
one — the knowledge gained by a deeper and maturer study of
classical antiquity, of the place and function of all ancient phi-
losophy, letters, art, life, in the providential order of the world,
in preparing the way for the entrance of Christianity into hu-
man life and history. All that rich and fruitful culture was only
human, and wrought out, I may say, from below ; but it was to
form a human basis for a richer and far more fruitful culture,
when once there should descend a divine power from above, to
regenerate the soul of man and pour a divine life into the bosom
of a sinful world. Such a renewing, life-giving influence the
wisdom of cultivated Greece — even of Plato's philosophy, the
fairest and finest bloom of all that culture — could not reach
even in adequate idea ; it could only haply feel after it, and dimly
prophesy its coming by revealing the spiritual wants of man, as
severed from God and needing restoration. The prodigal race,
wanderers from the Father's house, were to be brought back as
penitent sinners, only by the anticipating and forerunning compas-
sion of the Father himself. Here is the lesson to be won from
our discussion, and to be wrought into all our thought and faith
and life. Consider Plato's rich gifts and attainments, his power
of speculative thought, his soaring imagination, his beautiful and
eloquent speech ; but even that intellect was blind, that tongue
was dumb to that greatest of all human questions, " How shall
man be just with God ? " — be delivered from sin, and set forward
on a new career of endless knowledge, holiness and happiness.
On these matters of supreme moment, that exalted intelligence
might sit as a learner at the feet of the humblest Christian disci-
ple, made wise unto salvation through the faith that is in Christ
Jesus. He that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than
he. And yet, let us not, as Christians, exalt ourselves overmuch
above the pagan philosopher. What we have that he had not is
not ours, or of us, but only God's ; and ours only by the conde-
scending grace of Christ. When I study Plato and Plato's life,
and think of our advanced position in respect to spiritual and sav-
ing knowledge, I am prone to recall the apostle's words, " Who
maketh thee to differ from another, and what hast thou that thou
272 PLATO'S PHILOSOPHY.
didst not receive?" Nay, let me at least point to one lesson
which may be learned by us Christians from Plato's example.
We have seen with what a tridy religious earnestness he sought
for moral and religious truth, and wrought it, so far as he could
find it, into his own life and action. This truth he first learned to
love and seek from only a human teacher, whom, however, he
revered as the best and wisest of all men known to the ancient
pagan world. That truth he prized above all earthly good, and
its pursuit he counted as the one work worth doing under the
sun. And the truth which he gained and lived by himself he
inculcated with the same earnestness upon others ; he taught it,
he preached it for forty years, by word and by deed, by living
voice and written speech, against sophists who opposed it in the-
ory, and the world who opposed it in practice, and strove to con-
vince them, and to win them to see and receive and adopt it for
themselves. Be it ours, as disciples of the divine Teacher and
Saviour, to receive ourselves, and make known to others, that
revealed and only saving truth of the gospel — the truth as it is
in Jesus, which has been freely given us — with a religious ear-
nestness of like quality and of a greater intensity in proportion to
the immeasurably superior greatness of the gift. Let it be for us
not a meagre and pale thing of tradition, of custom, of inheri-
tance ; but in us, through the Word and Spirit of Christ, a living
and life-giving truth. So may it for us, and for those whom
we may bless by our labors, become the power of God and the
wisdom of God unto salvation. So may they and we be entered
as fellow-citizens, not into an ideal republic, — the fair creation
of a philosopher's imagination, — but into a real kingdom, the
pattern of which is in reality laid up in heaven, the City of God.
PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, JANUARY 3, 1873.
My subject is Plato's " Republic," and I propose to give a gen-
eral view of the work, and then to look at it in some of its histor-
ical and its ideal aspects.
I fear that I may seem to be trespassing upon your indulgence
in asking you to go back again to classic antiquity and to consider
a subject suggested by that of my last paper, and derived from
the writings of the same author. But let me first plead the gen-
eral view, that in the papers we here present we may each in turn
probably contribute most to the general good by discussing sub-
jects drawn from our own professional pursuits and the studies to
which they lead us. Besides, we may certainly come very often
to Plato, and every time hold with him long converse, without
peril of sameness or repetition; a mind so comprehensive and
many-sided as his, and writings of such large and various scope
may yield us many distinct themes, as diverse in themselves and
their relations as if they were drawn from different authors, in all
respects widely parted from each other. It is also singularly true
of Plato that though he ran his earthly career in ancient Greece,
yet as a thinker and a writer he lived and reigned in a world that
knows no bounds of time or country or nation, but is universal as
the race and its entire life. Individual men and generations of
men may care naught for his metaphysics, may reject it as effete,
or as false in itself, but his philosophy, however little it may inter-
est or benefit the many as a speculation, has in it a life for all
men of all times ; his works by their prevailing spirit and the
great moral and spiritual truths they teach are fixed in abiding
relations to the human mind, and to all human society ; never of
a dead past, but always of a living present, they have for us, too,
a new and ever fresh charm and clear value in their great thoughts
and fine imaginations, expressed in the most perfect forms of lan-
guage. The habitually contemplative spirit which breathes through
all that he wrote, has in it something eminently conservative for
our own time and country. On the other hand, for one who now
274 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
reads his works, it is sometimes strange and startling to come
upon points of contact with some of the most practical issues of
our day in politics, education, and morals, as if his sagacious and
prescient mind had peered far down the vista of time and caught
some glimpses of events and forms of society destined only in far-
off ages to come into full being.
By the study of the myths of Plato, and especially of the two
celebrated ones contained in the " Republic," I have been drawn,
gradually but irresistibly, to a special study of the whole of this
remarkable work. It is one that gains ever upon you in respect
of interest and value the more you read and study it, the more
you yield it an attentive and willing mind, and especially the
nearer you come into sympathy with the spirit and aims of the
writer. For while that familiar word is true of Plato, that all will
see in him so much as they bring eyes to see, yet more true is that
higher word of Shakespeare, that " love adds a precious seeing to
the eye." Indifferent and therefore superficial readers may easily
make merry over some of his errors or seemingly visionary views,
and more thoughtful ones, and yet no more friendly, may all too
quickly warm with indignation over the offensive institutions of
his ideal state, and with a dogmatic hardness at once condemn
them as if they proved immorality or immoral aims in the author ;
but whoever will read him with an open eye and a kindly heart,
loving truth as he loved it, and as patiently and vigorously intent
upon its attainment, will be conscious not only of highest instruc-
tion and delight, but of an uplifting and purifying influence, such
as comes only from the greatest and best minds of the race.
The " Republic " is, by the suffrages of all students of Plato,
the greatest of his works ; it holds the supreme place among his
Dialogues, or, as his more enthusiastic lovers are fond of calling it,
it is the royal dialogue. All that went before were preparatory
stages of progress to this, and reached in it their goal and culmi-
nation. You have here his most comprehensive view of man's
life, the consummation of his philosophy ; you see on largest can-
vas the workings and results of all his various powers in their ripe
maturity, and especially that blending and fusion of gifts which
made him preeminent as a master alike of thought and expression,
at once philosopher and poet.
It seems necessary, first, to get some general view of the con-
tents of this Dialogue, that we may put ourselves in position for
those aspects of it which I propose to consider. Yet it is hard to
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 275
analyze Plato ; it is hardly possible, without doing him injustice, to
treat him merely as a thinker. This point has been well made by
some critics, against both Mr. Grote's and Mr. WhewelFs treat-
ment of the Platonic Dialogues, that by bringing into light only
the thought of the writer, and leaving all else in shade, they have
failed to exhibit fairly and clearly the thought itself. They have
rudely severed matter and form, theory and expression, body and
soul, which in Plato's conception and manner were one and insep-
arable, and so have given only Plato in part, not Plato entire.
And even an ordinary reader and student of Plato, who tries to
present in brief the thought of one of the Dialogues, is conscious
of the justness of the criticism. It seems like dissecting the liv-
ing man, in order to get out and exhibit the quality and volume
of his brain. As introductory, however, to a consideration of the
historical and the ideal elements of this work, I must endeavor to
give a general view of the whole.
The selections of time and place and circumstances, and of
personages in the Dialogue characteristic of the tendencies of the
times, together with the dramatic grouping and appointments
are all in harmony with the design of the work. The scene is
laid at the Piraeus in the house of Cephalus, and the immediate
occasion is the festival of the Thracian Artemis. Socrates and
Glaucon have assisted at the procession and the sacrifices, and
have turned their steps back towards Athens, when they are over-
taken by Polemarchus, the son of Cephalus, who constrains them
to go to his father's house, that, the festivities all over, Socrates
may discourse, as he was wont, with himself and his young com-
panions. There, then, the company is assembled in the court of
the house, grouped in a circle around the aged host, who is seated
on a cushioned chair, a garland on his head as he had just been
sacrificing. With Cephalus the discourse opens. He is an old
man of an intelligent, serene character, making no complaint of
the burdens of age, but rather rejoicing in it as bringing relief
from disturbing passions ; he is a pattern of the virtue of the
older and now receding times, that, without reflection, stands by
the laws and ordinances of the country, and does its duty with-
out question by the state and the gods. In the near prospect of
death he says that he looks with sweet hope into the retributions
of the world to come, untroubled by any consciousness of injustice
in withholding any dues to gods or men. Socrates is delighted
with the words and tone of the old man, but he takes him up on
276 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
his implied notion of justice and questions its correctness. But
Cephalus has no mind for dialectics, and so, pleading that he must
look to the sacrifices, he quietly slips away, bequeathing the argu-
ment to his son. Polemarchus represents a morality more reflec-
tive than his father's, but yet of a subordinate type, resting mostly
upon custom or the tradition of the elders. He is well read in
Simonides, and holds with him that justice, as rendering what is
due, looks to the good of one's friends and the harm of one's
foes ; and he is only slowly brought at last by Socrates to see and
admit that justice being in its nature only beneficent can do only
good to all men, even to one's foes. In Thrasymachus of Chalce-
don, who now enters the lists at a furious pace, we have exhibited
a type of the sophists of the time, a master in the art of making
a sensation, very eager of generalizing, but equally incapable of
the process, indifferent to truth, prone always to cut rather than
untie the knot of a question, egotistic, rude, and self-confident,
but when worsted in an argument, admitting with assumed grace
what he cannot rebut. His theory of justice and social morality
is the selfish and destructive one. Justice is only the interest of
the stronger — only might makes right, the sole firm bond of soci-
ety is the will of the stronger. Nothing can be more instructive
and amusing than the contrast in spirit and bearing between the
duelists in this dialectic combat ; the coarse violence of Thrasy-
machus, and the genuine Attic urbanity of Socrates, the helpless
throes and struggles of the sophist in the close and tenacious
hold of the philosopher. But the strife is soon over, and Thra-
symachus in a melting mood of perspiration, and for the first
time in his life blushing for shame, is forced to admit that injus-
tice can be a source only of weakness, and justice of strength, and
that the just man must be good and happy, and the unjust bad
and wretched. The two brothers, Glaucon and Adeimantus, who
next take part in the discourse, stand on a higher intellectual
and moral plane. They represent the best part of young Athens.
They have in them a native philosophical vein, which makes them
apt for thinking and averse to sophistry ; but seized and borne on
by the negative spirit of their times, they have broken away from
the current moral and religious views, and have reached a region
of honest but vigorous doubt. But their doubts, without invading
the integrity of their heart and life, are serving through their own
intellectual and moral action as the means of transition to con-
scious and established truth. The new world into which Socrates
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 277
is to usher them, finds them prepared to enter in ; with readiness
they apprehend the great truths he imparts, and with more inde-
pendence than most of his hearers work their way to their appro-
priation through his stimulating and alluring dialectic process.
The doubts which these brothers express go down to the nature
and being of justice and all virtue. Like many whose minds have
been illumined with a purer light, they cannot see how " wisdom
is justified of her children." They ask Socrates whether justice
is a good or no, and if it is, whether absolute or only relative,
whether indeed it is a thing of real being or only of cunning
appearance. They vividly depict the unjust man as prospering
by his shrewdness, and winning place, fortune, and esteem, and
the just man in his simplicity, as poor and homeless, as maligned,
and scourged, and crucified ; and looking on this picture and then
on this, they find it hard even with their best intentions to accept
the high view of Socrates, that it is a greater evil to do injus-
tice than to suffer it. They are also troubled by the conventional
teaching of morality. Parents and guardians and the poets too,
all inculcate justice not for itself but for what it will bring. Be
just and you will get rewarded; respectability shall be yours,
good name, high place, a wealthy marriage, houses and lands and
money, and by and by, too, you shall walk evermore in the Elys-
ian fields. In their perplexity these disciples of Socrates turn to
their master, and put it upon him to show them what justice is in
itself, and how of itself, and ap&rt from consequences, it makes
the just man happy. Through these subordinate persons of the
dialogue and these negative ethical views the way is now opened
for the chief role of Socrates, and for his own discourse of justice
on its positive side. Socrates accepts the situation with all its
acknowledged difficulties, and undertakes the task imposed upon
him. But assuming that all morality grows out of the relations
of men to one another in civil society he proposes to read the
great subject first in what he calls the " larger letters," and after-
wards in the " smaller." He means that the state is the indi-
vidual on an extended scale, or, to use Milton's expression, it is
the individual man " writ large," and so justice is first to be
sought and found in the state, and then it will be easily discerned
in the individual man. On this analogy he proceeds to the con-
struction of his ideal state.
It is needful for my subject to present only the chief elements
of this political ideal, and these as they belong to the aim of the
278 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
state, to its constitution and its essential social provisions. The
great aim of the state is in Plato's view the virtue of its citizens,
and so their well-being ; without this, all ordinary aims, physical
comfort, wealth, fame, external power, are all worthless. The state
is an institution of education, the true university ; nurture in
knowledge and morality, and through philosophy as the expression
of highest wisdom and truest culture, this is the essential mis-
sion of the state. Hence Plato's cardinal principle, the absolute
rule of philosophy, and so the rule of philosophers ; or as we have
it in his famous words ; " till philosophers are rulers, or rulers are
philosophers, there will be no end to the ills of states and of men."
With such an aim as this, the state is in its constitution aristo-
cratic ; but it is no aristocracy of birth or wealth, or of both to-
gether, but of virtue and knowledge, of men of largest native
and trained intelligence, and of noblest character. Every one is
to render the state the service for which by nature and education
he is best fitted, and to such service is he limited. The citizens are
divided first into those who administer public affairs, the guardians
of the state, and those who supply the common wants of life ; and
then the guardians are subdivided into those who govern, and
those who protect the state. Thus there are three classes, the
rulers, the soldiers, and the laborers. These classes are of the
nature of castes, inasmuch as each is wholly confined to its own
sphere. The government of the state belongs exclusively to the
rulers, and its protection to the soldiers ; and these two classes are
excluded from all industrial business, which is committed solely
to the third or laboring class. Thus the two higher classes having
absolutely no private interests and pursuits, are supported by the
commonwealth through the labor of the third class. These classes
constitute the many in the one state, and in the due observance
of the right relations between them lies the practical virtue of the
whole state. The wisdom of such a constituted state is in the
knowledge of the ruling class, its courage in the protecting class,
in their just and fixed conviction of what are worthy and what
unworthy objects of fear. Its temperance or self-control resides
not in one class, but in all classes, it is the common agreement,
practically and in theory, in recognizing who is to command, and
who to obey ; and finally, its justice is the fundamental quality of
the whole state, in which it lives as a moral atmosphere, and which
consists in each one having and doing only and just what belongs
to him without any interference with what belongs to others.
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 279
At this point, before proceeding to the special provisions of his
state, Socrates turns, and professes himself able after having read
the subject in the large letters, now to read it in the small, to
determine what is justice in men after having determined it in
society. In the man there are three elements corresponding to
the three classes of the state ; these are reason and desire as
respectively the highest and the lowest, and between \hQ^Q passion
or spirit^ which is the ally of reason unless it is corrupted by
bad training. Thus, as in the state, the individual man is wise
by virtue of the reason, courageous by virtue of the spirit, tem-
perate when the reason rules with the consent of spirit and de-
sire; he is just when each of the elements of his nature does
its own proper work with no interference with that of the others.
Justice is thus the moral harmony of the soul, its true health;
while injustice is disease and discord. Justice thus discovered
and explained through this assumed analogy of man and civil
society, Plato proceeds to fix the social provisions of his state.
Very briefly let me mention the chief of these. And first, as to
the education of the citizens : from Plato's absolute view of the
function of the state it necessarily follows as essential, that the
children of the state are to be educated by itself, and for itself and
for its own ends. No writer, ancient or modern, has put forth
more comprehensive views than Plato of the nature and scope of
the education of man, as covering his entire life and being, but
yet Plato's conception involves elements at variance alike with
nature and religion. Two things are to be mentioned as funda-
mental ; that the state, being absolute, has the entire control of
education, and that the education is limited to those destined to
be guardians. Children belong from their birth to the state ; when
born they are put directly in public nurseries ; they are not to
know their parents and their parents are not to know them. The
class in which each one is to belong is determined only by the
government, solely on the ground of native talent and character.
The education of all is planned and conducted by the state ; for
how, it is asked, can a matter so vital to the well-being of the
commonwealth be left to the caprice of individuals ? Plato keeps
to the traditional Greek curriculum in music and gymnastics, but
will have it pursued in no traditional, but in a wholly new way.
Music includes not only the science and art of harmonic sounds, but
all art and letters, and especially poetry. Gymnastics must look
to the training of the mind as well as of the body, and even more.
280 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
Music and gymnastics together are to secure an even develop-
ment of body and mind, a union of force and gentleness, of manly
vigor and moral grace and excellence. In all teaching of music
proper, and of art and poetry, the rulers must cultivate simplicity
and love of truth, and allow artistic creations only of the truly
noble and beautiful ; especially the old mythology must be purged
of all unworthy conceptions of the gods, and the Deity be repre-
sented as only and unchangeably good and true, and as willing
only good and truth. But to this earlier and ordinary training is
to be added for the rulers the higher and consummate education
of the philosopher. This is to be carried beyond youth into ripe
manhood, and to combine true knowledge with practical activity,
and to inform and possess the mind not alone with the harmonies
of sound, and with the beauties of letters, but with the ideas of
philosophy, for if the state is to prosper it must be governed by
philosophers. Through successive stages of knowledge and disci-
pline the soul is turned from changing phenomena to changeless
realities of being, to the apprehension and appropriation of gen-
eral ideas, and especially the highest of all, the idea of the good.
To touch briefly upon the stages of this education, — after the
more playful and unconstrained discipline of early youth, the
natural bent of all now discovered, the choicer characters from
the young men of twenty are to be trained more rigorously than
before, and all the sciences which they have studied as detached
they must now study as correlative ; at thirty the choicest of all
are to be picked from the rest, and for five years continue strenu-
ously devoted to philosophy ; then for fifteen years to get experi-
ence of life by holding subordinate offices in the state ; at length
at fifty they come to their task as rulers, and in their turn order
the state and the lives of men ; and so, after having trained up
others to fill their places, they finally depart to the Islands of the
Blest, and there abide in an everlasting home. Other provisions
followed from Plato's conception of the state, which are far less
easy to accept. The absoluteness given to the state made neces-
sary the annulling so far as possible of all private interests.
Hence the rulers and guardians must possess no private property ;
they live as in a camp, with messes and shelter in common, and
all that is needed furnished by the commonwealth ; mortal gold is
for them the accursed thing ; theirs is the gold of spiritual riches
and righteousness. Furthermore, as has been intimated, Plato
does away with aU separate family life ; and along with the rude
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 281
unsphering of woman's domestic life consequent upon such an
institution, he claims in accordance with the Socratic doctrine of
the equality of the sexes that women should have the same pur-
suits with men, alike in war and in politics, and for this end they
should have the same education.
Having thus established in the search for the nature of justice
the good state and the good man, Plato passes in review the types
of inferior states and inferior men in order to settle the question
of the necessary tendency of justice to happiness, and to show
that the just man is the happy man, and the unjust the unhappy.
This review makes a kind of philosophy of political history,
showing by what causes there is in successive downward stages
a gradual decline of public and private virtue and happiness
through timocracy as the rule of honor, oligarchy, where rules
the passion for wealth, and democracy, where all the passions are
in free play, down to the lowest depth of all, the tyrannical gov-
ernment and the tyrannical man, wherein all rule centres in an
all-absorbing selfishness. These pictures of social and individual
man are alike graphic and instructive, and have a fresco durability
of tone and coloring which is quite notable. Of them all, perhaps
that of the democracy and the democrat may be for us at least
the most entertaining. The democracy looks like the fairest of
all constitutions, it is so charmingly free and various, so embroid-
ered, like a gay spangled dress, with all forms of manners and
character. And what a place for one who is in quest of the right
sort of state ; for by reason of its liberty, it has in it a complete
assortment of commonwealths, and you can go to it as you would
to a bazaar, and pick out the one that suits you best. And then
look at the exquisite meekness and calmness of men in the demo-
cracy who have been tried in a court of laws and judged guilty
just for doing what they liked ! Did you ever notice in this very
flexible commonwealth how these gentlemen, who have been con-
demned to death or exile, just stay all the same and parade about
the streets, like heroes, as though nobody saw or cared ? And,
most of all, what a forgiving spirit the democracy has ! what a
sublime superiority to all petty considerations of aptitude in edu-
cation and character for high places of trust and power ! how
grandly does she fling away all thought of any preliminary train-
ing as needful to make a statesman, and delight to raise a man
to honor if he only says that he loves the dear people ! Truly a
charming parti-colored, lawless government, dispensing equality to
equals and unequals alike !
282 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
But the picture of profoundest ethical interest is that of the
tyrannical government and the tyrannical nature. The despot of
the soul, as the despot of the state, is at the farthest remove from
the ideal man and the ideal state. Reason is dethroned and
trampled under foot, and passion and appetite reign with ram-
pant license ; " the state of man like to a little kingdom suffering
then the nature of an insurrection ; " he is at war with himself, in
constant fear of enemies without and worse enemies within, master
of others, not master but the slave of himself, though outwardly
and to superficial observers happy yet the most wretched of
men, — the pitiable spectacle of injustice and misery indissolubly
bound together. It appears, then, from these and other like con-
siderations, Plato continues, that to maintain through justice the
inward harmony of the soul is the first and highest of all human
aims ; and ever will the just man form himself upon the pattern
of the perfect commonwealth, which doubtless exists in heaven if
it be found nowhere on earth. And now that it has been shown
that justice is in itself the just man's exceeding great reward, we
may in conclusion speak of the blessings bestowed upon it alike
by gods and men. We may be sure that all circumstances, how-
soever untoward they seem, will yet promote his highest good.
And men, though they may waver about the just and unjust char-
acter, will finally hold to the one and despise the other. And
yet all earthly awards are as nothing in number and greatness
compared with the lot that awaits the just and the unjust after
death. And this is now described, that each may receive the full
complement of recompense, which the argument is bound to set
forth. In this way Plato glides from his description of the per-
fect earthly state into his vision of the future world, where the
just awake to everlasting life and the unjust to shame and ever-
lasting contempt. And so at last, on reaching the heights of the
great argument, we find philosophy fading away into religion, and
the broken, dim lights of earth into the perfect brightness of the
heavens.
The state as thus constructed by Plato has been often viewed
as an enthusiast's dream, full of fantastic ideas, or at best as a
fine poetical fiction, informed by no conscious practical purpose.
But no one who studies the work can be content with such views
as these ; he will reject them as intellectually false and morally
insignificant and insipid. Plato's " Republic " is no dream or chi-
mera or idle fiction. It is imaginary, but it is not visionary ; it is
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 283
certainly unreal, as it is no description of any political constitu-
tion, existing or ever existent, as the institutions of Lycurgus or
of Solon or the American Constitution ; it is also not only a world
of ethical politics all unrealized, but the reality of its existence is
improbable, relatively to any known state of man and society ;
but it is of the nature of a true ideal, in that it creates and sets
forth a pattern of political perfection, which, though never fully
attainable, is yet real in idea, and is ever to be striven after and
by approximation made as nearly as possible real in practice. We
conceive as Christians of a state of perfect peace on earth, when
men will turn their swords into plowshares and their spears into
pruninghooks ; but though we deem it highly probable that men
will ever go on perfecting and using their implements of warfare,
we never consider the Christian conception as visionary and im-
practicable. Nay, is Christianity itself a dream or a chimera
because it gives men ideals of an individual and social perfection
never attainable on earth ? It is the peculiarity of Plato's state
as an ideal, that it combines facts of human experience with im-
aginative conceptions transcending all that men had ever known
in actual life ; it looks before and after ; it is conversant with all
the past of Athens and Greece, but not content to abide there ; it
reaches in vision far into the future, not only of Greece, but of the
world ; it is Greek, but it is human and universal. He carries to
the very extreme the fundamental ideas of Greek politics and
society; but yet breaking over historical limits, he passes far
beyond all the received ethical and religious views. He lights up
and quickens the dark and dying political forms of antiquity with
the spirit and life of a new time, which he seemed to see afar off,
of a better city which he looked for as yet to come. Plato's Re-
public is thus ideal, but it is also real ; it is both historical and
prophetic, and when it is considered in these two aspects, or rather
in this twofold aspect, it is most fruitful in interest and influ-
ence.
The real elements of the polity which Plato constructed are
readily discovered in the prevailing political views of the Greeks,
and in their political history. While it is true of Plato, as it is
often said, that he was fond of flying in the air, it is no less true
that he walked the solid earth and trod his native soil of Greece.
His perfect state, ideal as it is, rested upon the real foundation of
a Grecian commonwealth. The absoluteness of his state in the
control, and if need be in the suppression, of all personal interests
284 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
is in harmony with the established principle of Grecian politics,
and some of its provisions, so repulsive to modern ideas, as the
doing away with property and with separate family life, have at
least their germs in the actual manners and institutions of some
of the Grecian states. According to the Greek political theory,
the individual was wholly subordinated to the state ; the state was
supreme, and to it the citizens subjected and sacrificed all per-
sonal ends, inclinations, and objects. This is especially true of
the Dorian states and most of all of Sparta, where the government
moulded the whole being of the citizens, their very sentiments and
thoughts, bending to its will all private, family, and social life.
There was at least an approximation to Plato's provision of com-
munity of goods, for the Spartan citizens were allowed in case of
need to use the property of others, just as if their own. As in
Plato, too, the citizens were prohibited the use of gold and silver ;
they lived as in a camp, and messed in common ; the education
was under exclusive state control, and with gymnastics was for
both sexes together ; and the arrangements for marriage and
family life allowed an exchange of children and of wives. So,
too, most stringent measures were taken against all innovations
upon national customs ; foreign travel was forbidden, poets and
writers whose influence was feared were banished the country;
and in music — so much was the Spartan world governed — a
performer was restricted to a certain number of strings for his
lyre. Such facts as these are sufficient to show that some of
Plato's political arrangements, which have for the modern world
so strange an air, were in historical relation to real institutions,
which were native to the soil of Grecian politics. And if Plato
embodied the spirit and principles of these institutions in bolder
and more sharply defined forms than had ever existed in reality,
this procedure may be readily explained by the facts of Grecian
history, and the influence which they had upon his views. Since
the beginning of the Peloponnesian wars the long and bitter ex-
periences of the Greeks had seemed to show him that the welfare
of states was periled most of all by the selfishness of individual
citizens, and in the tragic act of the Athenian democracy in exe-
cuting his revered master, he thought that he read the doom of its
dissolution as a government of wild individualism. Like many
modern thinkers and theorists, he turned to the idea of an abso-
lute state-rule as the only sure safeguard against such evils, like
Hobbes and Locke, who looked in their common aversion to demo-
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. • 285
cracy, the one to an aristocracy as the surest adversary against
arbitrary power, and the other to the will of one man as the only
means of all men's happiness ; like recent reactionary statesmen
in Germany who would crush all excesses of liberty by crushing
all liberty itself ; so Plato aimed from like motives to absorb all
individual wills in the one wise absolute will of his aristocratic
government. The greatest good of a state, he argues, is unity,
the greatest evil is discord, but there will be unity and no discord
only when there are no private inclinations and interests. Thus
by doing away with property he would make impossible the strife
of private interests with the general good ; he would keep out, as
he thought, all covetousness by having nothing that men could
covet, and selfishness itself by having nothing that one could call
one's own.
But there are other elements of the Platonic Republic, and
these the most peculiar and controlling, which have no historical
connection with the institutions and legislation of Sparta or of
any other Grecian commonwealth. The chief of these, and that
which makes the corner-stone of Plato's political structure, is the
philosophical education of the rulers, and the absolute power of
rulers who by such an education have become masters, in theory
and practice, of true wisdom and virtue. By such an education
and power of the governing class, which was foreign to the whole
spirit of the Spartan system, he seems to have aimed to reinforce
the fundamental principle of all Greek politics which had been
tried and found wanting, and to construct an ideal state, which
should be made a well-ordered, harmonious whole, through the
perfected knowledge and character of absolute rulers. It has been
often suggested that Plato was indebted to Pythagoras, in part, at
least, for this idea, and certainly the celebrated society, or order
of brethren, which was established by that philosopher bears a
striking resemblance in some of its features to that of the ideal
guardians of Plato's Republic. The Pythagorean order was not,
it is true, in its nature a political body ; it was rather a religious
brotherhood, and, indeed, has been compared as such with the great
order founded by Loyola ; but it was kindred in its moral aims,
in its severe moral and intellectual training and its way of life,
to Plato's select class of philosophical sovereigns. Like Pythago-
ras in his order, Plato in his Republic aspired to a supremacy
of reason, and sought by such exalted control to form a human
state which might in its harmony be an image of the moral gov-
286 • PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
ernment of the world. But far more than to Pythagoras was
Plato indebted to himself and to the ideas of his own philosophy,
to his own ideal theory, for the ruling principle of his common-
wealth. He looked upon all the objects of the world of sense as
only wavering images of unchanging realities in a world of intel-
ligence, the whole visible and temporal world itself as onl}^ an
imperfect appearance of a world invisible and eternal ; he believed
that it was for the reason of man to rise by reflection and contem-
plation from this lower world to that higher one, from the study
of phenomena to rise to the vision and perfect enjoyment of ideas,
and to God himself, as the supreme idea of all, and the One Being.
But as he taught in his allegorical myth, most men live only in
that lower world of sense, they are denizens of the cave, and dwell
amid its idols ; they walk in darkness, and see not the truth ; the
philosophers alone have been turned from darkness to light, from
empty shadows to substantial realities, and have risen through the
love and steadfast pursuit of wisdom to the world of intelligence,
and gazed ever upon its sun, the idea of good. It is only these
who by the fullest development of their individual personal freedom
in the higher philosophical education have reached the knowledge
of being, and of the laws of man's life, who are fitted to be the
teachers and guides of society, to descend from their heaven of
contemplation to the den of earth to promote the good of their
fellow-men; in short, by their absolute supremacy of rule, to form
the perfect state and administer its affairs. How could it be hoped,
he argues, that the mass of men would at first voluntarily submit
to this rule, into the reasonableness and necessity of which they
have no insight, and which they might consider an intolerable lim-
itation of their sensuous nature ? And, on the other hand, how
could the philosophers be adequate to their great office, except by
the renunciation of all lower occupations and pleasures, which
always act as disturbing agencies on man's higher life, and by the
abnegation of all private interests, which hinder the general good
and distract and rend the commonwealth? These are the chief
elements of Plato's state ; with some, which as we have seen were
historical, he sought to unite others only ideal, and difficult, per-
haps impossible, of such union ; requiring conditions not then ex-
isting, and since seen only in part, to be fully known only in that
ever future, the light of which even at this distance he seemed to
discern, which is ever alluring the hopes and drawing the faith of
mankind. With whatever errors it contains, whether the smaller
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 287
or the greater, when its far-reaching, general views are contem-
plated, and especially its lofty ethical spirit and aims, we may
well pardon its more enthusiastic students, who prefer to err with
Plato than to be right with some of the so-called practical states-
men and legislators of subsequent times. With Plato, the individ-
ual was to be nothing without the state, and yet the ruling citi-
zens were not to be content within the range of political activity,
but to aspire after far higher ends. The republic was to be a realm
of virtue ; but it was not the civic virtue of the Greek commu-
nities which had in view the attainment of political advantages
and objects, and so had a recompense out of itself ; but it was a
virtue of an ethical quality, which was the fruit of the deepest
and richest individual culture, which found its reward partly in
itself, and looked for it in its fullness in a future state of being,
where all the jarring moral discords of the present life were to be
completely harmonized.
Of this ideal state Mr. Jowett has made the profound remark
that Plato attempted a task really impossible, which was to unite
the past of Greek history with the future of philosophy. If we
take this remark as Mr. Jowett probably meant it, in the full Pla-
tonic sense of philosophy, this task seems yet more impossible, for
it was to unite all that past of Greece, so rich and yet so poor,
with all the future of religion as it was to be formed and perfected
by Christianity and the Christian church. By many writers, in-
deed, the analogy has been noticed between the conceptions of
Plato and those which gradually came into being and shaped
themselves into organic form and life in the earlier Christian
world, in church and state. When we remember the great influ-
ence of Plato's philosophy upon the whole course of philosophical
and religious thought in the first Christian centuries, we may
well expect to find traces of it in the theology and the gov-
ernment of the church in its earlier history. In the rise and
establishment of Christianity all the great thinkers and writers
on both sides were versed in Plato, and borrowed from him their
weapons, both of attack and defense. The names of Philo, of
Plotinus and Porphyry among the Neo-Platonists, and of the
church fathers, of Justin the Martyr, Clement of Alexandria,
Origen, and Augustine, afford eminent illustrations of this fact.
Indeed, the whole philosophy of the church fathers and a large
part of their theology exhibit a systematic and long-continued
effort to employ Greek speculation for the understanding and
288 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
propagation of Christian doctrine. When we recall these facts,
we are less surprised to discover upon a nearer comparison that
while the Christian religion is nowise indebted to Platonism for
its origin and its truths, yet that in the ecclesiastical form and
the theological views of the mediaeval church the ideas of Plato
in his " Republic " seem like prophecies to have passed over into
fulfillment. We have seen that in Plato the state is in its nature
an organized ministry of morality ; its very function is to train
its citizens to virtue and so to true well-being, to turn their eye
and their mind to a higher and spiritual world, and to conduct
them to that perfect happiness after death which, as taught in
the myth as the^ culminating end of Plato's ideal, is set forth
as the final goal of all striving and struggling of man's earthly
career. Is there not a resemblance in the idea of such a philo-
sophical state to the revealed truth in the Christian religion of
an invisible, divine kingdom, of which the church is the earthly
and visible form ? Further, as the rule in Plato's state was to be
exercised by philosophers, because they alone, through science,
were possessed of true wisdom, so in the mediaeval church a like
position was accorded to the priestly order, on the theory that to
them alone had been disclosed the world of revealed truth. The
Platonic guardians had some counterpart in the princes and
knights who were to protect and defend the church and execute
the orders of the priests ; and certainly Plato's third, or laboring
class, of whom we hear scarcely more than they were to till the
soil and be governed, gives no inapt type in idea of the mass of
mankind who made up the laity of the mediaeval church.
There are also points of resemblance presented by these politi-
cal arrangements of Plato, to which in modern times we are wont
to take exception. Even in the days of the apostles, as we learn
from Scripture, "all that believed were together, and had all
things common ; " and as Mr. Jowett has remarked, " this princi-
ple has been maintained as a counsel of perfection in almost all
ages of the church." The entire Christian monastic life in all its
various forms involves such an adoption of community of prop-
erty as was applied by Plato to his ruling and military orders ;
monachism, indeed, in its original meaning and form, as a solitary
life in the desert, necessarily presupposed a voluntary abandon-
ment of earthly possessions. It was also essentially the same view
and mode of life out of which, in both cases, this social provision
arose ; it was the old dualistic view of man's nature and earthly
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 289
being, and its consequent asceticism, which required the crushing
out of the sensuous element in man in order to secure the devel-
opment of the rational, and seclusion from the world as necessary
for nearness to God and divine things. In the one case it is a
philosophical asceticism, in the other a religious. Plato's ideal
philosophical ruler is in principle as truly an ascetic as was ever
the most real monk of the mediaeval church. His ideal goal is
something higher than the real one of Symeon, the celebrated Pil-
lar-Saint; it is nothing less spiritually than absolute self-abnega-
tion. On entering the class of guardians he renounces all rights
of property and person ; and as he goes up through the stages of
his elaborate education for government, he is so absorbed in the
contemplation of pure ideas as to be dead to earth and all earthly
good. Only by merging and losing individual will in reason does
he come to be spiritually free, and so by " having nothing " " to
possess all things ; " and only when thus he is master of self, and
the possessor of all things, is he fitted to teach and govern others.
There is still another feature of this analogy to which, with
some hesitation, I may call attention. Paradoxical as it may seem,
yet, as has been observed by an acute German writer, there is also
a resemblance in principle between Plato's arrangements for the
marriage relations of his guardians and the celibacy of the clergy,
as first instituted by Gregory Seventh, and yet existing in the
Roman church. These arrangements are utterly repugnant to
all modern and Christian sentiments, as involving to some extent
community of wives and children. But we must do justice to
Plato as not only a man of loftiest personal character, but also as
a writer who ever defended right against wrong and virtue against
vice. What is to be noticed here is, that Plato's strict regulation
touching the marriages of his guardians and the church prohibi-
tion to the priests of marriage at all rest substantially upon the
same grounds. Plato forbids separate family relations to his guar-
dians, in order that they may give themselves exclusively to the
state, just as Gregory imposed celibacy upon his clergy that they
might devote their lives undivided and entire to the church. In
both cases family ties and interests were deemed hostile to aims
which were constructively paramount. It is also most important
to remember that the Platonic provisions were most rigidly restric-
tive of sexual relations between the male and female guardians.
Indeed, personal inclination was reduced to the minimum, ideally
even to the vanishing point, and impulse put under the absolute
290 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
control of reason. In his own words, " all things were to proceed
in an orderly fashion, and licentiousness as an unholy thing to be
forbidden by the rulers." In the sexual functions, as in all others,
the citizens were organs of the state, marriage was not a matter
of desire or interest, but of duty ; it was regarded as holy, celebrated
only at certain appointed festivals, the ceremony originated, and
the couples selected by the government ; children were to be born
when and just as the state needed, and born only of those whom
the state chose, and chose distinctly with reference to the im-
provement of the race, or, to use Plato's expression, the purity
and nobleness of the breed. It was, then, not license which was
the aim of these provisions of the ideal state ; it was rather re-
nunciation and self-denial, just as the purpose of the church in
the institution and observance of clerical celibacy; and it is an
interesting question whether it might not have been quite as well
for the morality of the world and the improvement of the race if
Gregory and his successors had adopted a Platonic restrictive
marriage for their clergy instead of enjoining absolute continence.
If we come now to times yet farther removed from Plato, and
consider in the light of modern ideas and a pure Christianity
alike his ideal state and the form of the church with which it has
been compared, we find much to desire, much to object to in both,
and hardly more in the one than in the other.
Here it is easy for us to see that the capital fault of Plato's
politics lies in his narrow view of the relations and rights of the
individual in the state and in society. The personal freedom, the
personality itself of the individual and his capacity for utmost
improvement, was introduced by him into his state, but it was
limited to the first two of his three classes of citizens ; indeed, in
its complete application it was confined to the first class ; they
alone were capable of his high education, and so alone capable of
ruling. The third or laboring class, the multitude or the demoSy
were of little account ; they were there to work for their betters
and unconditionally submit to them ; to be cared for, indeed, but
by governing, and to be thus cared for and governed all too much.
In his myth of the earth-born men, these were the men of brass
and iron, made to be husbandmen and tradesmen, and by nature
subordinate to their brethren of gold and silver make, who were
born to be philosophers and rulers. Plato thus introduced in its
application to his higher orders a political and social principle
which was not only adverse to his historical one of the absoluteness
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 291
of the state, but was subversive of it ; in its nature and legitimate
consequences it looked to a form of society for which Plato himself
and the ancient world were unprepared, which should have its foun-
dation in the spiritual equality of all men. So, too, in the Christian
politics of the mediaeval hierarchy the common people of the laity
hold a like subordinate place and from a similar view; they are not
true citizens of the heavenly state, they are incapable of citizenship,
they are like the common people of Aristotle's state, they are
not so much members of the commonwealth, but rather adjuncts
to it, or at best a kind of Jewish proselytes at the gate ; they are
subject to the authority and direction of the select few, of the
priestly order, to whom alone has been opened the world of re-
vealed truth and who hold the keys of the kingdom of heaven.
Such a conception falls short no less than Plato's of the Christian
ideal of that divine spiritual community whose friendly doors ever
stand open to all who will enter in, wherein all men are not only
fellow-citizens but kings and priests unto God.
There are other ideal views of Plato's state which have been
partially realized in the modern world, and others which are yet
ideal and prophetic, still looking onward to some better future
to come. His view of a system of education as public and exclu-
sively under state control, and designed for all and of both sexes,
has certainly found its way in part in some modern states, and is
finding its way entire into all ; in some states even his provision
of such an education as compulsory has already been adopted. It
may be found as the centuries go on that his ideal anticipations
will be completely realized, and that such a lofty, intellectual,
and moral education as he sketched for only the best citizens of a
single state is by and by to be read in the " large letters " of an
education of like fine quality and extended range for all the citi-
zens of all states, for all mankind. And certainly the utmost
human wisdom and striving can go no farther than to make real
in the life of all men the thought which Plato was the first to
express, that the whole of man's earthly life is one great sphere
of education for another life, in which by a higher education he is
to make endless progress in knowledge and goodness.
But how will Plato's grand central idea be received in modern
politics, that the rulers of the state must be philosophers ? Per-
haps with the same derisive laughter which Plato himself said
would greet it on its first enunciation. In his best humor he says
to Glaucon, just as he was reaching this statement, " and now
292 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
comes the huge wave which is to deluge me with laughter and
infamy." And Glaucon tells him, when he has heard it, that all
the world will run at him might and main, and that he will only-
get well jeered for his pains and penalties. Nevertheless, when
rightly apprehended, is it not a true idea, and has not the pro-
gress of modern states kept pace with the process of its fulfill-
ment ? Plato might indeed search with a candle in modern states,
and never discover his philosophical rulers in the heads of govern-
ment, whether imperial, royal, or republican. And yet, in com-
parison with earlier times, it has come to be universally recog-
nized that all statesmen and great leaders in public affairs must
not only be educated men, but also by study and reflection have
attained to the mastery of general views and principles in all
departments of thought and action. What but this is taught by
the career of a Bismarck in civil and a von Moltke in military
affairs? And Plato was also well aware of the difficulty, so
familiar to the many and the few, the wise and the unwise, of
carrying theory over into practice, and of combining the two in
the character and lives of men, of uniting thought with action,
the pursuit of ideal truth with the exercise of practical influence
in government and society. He makes Adeimantus say, what has
been ever echoed by the multitude, that your philosopher-states-
men, and ever and most of all the best of them, are useless to the
world, and are made useless by the very thought and study which
they extol so much. But Plato reminds him that while the so-
called practical politicians may do well enough for ordinary times,
it is only the statesmen who are versed in general principles, the
philosophers who are masters of ideas, who show their superiority,
and are alone of any avail, when there arise, as arise they must,
great exigencies and crises in public life, the great and over-
whelming tides in the affairs of the states ; indeed, to use his own
figure, when the storm is up and the ship of state in imminent
peril they alone are the true pilots and captains, though in fair
weather and a smooth sea they are derided as babblers and star-
gazers. With a singular insight, too, does he penetrate to the
causes of this evil name which philosophy has with the multitude.
Partly, they have no knowledge of it, or taste of it, or sympathy
with it ; and so they dislike and deride it. Partly, too, they have
seen only bad specimens of philosophers in statesmen ; sometimes
these are mere counterfeits of the true coin, half-educated states-
men, who have been very clever in certain crafts, and aspiring to
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 293
something higher have made a leap from these crafts into phi-
losophy, rushing in, fools as they are, where finer and better
natures fear to tread. Then, too, these genuine natures have so
often missed their high destiny through the action of manifold
adverse forces ; they have been spoiled by contact with the world,
corrupted by public opinion, or borne down by temptations to per-
sonal or party issues. Most graphic is the picture here drawn
of these debasing and corrupting powers of the world, and very
striking the remark, that while things remain as they are, if even
one is saved and comes to good, it must be by the power of God,
and not by his own strength. But he tells his young friends that
they are nevertheless not to despair of philosophy. By and by.
Heaven only knows where or when, in some fair clime in some
golden time, there shall come upon the public scene the true phi-
losophers rightly and perfectly trained, and when men shall once
see them they shall straightway be of another mind, and then
shall our ideal polity come into being.
There is one more of Plato's views which is vital to his whole
system, to which I must at least briefly allude. This is the admis-
sion of women to his class of guardians, and to the discharge of all
its functions alike in peace and in war, and to all its preliminary
training and education. Of course this whole procedure grows
out of his opinion of the essential equality of the sexes ; and in all
his ideas on this subject he is not only far in advance of antiquity,
but even of all modern times, and of the foremost theorists in our
own day. Indeed, no modern advocate of this now much dis-
cussed doctrine of the equality of woman to man has put it upon
so square a basis as Plato. He contends that the restricting of
women to housekeeping and indoor occupations, or any separation
of the life and pursuits of the sexes, is unnatural, and that the
real order of nature is a similarity of training and all subsequent
pursuits. This he argues from the analogy of the sexes in other
animals. All male and female animals are put to the same uses,
why not, then, the two sexes in man ? or, as Mr. Jowett very
strongly puts it after Plato, " dogs are not divided into he's and
she's, nor do we take the masculine gender out to hunt and leave
the females at home to look after the puppies." Women are the
same in kind as men, with only a difference of degree in favor of
men. If women differ in capacity from men, so men differ equally
in capacity from one another. The only organic difference is in
the sexual function itself ; and apart from this, as Plato himself
294 PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
puts it in a single sentence, " None of the occupations which com-
prehend the ordering of a state belong to woman as woman, nor
yet to man as man ; but natural gifts are to be found in both
sexes alike, and, so far as her nature is concerned, the woman is
admissible to all pursuits as well as the man ; though in all of
them the woman is weaker than the man." However much men
now may differ from Plato in this view of the equality of the
sexes, yet certainly all will agree that his conception of the posi-
tion due to woman in society and his demand for her highest
education, intellectual and moral, not only show his own remark-
able superiority to the ideas of his own time and country, but
also that they are singularly coincident with the spirit of Chris-
tianity and of Christian civilization. It would be interesting to
examine in comparison with Plato's " Republic " the many works
of a similar kind which have been written in subsequent times.
All these, such as the " De Republica " of Cicero in ancient and the
" Utopia " of More in modern times, are political ideals constructed
upon the model of Plato's work, and reproducing with more or
less fullness its principal features ; in some his supremacy of men
of science and learning, in nearly all his views of family life and
property and education. But Plato's polity is essentially distin-
guished from them all by its ruling ethical spirit, by its great end
to make the state an institution of virtue as well as intelligence,
of an education which should compass the whole life and being
of its citizens. In this its ruling ethical character Plato's " Re-
public " is not unworthy of comparison with the great Christian
ideal embodied by Augustine in his " De Civitate Dei." In
dialectic reasoning, in imaginative power, in richness and finish
of literary culture, the pagan philosopher far surpasses the Chris-
tian father ; in their relations to their times, and in their high
spiritual aims and motives as writers, they have much in com-
mon ; while in Augustine there is that superior elevation of con-
ception, a loftiness of prophetic vision, which he had reached in
passing from the domain of Greek speculation to the realm of
revealed truth, from the school of Plato to the school of Christ.
Amid the decaying fortunes of the Greek states, Plato reared
in imagination a commonwealth of finer and enduring quality,
where ignorance should be chased away by the light of know-
ledge, and all the strife of passion and moral evil be hushed and
subdued to the peace and harmony of reason and virtue. In that
commonwealth, as it rises into being at the touch of his creative
PLATO'S REPUBLIC. 295
power, there shines the glad, bright, happy life of the olden Greek
times ; but all around and far beyond it there seems to be loom-
ing up to alluring view another and future life of endless and per-
fect being. So was it, but now in the clear vision of Christian
faith, with Augustine. He had just felt the shock of that great
event, the capture and destruction of Rome. As he dwelt upon
the fall of that city which had enthralled the world, and saw the
crumbling and dissolution of the vast Roman empire, and beheld
the instability of all earthly governments, he turned away from
the sight to gaze upon that heavenly kingdom which had been
established on earth, and was destined to be a universal and last-
ing dominion. And so he set himself to the sublime task of con-
templating and unfolding the progress and destiny of the true
theocracy, — that city which hath foundations, whose builder and
maker is God.
EOMAN TEAVEL AND TKAVELERS.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, JANUARY 16, 1874.
Horace in his famous journey to Brundusium has made us
familiar with those aspects of traveling which the poet was fond
of taking in his writings, and which are very characteristic of
his good sense, his happy content of mind. The most distant
journey he ever made was to Athens, and that was in his youth
and for study and culture; but in all his after life he was no
traveler; he was fond, indeed, of rambling among his Sabine
hills and valleys, and sometimes went to the seashore or into
the interior to recruit his health, but for the most part he was
reluctant to get away from home and country, and never tired
of deploring the unhappy lot of some of his friends who were
always roaming abroad in quest of happiness, forgetting that
without wisdom and equanimity all they who ran across the seas
changed only their skies and not their mind. I have been fre-
quently drawn by a reading of these Horatian passages to some
inquiries into the general subject, and I propose to give you this
evening, as a contribution to our knowledge of ancient Roman life,
such notices and reflections as I have gathered in prosecuting
these inquiries. Let me ask you to observe with me (1) how far
traveling entered into the life and the culture of the ancient Ro-
mans, (2) what facilities they had for it, (8) what were the dif-
ferent classes of travelers among them, (4) what countries they
chiefly visited, and (5) what were the controlling motives under
which they pursued their travels.
We are greatly in error if we infer from the immensely im-
proved conditions for locomotion and intercourse with the world
peculiar to our times and country that traveling was an infrequent
and exceptional affair in ancient Roman life ; on the contrary, in
the Augustan age and the times immediately succeeding, it was
the habit, well-nigh the passion, of the Romans, and it was certainly
quite as common with them and as easy of accomplishment in the
first two or three centuries of the empire as for our people in this
nineteenth century before the introduction of railroads and steam-
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 297
ships. The peace which came in with the imperial rule, and
rested even as a gracious calm after a storm upon the whole
world so long rent and torn by war and battle, brought among its
many blessings the amplest security to every Roman citizen of
gratifying to the full his eager curiosity to see all parts of the
great empire which in some sense he could call his own, and even
of penetrating to the remotest corners of the earth. All men
sympathized with Virgil's shepherd in his grateful praise of him
who even as a god had given them this peace — " Deus nobis
hcec otia fecit, ''^ and with the prayer, too, of the Horatian muse,
that the day might be far distant when his peaceful rule should
end. All might go whither they would even as from one home to
another, carrying their property with them ; no more were they
disturbed by sound of arms, by fear of robbers on land, or of
pirates on sea. The majesty of Roman dominion had impressed
a friendly unity upon the entire globe, and the old Homeric fancy
of " the earth common to all " had passed into a reality.
To this general consideration of security may be added, as
another favorable condition for travel, the admirable widely ex-
tended system of military roads which belonged to this period
of Roman history. This system, which had its noble beginning
in the Appian Way (Regina Viarum), and which, keeping pace
with Rome's progress of conquest and dominion, had already be-
fore the end of the republic united with the capital all parts
of Italy, was now extended by Augustus and his successors over
all the foreign provinces, and reached the utmost boundaries of
the empire. The golden milestone set up by Augustus in the
Forum, a striking image of the centralization of Rome, was the
central point of a vast network of roads which kept the emperor's
palace and his departments of state in direct lines of communication
with all the provinces and subjects of his world-wide dominion.
Originally military roads, which had borne the weight of war in
the tramp of marching legions, they now became grand highways
of peace, along which troops of citizens securely wended their
quiet way, bent on their various errands of public or private
business.
There existed, too, all needful facilities in vehicles, inns, and
other appliances, for traveling on all these roads with convenience
and even with speed. Travelers of simple tastes and robust
health made shorter journeys on foot; and not infrequently do
we have pictures of vigorous Romans, their toga girt high, their
298 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
inconsiderable impedimenta at their back, striding along on some
Latin road. Others went on horseback or on the back of a mule,
like Horace, who, as he tells us, went on his cropped mule even
as far as Tarentum, his cloak bag galling the loins of the beast
and the rider his ribs. And vehicles there were of all sorts
and sizes, government post-chaises, passenger-coaches, like the
Italian vetture^ or the statelier equipages of private citizens.
Suetonius informs us, in his life of Augustus, that the emperor
established on all the great roads an amply appointed posting-
system for the purpose of securing an easy and rapid communication
with all the provinces. At the distances of a day's journey post-
houses were erected, furnished with accommodations for couriers
and travelers, and with buildings for horses and mules. Between
every two of these houses were placed smaller posts, each intended
only to furnish relays and having forty horses. The size and
capacity of the coaches, and the number of horses for each and
the number of persons to be carried, were all fixed by law ; four-
wheeled coaches carrying six hundredweight and furnished with
ten horses in winter and eight in summer, and two- wheeled coaches
limited to two hundredweight, and drawn by three horses ; the
number of persons in any coach was never more than three. But
as the government post was chiefly used only by those who were
more or less nearly connected with the public service, private
citizens embarked their capital and enterprise in stage companies
to supply the wants of the larger traveling public. These com-
panies made their posting arrangements upon the model of the
government system, and forwarded travelers by changes of coaches
and horses, or, like the Italian vetturini, accommodated slower
travelers with the same coach and team for a long journey. In
respect to the average speed of travel secured by these nwdes
of conveyance we have sufficient means of forming a sure esti-
mate. Gibbon in his account of the Roman roads says that it
was easy to travel by post about a hundred miles a day. Making
allowance for the Roman mile being shorter than the English
(480 feet, 5,280, 4,800), we find this statement agrees with no-
tices of journeys recorded in ancient writers. The average rate
was five Roman miles an hour. One might travel by government
post from Antioch to Constantinople, a distance of 750 miles, in
not quite six days. Julius Caesar traveled from Rome to the
Rhone, a distance of 800 miles, in eight days. The swiftest
Roman journey on record was made by Tiberius when he was
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 299
suddenly summoned to Germany by intelligence of the illness of
Drusus. With only one attendant, and with many relays of
horses, he made 200 miles in the 24 hours (probably horseback
— though Pliny says hy carriage). But ordinary travelers who
stopped over night of course took far more time for their jour-
neys. From Kome to Brundusium, a distance of 360 miles, the
journey generally took ten days ; Horace and his party traveled
very leisurely, and spent fourteen on the way.
The higher and richer classes of society were wont to travel in
their own carriages, and with a numerous attendance of servants,
and with all appointments which their wealth and luxury provided.
Suetonius tells us that Nero traveled with no less than a thousand
state coaches, the shoes of his horses and mules made of silver,
and his drivers and couriers dressed in scarlet liveries. People of
rank were not slow to follow these imperial examples, so that lux-
ury in traveling became general, and indeed so ruinous was the
extravagance that not infrequently, as in modern times, men
lived abroad like millionaires, and in the last stage of the journey
home went straight into bankruptcy. The equipages compared
favorably, in the convenience, elegance, and costliness of their
appointments, with those of modern times, the horses caparisoned
with purple and embroidered trappings, the carriages of the best
make richly furnished, and so capacious and their ample spaces
so arranged for various uses of reading, writing, and sleeping, that
the description of them reminds one even of the drawing-room and
sleeping cars on our rail trains. Suetonius records of the Emperor
Claudius, who was very fond of games of chance and skill, that
he had his backgammon boards set fast in his traveling carriage,
so that he could play his favorite games as he journeyed. Public
houses, and now and then well-appointed ones, there were in abun-
dance, especially in great commercial towns, or at the watering-
places. The Romans, indeed, like the Greeks, were fond of avail-
ing themselves, on their journeys, of the hospitalities of their
friends. So Julius Csesar, in Milan, stopped with his friend Vale-
rius Leo ; Verres, when traveling in Sicily, with Sthenius at Ther-
mae. So Horace and his party were entertained at Formiae, with
lodgings by Murena, and with table by Capito. And sacred and
piously observed as was the rite of hospitality with the Romans,
as with the Greeks before them, yet it is curious to find the shrewd
piece of advice by Columella when treating of the building of vil-
las, " Don't put your villa on the high road, lest your housekeeping
300 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
suffer by the everlasting turning-in of your traveling friends."
But where such convenient stopping-places were wanting the Ro-
man people of quality had to put up at the public house, like their
poorer countrymen, and content themselves with its indifferent
accommodations. Every village had its inn and its publican, and
in large towns the traveler had his choice among several public
houses. It was the custom, too, of landed proprietors to put up
an inn on some part of an estate which lay on the high road, and
have it kept by one of their freedmen or slaves. Here they had a
ready market for the produce of their estates, and especially their
wines, and often added largely to their income from the business
of the inn. The stations often derived their names from these
taverns, as, for instance, the common name of Tres Tabernse, also
of Ad Medias, Ad Novas, Ad Veteres. The inns had also their
signs, as in modern times, with their names upon them, and gayly
painted pictures and inscriptions setting forth the merits of the
house. Thus we find the names of the Eagle, the Elephant, the
Dragon, the Great Crane. The sign of a much frequented house
in Gaul read as follows : " Here Mercury promises gain, Apollo
health, Septiunanus lodgings and table. Stranger, look to it,
where you stop. Whoever turns in here will never regret it."
Yet the ordinary inns, like most of those now found in Italy and
Greece, were far from inviting ; they were crowded with the com-
mon people, hostlers, and drivers, were full of noise, smoke, and
vile odors, and, as at this day everywhere in Greece outside of
Athens, the indifferent beds and bedding swarmed with numerous
varieties of foul insects, flying, crawling, and leaping, which Pliny
groups all under the euphemistic name of the " summer creatures
of inns," cauponum cestiva animalia. The regular prices even
of good inns were not high, at least according to modern reckon-
ing. We have also preserved to us a day's hotel bill from those
times. On a bas-relief found at ^sernia, a traveler while hold-
ing his mule by the rein is settling his bill with the landlord, and
the conversation is given thus : " Landlord. You have had with
a pint of wine, bread one as, vegetables two ases^ three ases (an
as = 1|- cents, 4.5). Traveler. All right. Landlord. A girl, at-
tendance (^puellani)^ 8 ases (12 cents). Traveler. That 's all
right, too. Landlord. Hay for the mule, two ases (3 cents).
Traveler. This mule will ruin me yet." The whole reckoning
thus was about 20 cents. Polybius sets the daily reckoning at
only half an as. We may thus see that the two pence, or two
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 301
denarii (32 cents), given to the host by the Good Samaritan in
Scripture were a liberal allowance, and were meant to cover also
the expenses of medical attendance. In general, as we may infer
sufficiently from Horace's testimony, the innkeepers were on all
accounts in ill repute. Even as now, with the same class in Italy,
they were given to aU kinds of petty cheating, such as giving short
measure in the provender for the horses, and indeed in giving
none at all, and especially in adulterating the wines ordered by
their guests. I may mention in passing, as a curious little illustra-
tion in comparative philology, that the Greek verb KaTrrjXevo), which
means first to keep a crib or a manger, comes to mean both in
classic and New Testament Greek to adulterate, to cheat, in the
same way as our verb crib has come to have the like bad sense, and
even to cheating in the use of classic words, from the same word
used as a noun.
The ancient travelers also suffered no less than the modern
from the frauds and petty annoyances of tax-gatherers, or the
publicans, who were the custom-house officers of the Koman gov-
ernment. Cicero mentions in his times the complaints of the citi-
zens as directed, not against the duties themselves, but the injuries
which they suffered from the deputies in their collection ; and at
a later period Tacitus, in his "Agricola," awards praise to his
father-in-law, that when he was the governor of Britain he abol-
ished the tricky frauds of the publicans, which were felt by the
provincialists to be a far heavier weight to carry than the tribute
itself. Plutarch says in one of his Moralia, " We quarrel with the
collectors of duties, not when they examine the things which are
opened to their inspection, but when, in their annoying curiosity,
in searching after contraband goods, they rudely rummage over
our baggage ; " he adds, however, with his wonted honesty, " yet
the law allows them to do this, and if they fail to do it, they make
themselves liable." We get some items of information on these
matters where we might least expect it, among the themes set
down in one of Quintilian's " Declamationes." The theme is
given thus: "All things except those needful for the journey
must pay the quadragesima (the fortieth) to the publican. The
publican is allowed the right of search ; and whatever is dutiable
and has not been declared is forfeit. The publican may not search
a matron." Next to this last theme comes the following, which
shows that travelers then, also, and women, too, had their smug-
gling tricks as well as now. " A matron makes a journey, and has
302 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
with her four hundred pearls ; when she comes to the publican,
she hides them in her bosom. When the publican demands them,
the matron tells him to search ; the publican declines doing this ;
he puts his hand on the pearls stowed away, and declares them
his own." Such chance information we owe to a teacher of rhet-
oric, as he gives themes to the Eoman boys for their essays and
declamations.
From these notices of the security and various facilities of
ancient Roman travel, I pass to speak of the different classes of
travelers and of the motives and interests which governed them.
In general it is obvious that alike the great extent and the central-
ization of the Roman Empire brought about the necessity of con-
stant motion in traveling for a large part of its inhabitants. So
numerous and complex were the relations of life existing among
the members of so vast a community, that there were perpetual
streams of intercourse pouring in and out of the gates of the
capital, and flowing to and from all the regions of the world.
Ambassadors and couriers of the governments, senators and mag-
istrates of all grades, sent on various public missions, and private
citizens of all classes, bent on different errands of business or
pleasure, were passing to and fro between Rome and the provinces,
or in the provinces between different places and the seats of the
provincial governors. One writer remarks (Epict. Diss. III. 24,
26), " Senators cannot, like plants, be rooted to the soil; they can
give but little heed to their own homes and private affairs, but
must ever be traveling in the behalf of the manifold interests of
the state ; " and another mentions that the people of Byzantium
annually sent an ambassador with a large retinue to Rome to greet
the emperor, and also to the governor of the province of Moesia.
So, too, we find in illustration of the widely extended relations
of private and professional life, that Greek scholars lectured
and taught in Spain, Grecian artists and sculptors painted and
wrought in Gaul, and goldsmiths from Asia Minor found a mar-
ket for their wares among the women of a Roman colony in Swit-
zerland; so, too, Gauls and Germans served as bodyguards of
Herod at Jerusalem, and in turn Jews were wandering about in
all the provinces.
But if we endeavor to unfold this general view into some pai*-
ticulars, we can easily discover among the Romans, even as now
among ourselves, three classes of travelers, according as they
were chiefly influenced by considerations of business or amuse-
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 303
ment, or of information and general culture. Doubtless these dis-
tinctions might not always be sharply made any more than now,
and people might more or less have all these objects in view.
Shrewd men of business often would manage to derive some
amusement as well as knowledge out of their journeys, and men of
culture would not in traveling be without entertainment or busi-
est occupation, and travelers of the lighter calibre were as skill-
ful then as now in making a most absorbing business of pleasure.
Still we may with reason as well as convenience discuss our sub-
ject from this threefold point of view. I might occupy the re-
mainder of my paper with accounts of the journeys and voyages
undertaken by Komans and Roman subjects in the interest of
trade and commerce. The traders and merchants not only trav-
ersed all Italy and the provinces to the westward, but also crossed
the seas, and made their way eastward through Greece and Asia
Minor to the Euphrates, and to the south and southeast to Egypt,
and thence by the Red Sea to India, and to China. Horace, in
describing his vagus mercator^ speaks of him as exchanging his
wares from the setting to the rising sun, and running in his
busy haste even to the farthest Indies. Pliny says that im-
mense multitudes sailed in pursuit of gain on all waters, and
Juvenal declares that the ocean is so filled with ships that there
are well-nigh more people on sea than on land. We have it
recorded on an inscription that one Elavius, a Phrygian trader,
made the journey to Italy twenty-seven times ; and Horace de-
scribes his merchant as revisiting the Atlantic three or four times
a year. The merchandise of the East had in earlier times reached
Italy by northern routes, either through Media, Armenia, and the
eastern and southern shores of the Euxine, or else by the Eu-
phrates through Syria and the central parts of Asia Minor.^ But
after the conquest of Egypt the Romans shared with the Greeks
and Egyptians the lucrative trade by which the wares of Arabia
and India were brought by the Red Sea and the Nile to the
shores of the Mediterranean. This trade was also greatly en-
larged by the vigorous policy of Augustus, who restored to regu-
larity and efficiency the disordered condition of the kingdom of
the Ptolemies. Commercial intercourse was made secure ; the
transport of goods made easier ; and Alexandria became the great
commercial mart of the world. In the time of the Ptolemies the
1 Pliny mentions that one hundred and thirty Roman merchants had their
places of trade at Dioscuria (Iscaria) on the eastern shore of the Black Sea.
304 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
direct intercourse with India was inconsiderable, and hardly
twenty vessels a year ventured out from the Red Sea into the
ocean; but in Strabo's time six hundred and twenty made the
voyage every year. The entire journey by land and sea from
Alexandria to India and back generally occupied from six to
seven months. The muslins and silk goods, the spices and the
perfumes, and especially the pearls and precious stones which
were thus imported from the East drained Rome annually of im-
mense sums of money. A pound of nard cost in Rome about
twenty doUars, and a pound of the Indian malobathrum cost sixty
dollars. Sometimes single pearls sold for 1200,000. Pliny men-
tions an instance of a Roman lady, that she carried upon her per-
son in diamonds and pearls a fortune of a million and a half dol-
lars. The same writer declares that these Arabian and Indian
wares carried out of Rome every year a hundred million sesterces,
circa f 3,750,000. " So much," exclaims Pliny, " do our luxuries
and our women cost us ! " (" tanto nobis constant delicice etferai-
nee ! ") N. H. 12, 41. But it belongs less to my plan to speak of
these commercial travelers than of those who traveled either for
amusement or for information and culture.
Immense was the number of Roman tourists — of people who
roamed abroad from mere love of change of place or of sight-
seeing. Pliny says that man is by nature fond of wandering and
of seeing new things. Many such a roaming Roman was as care-
less as modern tourists of the sensible advice of an old English
traveler (Peacham's " Compleat Gentleman," 1622) " ne sis pere-
grinus domi^^^ not to be a stranger at home, a stranger to things
worth seeing and knowing in one's own country. "Numerous,"
says Pliny, " are the objects of interest in Rome itself, which our
ramblers abroad are ignorant of even by hearsay, which they
would be sure to see with their own eyes, if only some foreign
land possessed them, about which they had chanced to hear
through some traveling countryman." In their shorter excursions,
such tourists visited other parts of Italy, or went over to Sicily.
Italy had many a summer resort for these rich and pleasure-loving
travelers, who hasted out of town for change of scene, or to get
rid of care or ennui. Sometimes they went to the seashore and
sometimes to the interior, as Horace in one passage well describes
them : " If our rich man says, ' No bay outshines the pleasant Baiae,'
then he makes for the Campanian shore, and lake and sea feel the
passion of the hasting lord ; soon a vicious fancy seizes him, and
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 305
straightway, interpreting that as a good auspice, he exclaims, ' To-
morrow let us be off to Teanum.' " Crowds of tourists struck into
the Appian Way. Here, says Lucretius, drove the wealthy Ro-
man, weary of the town out to his Alban villa, there to yawn
and fret and kill time for a while, and then turn back to Rome.
Here the upstart freedman showed off his dear-bought ponies.
Here, too, glittered in their equipages luxurious women, like the
Cynthia of Propertius, ostensibly going out to Lavinium to wor-
ship Juno, and herself worshiped on the way by her attending
lover. And here, too, as Ovid writes, other Roman women were
making their annual pilgrimage to the festival of Diana at Aricia,
there to fulfill their pious vows, garlands in their hair, and torches
in their hands, not, however, without the attendance of gay youths,
whose presence was, perhaps, to lead to yet other vows, to be paid
the following year. But the stream of fashionable travel flowed
on through Campania to the Bay of Naples, and the summer re-
sorts on its delightful shores, where the smiles of nature and the
charms of art, and all amplest resources of refined society, were
ready to minister alike to healthful recreation and to ruinous ex-
travagance and excess. Most conspicuous and famous among the
many attractive places which lined these sparkling shores lay
Baiae, the first watering-place of the ancient world, stretching along
by the side of a level beach, and yet at a short space from the
waters shut in by a circle of green hills. This little spot, called
by Martial "the golden shore of happy Yenus," was amply fur-
nished with magnificent establishments for the care of the sick,
and yet more brilliant ones for the amusement of the well, —
splendid with palatial villas of emperor and nobles, built, some
on the hills, others on the beach, and yet others on the water,
their owners, as Horace says, weary of the land and greedy of the
sea. Here went on in the Roman season a round of luxurious
life, the clear skies and mild air and blue waters all alluring to
the enjoyment of the passing hour. During the day gay-colored
boats and princely galleys might be seen everywhere on the wa-
ters of the bay, with merry rose-garlanded companies gathering to
festive banquets either on board or on the beach, the shore and
the sea resounding through all the hours with music and song ;
while the cool evenings and the starlight nights invited to new
excursions and feasts, and then later the sleep of the jaded guests
was disturbed by the sounds of serenading or reveling par-
ties. The voluptuous character of the life at Baise is proverbial
306 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
among ancient writers. Seneca calls it a harbor of vices. Spend-
thrifts, driven out of Rome by insolvency, here wasted in riot-
ous living their creditors' gold ; as Juvenal pithily says, they ran
from the Subilra to Baiae and the oysters. Here, of course, were
found gayest and most attractive women, and, as the poet Mar-
tial tartly says, many a guest came to be healed, and carried
away a new disease of the heart, declaring as he went, that the
salubrity of the Baian waters was not up to their fame. The per-
ils of Baiae to female virtue Martial has made the theme of his
epigram on Lsevina. " A chaste Lgevina, nowise below in virtue
the ancient Sabine dames, she came an evil day to Baiae's baths,
and there, alas ! while dipping oft in their warm springs, sudden
she fell into the flames of love, and quitting for gentle youth her
too stern spouse, even she who came as true as erst Penelope, as
false as Helen went away." Well might Propertius warn his Cyn-
thia against the corrupt shores of Baiae — shores, he declares, " all
unfriendly to chaste maidens."
" Ah ! pereant Baiae crimen amores aquae ! "
("Ah ! perish the Baian waters, the source of guilty loves ! ")
But the Roman tourists who traveled from curiosity or love of
new and gay scenes were drawn across the seas to visit the attrac-
tive cities of Greece and Asia Minor. Horace enumerates some
of these in one of his odes (1, VII. 1) : —
" Some may favor'd Rhodes or Mitylene please,
Or Ephesus, to celebrate;
Or Corinth, with its walls between two seas,
Or Thebes by Bacchus rendered great.
Or Delphi by Apollo, or thy vale
Thessalian Tempe."
The value set upon a sight of Corinth is sufficiently shown by
the proverbial words of Horace in another place, " Non cuivis
homini contingit adire Corinthum : " Not every man is lucky
enough to get to Corinth ; very like the Italian word about
Naples, — Yedere Napoli e mori : See Naples and die. Cor-
inth was always, and now more than ever, a city full of strong
attractions for many travelers, — situation, climate, and various
scenery, and, especially in its society and life, so gay, rich, and
luxurious. Ancient and modern writers vie with one another in
celebrating its unique position between the ^gesm and Ionian
seas, and the extensive, magnificent view from its citadel, its
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 307
springs and fountains, its public games, its trade and commerce,
and all its busy and bustling life, as at once the gathering-place
and thoroughfare of the travel of the world alike for the East and
the West. For Koman travelers it had new attractions. Through
the active exertions of Julius Caesar and succeeding sovereigns, a
new and Roman city had here grown up ; it was a Roman colony,
and the metropolis of a Roman province, a chief element in the
population was Roman, and it gave a Roman complexion to the
prevailing manners of the people. The Romans who traveled in
Greece seldom failed to cross the JEgean and visit the cities of
Asia Minor. Most attractive stopping-places there were on the
way, as the voyage lay among the Isles of Greece, which tempted
the passing traveler to linger amid their " spaces of calm repose,"
and have a nearer view of spots so bright with memories of the
past, and fairer still in the ever-present charms of nature. Les-
bos especially was such a spot, — the birthplace of Sappho and
Alcseus, whose capital, Mitylene, was praised by Cicero as well
as Horace for its delightful situation, the beauty of its buildings,
its fruitful soil, and lovely prospects and landscapes. But no
island in these waters attracted so many visitors as Rhodes, the
" clara RJiodos " of Horace, whose metropolis was during all this
period the chief Greek city of the ^Egean. The moles of its har-
bors, in which rode numerous merchant vessels, stretched far out
into the sea ; and above rose the city, in the midst of its fragrant
gardens and amphitheatre of hills, encompassed by strong walls,
having broad and regular streets, and with its buildings so sym-
metrical that the whole city is described as looking like a single
house. So fair was the climate of Rhodes, and so serene its skies,
that it was a proverb that the sun shone bright in Rhodes every
day in the year. The cities of Asia Minor which were most fre-
quented were Ephesus and Smyrna. Ephesus was the capital of
the province, a place of extensive trade, and pronounced by Sen-
eca one of the most beautifully built cities of the world. It was,
however, far surpassed in celebrity and beauty by Smyrna. In
its position and appearance it resembled Rhodes, its streets and
buildings rising above its harbors in the form of an amphitheatre,
and affording magnificent views both towards the sea and the
surrounding country. The city was, in its appointments and
resources, fitted alike to the wants of Greek and Roman, abound-
ing in gymnasia, piazzas, theatres, and temples, in baths and
pleasure grounds, and affording for the amusement of the people
numerous games and holiday shows of every kind.
308 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
The countries of which I have spoken, and yet others more dis-
tant, were also visited by many who traveled in the interests of
learning, or for purposes of study and culture. Owing to the
comparatively few and slender facilities in ancient life for study
by books and libraries, studious persons were probably more apt
than in modern times to rely upon observation and reflection, and
to increase their knowledge by the sight of foreign lands and the
personal inspection of their manners and customs, and direct in-
tercourse with their distinguished men. Nothing was more com-
mon than for young men to go abroad, as a means of education
and culture. Every province of importance had its seat of learn-
ing, to which aspiring youth were wont to resort as students.
Such places were Massilia in Gaul, Cremona and Mediolanum in
Cisalpine Gaul, Carthage in Africa, Apollonia in Epirus. In Asia
Tarsus had a like celebrity, and also Antioch in Syria, mentioned
by Cicero in his " Archias" as affluent in learned men and liberal
studies. Two places, however, eclipsed all these, and vied with
one another, even as now the chief universities of Germany, in the
frequence of their students and in their intellectual influence.
These were Alexandria and Athens, to whose schools young men
flocked from Eome itself, and all parts of the empire. Instances
of studious young men visiting Athens and traveling in Greece
are familiar to all readers of the classics, such as Horace, Bru-
tus, both Quintus and Marcus Cicero, and also the son of Mar-
cus. But not only students, professors too, and teachers of all
departments, were wont to make extensive professional travels.
Rhetoricians and sophists travelled to and fro among all the great
cities of the world ; they came with their lectures on science and
letters, just as Englishmen come now to us, and people flocked to
see and hear them, and paid liberal fees for the lectures, some-
times, too, as in modern countries, for very indifferent perform-
ances. Thus Lucian traveled in Gaul, and afterwards in Greece
and Ionia and Syria, and also in Egypt. It was not uncommon
for statues to be erected in different cities in honor of those who
had thus lectured in them ; thus Apuleius boasts that he had won
this honor in many places. Still more numerous and extensive
were the travels of artists and workers in the arts. They jour-
neyed from place to place, not only to see and study the many
works of art which were to be found in the different provinces,
but also to supply the ever-growing demand for such works. It
was the custom, too, for singers and for athletes of all kinds to
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 309
make the tour of the provinces in Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor,
and to give concerts and shows in different places, where they
were often received with enthusiasm and preseated with public
crowns. Cicero, after studying in Athens, made a voyage through
the ^gean, stopping at the islands of Cea, Gyara, Scyrus, Delos,
and Ehodes, and thence a complete tour of Asia Minor, and
formed a personal acquaintance with its illustrious orators and
teachers of rhetoric. The poets Ovid and Propertius also made
extensive tours in Greece and Asia.
The emperor Hadrian was a great traveler, and visited, during
his reign, every province in the empire, and not merely on errands
of state, but to gratify his love of knowledge, and, as Suetonius
says, to learn and know by personal observation whatever he had
heard and read about any regions of the world. But perhaps the
most interesting of all Roman travels were those of which we read
in Pliny and Tacitus of Germanicus, the nephew of the emperor
Tiberius, and brother of the emperor Claudius. Brief as was his
life and career, yet his is by far the most conspicuous and inter-
esting figure in the history of his time, the light of his personal
virtues, and cultivated mind and manners, and noble character,
shining out brightly from the dark atmosphere of crime and tyr-
anny which envelopes the pages of Tacitus' " Annals." Possessed
of studious tastes and a noble curiosity, he improved every oppor-
tunity to visit foreign lands, and commune in sight and mind with
the renowned places of ancient story, or of letters and art. When
he was entering upon his government in Achaia, he first sailed
over to the coast of Epirus, and there surveyed the field of Actium,
which had a double interest for him as a Roman and as a relative
both of Augustus and Antony. Thence he gladly hastened his
steps to Greece, which like all thoughtful Romans he honored as
the land from which all higher culture had come, for its various
fame, also for its antiquity ; all its past he revered, with its men
and its deeds and its events, and even its venerable myths and
legends. Every rood of its soil which he trod started to remem-
brance some storied scene of war or peace, and wherever he
roamed he lived over again all his earlier studies and thoughts on
the cherished spots whence they all sprang. With fondest delight,
however, he visited Athens, where he was welcomed with selectest
honors, and where, in turn, in compliment to the city, he went al-
ways attended only by a single lictor. Even now, with its politi-
cal power and glory gone forever, its crowded public life only a
310 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
great memory of the past, tlie city had for him in its stillness and
desolation unspeakable charms ; he wandered in its streets, by its
hillsides and its streams, as in an old and revisited home, gazing
with admiration upon the temples, the porticoes, the Academy,
the Agora, and the Parthenon, with their superb works of art, to
his cultivated eye yet green in their ruin. All these already five
centuries old, yet seemed fresh and new, as if endowed with an
ever-blooming life and a soul incapable of age. From Athens
our classical traveler passed to the plain of Marathon, and thence
across the Euripus to Euboea, and from Eubcea sailed across the
^gean to the coast of Asia Minor, whence, after visiting the chief
southern and western cities, he proceeded northward to Perinthus
and Byzantium, and from there into the Euxine, full of desire, as
Tacitus says, to see and know all places ancient and celebrated by
fame. On his return, being hindered by adverse winds from
reaching Samothrace, he visited the ancient Ilium, and then again,
having coasted along the Asiatic shores, landed at Colophon.
From here he went to Claros, consulted the oracle of Clarian
Apollo, where the priest, with the wonted oracular style, darkly
foretold his premature end. In the following year, the last of
his life, Germanicus made extended journeys in Egypt. Egypt,
which for the Greeks as well as the Romans was a land peculiar
above all others, even as a new world, was much visited by Eoman
travelers. There was a regular line of vessels running to Alex-
andria from the Campanian port of Puteoli. In this port itself
the traveler had a foretaste of Eastern and Egyptian life. Here
about him were seen people in Oriental costume ; he heard their
various languages, he saw there on the wharves the wares and
products of the most distant lands. In the harbor the Alexandrian
ships were recognized above all others ; even as they came into
port they were easily distinguished, as they alone had the right
of keeping up their topsail Qsipariurri) between Capri and Cape
Minerva. These ships were of all sizes, from the fast sailers, or
clippers, to the large ships of burden. They were painted, and
carried at their prow a figurehead of the deity from which they
took their name. Their trade was a lucrative one, and sometimes
brought their owners an income of twelve Attic talents, about
il2,000. The average length of passage from Puteoli to Alexan-
dria was twelve days ; Conybeare, in his work on St. Paul, makes
it nine days, but this is mentioned by Pliny as the shortest passage
on record. The course was generally from Sicily by Malta, Crete,
ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS. 311
and Cyprus. On the approach to the dangerous Egyptian shore,
land was signalled at night by the celebrated Pharos light, a sure
guide to the mariner at a distance of about three hundred stadia
(nearly forty miles), and even by day the bright shining of the
white marble above the blue sea betokened the nearness of Alex-
andria. Germanicus, however, of whose travels I was speaking,
did not begin his journey from Italy, as he was already in the
East as a provincial governor. He landed on the African shore
at Canopus, a populous city, whose crowded and most voluptuous
life had no attractions for a traveler of his spirit and aims. Sail-
ing up the Nile, he soon passed out from the splendor and the
noisy din of Canopus into stillness and solitude, all at once trans-
ported into the atmosphere of the distant past. Having visited
Memphis and the Pvramids, Germanicus sailed up yet farther,
bent upon seeing the famous ancient city of Thebes. There, doubt-
less, in gazing upon the mighty ruins of vanished power and glory,
the young Roman prince had occasion to learn a lesson for himself
and his own nation ; for one of the oldest priests, in interpreting
to him the Egyptian inscriptions, told him of a Theban empire
that once was no less great and powerful than the existing em-
pire of Rome. The king, Rhamses, had had under his command
700,000 fighting men ; he had conquered not only Libya and Ethi-
opia, but also Armenia and Syria, and the countries of Asia from
Bithynia to Lycia, and had exacted from these peoples revenues
fully equal to those won by Parthian or by Roman power.
As we read the records of these travels, and those of other
cultivated Roman travelers, we are struck with the prevailing his-
torical interest with which they were pursued. In this respect,
indeed, the Roman travelers were much like thoughtful men in our
own times who visit foreign lands. It was not so much the man-
ners and customs of existing nations, or other institutions or ob-
jects belonging to the present, which occupied their minds ; it was
rather the interest that belongs to the past, the fascinating in-
fluence of great historic memories, and the effort to reproduce
bygone times by seeing their famous places and yet existing mon-
uments. Indeed, the liveliest interest was felt in seeing even the
smallest remains of the life of distant heroic times made re-
nowned by the immortal song of Homer. In Athens and Sparta,
in Aulis, Argos, and Mycenae, Romans conscientiously followed
their guides as they traced for them the footsteps and the storied
lives of an Ajax, Telamon, or Ulysses, or even of mythical Icarus.
312 ROMAN TRAVEL AND TRAVELERS.
An ancient temple, or a fountain or a grove, or a single plane-
tree or myrtle-tree, thus reproduced a whole period with its great
names and events. Hardly a step was taken, in a land rich in old
traditions, which did not reecho some memorable occurrence, and
not a stone was there but had some name upon it. So was it also
with places ennobled by recollections of historic times. The
graves of great men were visited, and the battlefields and camp
grounds of great armies like the Persian. " We looked," said
Arrian to Hadrian, — "we looked upon the Euxine from the same
spot on which Xenophon beheld it." With special satisfaction
travelers followed in the steps of Alexander the Great in his cam-
paigns in Greece and the East. Plutarch speaks of an old oak
on the Cephissus, under which stood Alexander's tent at the bat-
tle of Chseronea. The tomb of the great conqueror at Alexandria
was always religiously visited, especially by the Eoman emperors
themselves. And nearer home, in Italy and the western provinces,
the Romans, inspired by the same historical interest, were wont to
seek out the places celebrated in the earlier and the later times,
as, at Laurentum, the camp of ^neas ; at Liternum, olive-trees
planted by the younger Scipio; and, just as now with modern
travelers in Italy, the island of Capri, where Augustus and the
infamous Tiberius passed so much time ; and at Tusculum the
villa of Cicero, and at Tibur the house of Horace. The interest
in art and its numerous existing works was another influence
which either occasioned or directed the foreign travels of the
Romans. Cicero enumerates the costly works of art in Sicily
of which Verres had robbed the temples, or the houses oi the
provincialists ; every traveler, he says, was conducted to them to
gaze upon their beauty. So, also, Propertius at Athens, though
chiefly occupied with his study of Plato and Demosthenes, failed
not to study its great works in bronze and marble. In Cicero's
time, men went to Thespiae in Boeotia to see the Amor by Praxi-
teles ; and Pliny says that for a sight of the Venus of this artist
many made the voyage to Cnidus. Yet, if we take the testimony
of Pliny in other places, the appreciation of art by the Romans
was somewhat superficial and arbitrary, and chiefly determined by
the name of an artist and the fame of his works. Indeed, one
word of his strikes one as quite applicable to many a modern
traveler in countries enriched with fine creations in art. He
says : " As soon as one only sees a celebrated picture or statue,
he goes on his way quite content ; he never comes back to get a
ROMAN TRAVELS AND TRAVELERS. 313
second look." The historical interest prevailed over that in art,
even with men of Cicero's culture. He says in one of his works :
"Places in which there are traces of men or events that we admire
or revere make upon us an enduring impression. Even my favor-
ite city of Athens pleases me not so much by its superb buildings
and the grand works of its artists as by the memories of its great
men, — where they lived, where they sat, where they wrote and
spoke, and where their sacred ashes now repose." (De Legibus,
ii. 2, 4.)
Let me mention one more source of interest in travel from
which the Romans like ourselves derived the utmost enjoyment,
and this is the sight of nature and natural scenery. It was a true
Roman as well as human word said by Atticus, " In all which has
to do with mental quickening and refreshment, and real inward
joy, nature has the first place in its influence over us." (Cicero,
de Legibus, ii. I. 2.) It has been often remarked of the feeling for
nature among the ancients, that it had in it a more marked reli-
gious element than with people in modern life. In the midst of
the beautiful and the grand in natural scenes, in mountain and
grove, and stream and ocean, they felt themselves in more direct
communion with a divine power, and with their wonder and delight
was associated more closely a feeling of adoration. This kind of
religious feeling of nature frequently finds expression in ancient
writers, and in those, too, who have loved the country at home as
well as abroad. On this account, places rich in natural beauty or
sublimity were sought out, not alone for the aesthetic delight they
yielded, but also for the worship of the deities to which tradition
and long usage had consecrated them. But still the immediate
feeling for nature and natural scenery was, with Roman writers
and travelers, a far more powerful source of interest than the feel-
ing for art. It finds ample expression in words in all their poets,
and a still surer expression in their love for the country and a
country life. Varro says, in words which remind us of Cowper :
" The country divine nature has given us, the town man's art has
built " (De Re Rustica, iii. 1, 4) ; far rather, he adds, would he
see the fruiteries at Scrofa's villa than the picture gallery of Lu-
cullus." Lucretius was "content to lie on the soft grass by a trick-
ling waterfall, under the branches of a lofty tree, when the sea-
son smiled and the meads glowed with flowers, while others were
banqueters to the sound of the cithara in their splendid halls,
which glittered with gold." And Seneca: " Who that has known
314 ROMAN TRAVELS AND TRAVELERS.
real nature can delight in its imitations ? I can scarcely believe
that those who imitate in their houses forest, river, and sea
have ever seen real woods or wide, green fields into which a rush-
ing river pours, or through which quietly flows the noiseless
brook." And Horace, with whom I began this quite too extended
paper, let me end with him by quoting from his praises of nature.
There in the forest or by the brookside he found at last true
delight. There the winter was warm, the summer was cool, his
sleep undisturbed. Thence he writes (Ep. I. 10) to his friend
Aristius in the city : —
" You keep the nest : I praise the rural shade,
The moss-grown rock, clear brook, and woodland glade.
In short I live, I reign, when I retire
From all that you town-lovers so admire.
And, like some slave from priestly service fled,
Cloyed with rich cakes, I long for wholesome bread."
THE POEM OF LUCRETIUS, DE RERUM NATURA.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, JANUARY 29, 1875.
To every one who has read Lucretius and has come to feel his
power as a writer, it must seem a quite peculiar thing that so
little is known of his personal history. The event of his death
in the year 55 b. c. we learn from Donatus in his life of Virgil ;
and it is there mentioned quite incidentally, as having occurred
the very day on which Virgil at the age of fifteen assumed the toga
virilis (" evenitque ut eo ipso die Lucretius poeta decederet ").
His age at his death we learn from St. Jerome in his additions to
his translation of Eusebius' Chronicle ; he there says that Lu-
cretius died in his forty-fourth year ; this combined with the Vir-
gilian date just mentioned puts the birth of Lucretius in the year
99 B. c. Jerome, however, adds the strange statement, that Lu-
cretius had been driven mad by a love potion, and that after
having composed several books in the intervals of his madness,
he finally died by his own hand. But certain it is that no ex-
ternal evidence exists in support of this statement, no mention
or hint of it by any writer of the poet's time or by any subse-
quent writer down to Jerome's own days ; it rests solely on his
authority, and was published by him at a distance of more than
four centuries after the poet's death. It has been supposed by
some scholars that St. Jerome took the statement from Suetonius'
lost work, " De Viris lUustribus," but there is no evidence for
such a supposition. Some have conjectured that the story may
have been an invention of some enemy of the Epicurean who was
contemporary with the poet ; and others have insinuated that it
was a pious fraud on the part of the Christian saint, as such a
fate may have seemed to Christians of Jerome's time a fitting
one for a writer associated in their minds only with impiety and
atheism. If we are indisposed to accept this story on external
evidence, we shall certainly find nothing in the poem itself to
make us more friendly to it. And yet a brilliant modern critic,
Mr. De Quincey, — whom in this connection we quite naturally
remember as the author of the " Confessions of an Opium-Eater,"
316 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
— was very willing to accept this story ; he thought he discerned
even in the intense intellectual and imaginative action of the
work symptoms of a morbid tone of mind in the writer; the
poet, however, he admired, but as the first of poetic demoniacs.
But one can far easier agree with another English critic, Profes-
sor Sellar, that so remarkable a poem could never have been
written in the lucid intervals of insanity; but rather that its
" power of sustained feeling and consistency is the sure evidence
of a sane genius and a strong understanding." But, leaving this
point, let me proceed to say that we have not a solitary men-
tion of Lucretius' life which comes down from his own time ; and
only few notices of his poetry from contemporary or later Latin
writers. It seems hard to account for such silence in regard to
one who ranks in intellectual power with the most eminent Ro-
mans of his age, and in genius as a poet was inferior to none that
his country's muse can boast. We should suppose that a man
of such endowments must needs have been always a conspicuous
figure in Roman society, and that after the publication of his
poem and after his death, whatever might have been thought
of his opinion, all Rome would have known and acknowledged
him as a profound thinker and a great poet. Caesar, who was his
senior by only one year, might have found in him a combatant
fully equal in an encounter of wits in philosophy to any he was
wont to find in the conflicts of the senate or of the field, and
Cicero, also his contemporary, if he ever had conversations such
as he wrote in his " De Natura Deorum," could have found no man
in Rome more to his mind for deep and brilliant discussion ; and
though Lucretius was no statesman or soldier like Caesar, or orator
as Cicero was, yet he has left a monument in letters not inferior
to aught that was produced by either of those two great men of
whose fame all the literature of their time is full. Perhaps it is
the most obvious explanation of this silence about the poet, that
in accordance with his own tastes as well as his teachings he
probably kept wholly aloof from the great Roman world of his
time, and dwelt only in his own world of thought and study, illus-
trating by example the precept of his master in philosophy, " Pass
through your life unobserved." We may easily believe that in
that thronged and noisy Roman world filled with the strife of
tongues and the rude tumult of contending parties in politics
and war, the contemplative had no part or lot ; he was not of it,
not in it ; but rather, as he has it himself in a characteristic pas-
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 317
sage, looking down upon it from a serene height of philosophic
thought, content that he was exempt from all share in its passion-
ate struggles and errors. We must remember, too, that other
causes, unfavorable then as ever since to the poet's fame, lay in
his subject and in the kind of poetry in which he wrote ; in his
abstruse speculations, which though illumined by the light of his
genius, were yet uncongenial to the Komans, and at variance in
their results with the traditional faiths of the people, as well as
with the instinctive and most cherished convictions of mankind.
How alien to all that people and that age that a Roman genius
should fashion into a poem, with all cunning of a poet's art, the
most prosaic and most mechanical of all the old Grecian specu-
lative systems, should build up the universe out of the material
atoms of Democritus, and find in their endless clashings of motion
the principles of order and connection which ruled not only nature
but all human life !
But with this silence, however explained, about the personal
history of Lucretius, there are clear and deeply marked traces in
the most eminent Latin writers of the profound impression made
by his thought and his poetic expression upon the mind of his
own and of the Augustan age. Cicero mentions him by name
only in a single passage of a dozen words (and that, too, of a
disputed reading) ; in this he accords to the poem many flashes
of genius and much art besides ; but there are many passages,
and especially in his First Tusculan Disputation and in his " De
Natura Deorum," which show that Cicero had carefully studied
Lucretius. Indeed, some critics believe, on the authority of that
notice by St. Jerome to which I have alluded, that Cicero was
the first editor of the poem (" Lihros^ quos postea emendavlt ").
Ovid, who was born ten years after the death of Lucretius, de-
clares (" Amorum," liber 1. 15, 22) that the poem will perish only
on that day which will bring the world to an end. Virgil evidently
alludes to Lucretius in that place in the " Georgics " (II. 490)
where he counts happy that poet who could discover the causes of
things, and put under feet all fear of inexorable fate ; but, as
Aulus Gellius long ago said, there are not only verses, but entire
passages of Virgil, in which he has studiously imitated Lucretius.
Horace, too, though he does not mention him by name, yet clearly
reveals in ^ many of his poems, how strongly and permanently he
had been impressed by the Lucretian diction and views of life.
1 (E. g. ) Odes, I. 26 ; IV. 2 ; IV. 7.
Satires, I. 1, lis ; I- 3, 99-112 ; I. 5, 101.
318 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
If now we turn to modern times, we find that this poem of Lu-
cretius has ever exerted a marked and continuous influence alike
on men of science and men of letters. This concurrence of men
of so diverse tastes and pursuits in the professional study of the
same writer is doubtless owing to that singular union in Lucre-
tius of the poetic nature with the impulse to speculative inquiry
which has made him so preeminent in all literature as a philo-
sophic poet. On the one side, amplest illustration is furnished
us in the sketch of scientific opinion drawn by Professor Tyndall
in his Belfast Address. It is curious to observe in that address,
and yet more in the pages of Lange's " History of Materialism,"
of which it is in large part a skillfully condensed view, how the
whole structure of modern physical science has been gradually
built up on that ancient atomic theory which was unfolded by the
Roman Lucretius. Beginning with Giordano Bruno and Gassendi,
we see the atomic doctrine adopted and employed in whole or in
part by a long succession of writers of widely differing ethical
and religious views, such as Bacon, Hobbes, Locke, Newton, Boyle,
Lamettrie, and Holbach, but with additions and modifications,
more or less materialistic, till we come down to our own century
and our own days, when the doctrine seems to stand as firm as
ever on the solid atoms, but with such a fundamental change in
the conception of matter and such a vast accession to its proper-
ties, that Mr. Tyndall now discerns in it "the promise and potency
of every form and quality of terrestrial life." It were easy to
trace in the annals of literature a like succession of eminent clas-
sical scholars who have interpreted the text and language of Lu-
cretius as a Latin writer ; and of poets and men of letters who
have been powerfully attracted by his genius. At the revival of
letters, the Italian scholars, ardent in the cultivation of all the
ancient writers, counted Lucretius second only to Virgil among the
Latin poets. Equally was he admired in the sixteenth century in
Holland and France by such scholars as Scaliger and Turnebus ;
and Lambinus, the most illustrious in learning and taste of the
Latin scholars who then studied and taught in Paris, published
an edition of his poem, which has remained till now, in its critical
and exegetical value, a standard work on Lucretian literature. In
the next two centuries Lucretius found successive annotators and
editors in Creech, Bentley, Havercamp, and Wakefield, and read-
ers and students far more capable of appreciating his merits in
Milton, Dryden, and Gray. Finally, in the present century, Lu-
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 319
cretius has been admired by poets of kindred genius, sucb as
Goethe and Wordsworth and Shelley ; while more has been done
by classical scholars for the textual and literary criticism of his
poem than ever before. The German Lachmann, who had already
won an illustrious name in philology by other great works, pub-
lished in 1850 his " Lucretius," which made a new era in the in-
terpretation of the poem, and especially in the history of the text,
which he succeeded in establishing upon a firm basis ; and sixteen
years later Mr. Munro followed, in England, with his edition, in
which, while he improved in some respects upon Lachmann in his
own peculiar province, he furnished an explanatory commentary
fully equal in importance, in relation to its period, to that of Lam-
binus, which had been published exactly three hundred years
before. This classical edition of Mr. Munro is indeed a classic
in itself ; as a contribution to Latin scholarship it is equaled by
nothing achieved in England in this century ; and it is more than
this, for as a satisfactory commentary upon the thought and the
style of Lucretius, it is an eminent and a lasting service rendered
both to science and to letters.
In its literary form this work is a didactic poem, de rerum na-
tura^ or, on the nature of things^ a comprehensive expression,
which, as used by the poet, expresses not only nature itself, or the
universe, but also the agency which the writer conceived as per-
vading all nature, even as if the soul of the world. It consists of
six books, composed in heroic hexameters, each book containing
about a thousand verses ; and it is dedicated to the poet's friend,
C. Memmius Gemellus, who was Roman praetor in the year B. c.
58. It is characteristic of Lucretius that he never tires of sing-
ing the praises of those writers to whose genial influence he has
felt himself most indebted as a thinker or as a poet, thus as Hor-
ace says of Lucilius, intrusting to his books as to trusty friends
the secrets of his own culture. In his poetic manner he is fonder
of the older Roman poets than of those of his own day, and Ennius
most of all he lauds for his " wisdom " and " his imnjortal verses,"
" and as destined to bright renown throughout all Italian clans of
men." Of the Greeks, too, he is drawn most to the older and
classic writers, whom he calls " the chaste Greeks," in strong con-
trast with the " hollow Hellenists," a title with which he brands
the later Alexandrian school. Above all he forms himself as an
affectionate disciple upon the model of Empedocles, who had writ-
ten on the same theme and in the same form, finally extolling him
320 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
as the dearest and most glorious possession of the Sicilian isle, so
rich in all good things. The diction of Lucretius is quite marked,
as of the pre- Augustan time, less tempered and finished by art,
something in it even of the antique, but always noble, vigorous,
and concise, fashioned and even born with the thought, and some-
times in its very rudeness carrying with it the charm of original
force. If you come to it from Yirgil or Horace you will miss
their grace and elegance and felicity of expression, and their har-
mony of rhythm, but you will get thought and conception such as
they seldom reached, and also, in their own genuine Latin, fruit
not so rich or fragrant, but yet of the same Roman flavor, rustic
though it be, and of the same generous juice, drawn from its na-
tive Roman soil. In forming for himself the view of the world
which makes the substance of his poem, Lucretius seems to have
been a diligent student of most of the great masters of Grecian
thought. Even to Plato he was drawn by an affinity of nature,
though so widely parted from him in thought ; and some passages
show plainly enough that the Platonic manner had for him, too,
its fascinations. You may feel instantly assured of this, even by
a single passage, where the verse of Lucretius reproduces a concep-
tion of Plato which often appears, too, in modern writers. Lucre-
tius in speaking, as he is wont, of the waxing and waning of indi-
vidual life in men and nations, while life itself is ever passed down
through the generations, has these words : " And in a brief space
the races of living things are changed, and like runners in a race,
they hand on the torch of life," — a turn of expression evidently
caught from a place in Plato's " Laws," where he, in speaking
of marriage, describes man and wife leaving father and mother,
and in a home of their own " handing on the torch of life from
one generation to another."
But he is most familiar with the older philosophical writers,
and those who were given chiefly to physical speculations, as An-
axagoras and Heraclitus, though of the latter he is the pronounced
antagonist. And of these it is Democritus whom he, as a disciple,
studied and followed, speaking of him always with profound ven-
eration, and deriving from him, as has been already said, the ulti-
mate principles of his philosophical system. But it was Epicurus,
in his adoption of the Democritan theory, and his applications of
it to physics and ethics, who was the immediate master of Lucre-
tius. In philosophy Lucretius is an Epicurean, and, with all the
earnestness of a Roman nature, a Roman Epicurean. A modern
LUCRETIUS' POEJSI, DE RERUM NATURA. 321
reader can hardly understand the language of enthusiastic admira-
tion which he uses in speaking of Epicurus. For him he is " the
glory of the Greek race," he is " the guide of human life out of
darkness into light ; " his genius " has ^ passed the flaming bounds
of the world and traversed the universe, and has returned as a con-
queror, to teir men of the origin of all being." Indeed, " he must
be ranked," he says, " as a god who alone can point out the path
of truth and reason." The philosophy which Lucretius derived
from these writers, and expounded in verse, must first of all have
our attention, if we would understand and appreciate him as a
writer. Whatever we may think about the atomic philosophy,
and however false or absurd may be its principles, it was very
dear to Lucretius. It completely satisfied that impulse of his na-
ture by which he must needs search out for himself the causes of
things ; in this philosophy he thought he found his search crowned
with success ; it put into his hands, as he thought, the key to the
universe, by which he could unlock and disclose all its secrets.
And yet his interest in it was not a speculative one. It was emi-
nently practical. He zealously used it, like his master Epicurus,
but in a noble spirit, for the attainment of ethical ends, to scatter
by its light the darkness of human ignorance, and to rescue man-
kind from all superstitious terrors, and especially from all un-
worthy fear of death and its lifelong bondage. And again, this
philosophy used for these ends is wedded by the genius of Lucre-
tius to genuine poetry ; and nature and human life and history,
the origin and various phenomena of which are set forth and ex-
plained by philosophic reason, are also touched and quickened
and adorned by the lively conception and the fine feeling of the
poet. It is this threefold aspect of Lucretius which meets us at
the very opening of this poem, and which is ever before us, as we
go through with it in such a survey as I now propose to make ;
and it is also this threefold view by which we linger on the criti-
cism which naturally follows such a survey. It is the poet and
the poet's conception of the world that rise before us, as in the
opening lines Lucretius invokes Venus as the sole mistress of na-
ture and symbol of her native force, and prays her to give an ever
living charm to his verse. Then as a philosopher he begs his friend
Memmius to lend him ready ear and a keen mind, as he shall dis-
course to him of the supreme system of heaven and the gods, and
shall open up the first beginnings of things.
1 " He passed the flaming bounds of space and time."
Gray's Progress of Poesy.
322 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
And lest his friend may be disturbed on the side of religion by
apprehensions of error and sin in thus entering the path of reason,
he assures him that by unfolding to him the true causes of all
phenomena he will deliver him from the tyranny of religion and
the terror-speaking tales of its seers. Lucretius now glides almost
insensibly into his unfolding of the principles of the atomic phi-
losophy. The exposition and illustration of these principles
occupy Books I. and II., and the remaining books their various
applications : —
III. The nature of the soul, and especially its mortality, with
the object in view of rescuing men from all fear of the hereafter.
IV. The nature and action of the senses, — taking them up
individually, — of the appetites, and of the passion of love.
V. In this he endeavors to explain the origin of material na-
ture ; then of life on the earth and the natural history of human
civilization.
VI. is occupied with such natural phenomena as men fear and
ascribe to divine agency, earthquakes, etc., and closes with a de-
scription of the Plague at Athens.
He first lays down the proposition that " no thing is ever pro-
duced from nothing by divine agency ^^ Q'' Nullam rem e nilo
gigni divinitus unquanC), Here, however, he is not intending to
reject the idea of creation by a divine fiat, though it is true that he
did not admit this idea, as he always assumed matter to be un-
created. In making this proposition, he evidently has in mind
nature as already existing ; and it is clear from all his illustra-
tions that he meant to assert that all things are produced in
orderly sequence by well-defined laws ; in short to assert, quite as
in modern phrase, the reign of law in all phenomena. Only he
was not content, as Democritus was, simply to assert that "no
thing is produced by nothing," but in accordance with the nega-
tive bent of his science he must needs add the words " hy divine
agency ; " like some of our modern thinkers, he considered the
idea of divine agency in the world to be in contradiction to the
action of law. This idea, too, he always ascribed to the ignorance
of men combined with their fears. Indeed, in this passage he
goes on immediately to say, " In truth all mortals are seized with
fear because they see many phenomena take place in earth and
the heavens, the causes of which they cannot understand, and so
they believe them to take place by divine power." The second
proposition is only a complement of the first, that " no thing is
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 323
ever reduced to nothing," but " that every thing suffers only dis-
solution into its first bodies." Here he means, of course, to as-
sert what is now a familiar truth in physics, that matter is inde-
structible, and that, whatever change of form it may undergo, its
quantity remains constant. But, thirds there is void as well as
body in things ; else there could be no motion^ or birth or growth.
Then, in the fourth place, all nature is made of body and void ;
these alone have existence, no third can we apprehend by sense
or reason. Deny body, and you take away the foundation of all
reasoning, and deny void, and you have no motion possible. The
next step, the ffth^ brings us into the very centre of the atomic
philosophy. " Bodies are either first-beginnings, or else they are
made by a union of first-beginnings." It is these first-beginnings
of things (^primordia reriim) which are the Lucretian atoms;
primordia rerum^ first-beginnings of things, the regular Lucretian
word for the aro/xot, or atoms^ the Greek word of Democritus
for things which cannot he cut, and so cannot be divided, individ-
ual things. Lucretius never Latinizes the Greek word, but in
one place he defines his first-beginnings as things which " cannot
by cutting be cleft in two " (" necjindi in hina secando "). These
first-beginnings, or atoms, he proceeds to say, are, it is true, invis-
ible, but so are very many things hidden from sight, of the exis-
tence of which we have no doubt. But they are themselves indi-
visible, and are solid and indestructible. Everything else in the
world, however strong it may seem, iron or brass or stone, may be
destroyed ; " but these no force can quench ; they are sure to get
the victory over it by their solid body." All other things have
void in them ; but these are without void, and so, admitting no de-
stroyer within them, as moisture or cold or fire, they are solid. So
they are single and everlasting, " strong," as he is proud of calling
them, — " strong in their everlasting singleness " (" ceterna pol-
lentia simplicitate "). Enter though they may and do into ever-
changing, ever new combinations, " stricken through ages by count-
less blows," they never change in themselves, are never worn ; they
are just as perfect, just as new and fresh to-day, as at the very
beginning. They must be so, Lucretius insists, else there could
be no constancy in nature ; else, in the perpetual wear and tear of
the world's life, they might in the end come to nothing. The first-
beginnings are also described as infinite in number, and the space
in which they move to be infinite in extent ; as only thus can we
explain the origin and preservation of all existing things. To
324 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
complete his conception of the atoms, Lucretius assumes in theifi
other properties. They are widely different in form. Some are
smaller and finer than others. Thus the fire of lightning is
formed of smaller forms, and so it gets through smaller openings
than the common fire which is born of wood. Light, too, of how
much smaller atoms is it made than horn, and so it can so easily
pass through it. So, too, atoms are smooth or rough, round or
angular. In general, things which are agreeable to sense are made
of smooth and round atoms, and those which are offensive, of
hooked and jagged ones, so that they tear their way into the senses
and do violence to the body. The different forms, however, are
yet limited in number, though the individuals of each form are
without limit. So we must believe, in order to account at once
for the variety and the regularity of nature. As to the size of his
atoms, Lucretius gives us no definite conception ; perhaps he never
formed one. He insists that they are not infinitely small, and yet
he makes them tiny indeed, and very far below the ken of human
sight or other sense. Perhaps he would have accepted, had he
known them, such calculations as are made by modern physicists ;
one of whom. Sir William Thomson, tells us that if a drop of
water could be magnified to the size of our globe, the molecules
comprising it would seem to be of a size varying from that of shot
to that of billiard-balls ; and another, Professor Clerk-Maxwell,
calculates that two millions of these atomies, placed along in a
row, would occupy as much space as j^q-q of an inch. Other
properties of the atoms, such as color, sound, and taste, Lucretius
describes as not essential to them, but only as secondary qualities,
which grow out of the modes of their combinations ; they be-
long oiily to what is perishable, and so cannot inhere in the origi-
nal elements of things. In like manner he attempts, but wholly
fails, to explain the relation of life and sensation to the atoms.
By his construction of the atoms he must needs deny them life
and sense, for if they had these they would be themselves liable
to death ; but he contends that by their union they give rise to
life and sense in organic bodies. Here, however, in such a princi-
ple of organism he seems unconsciously to be admitting the exis-
tence of something else in the world besides atoms and void. But
certainly in these days of modern science we need not wonder
that an ancient philosopher had some difficulty in accounting for
the origin of life. The views thus contained in this ^irst Book,
Lucretius considers so fundamental in his whole system, that he
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 325
concludes the Book with these words : " If you will thoroughly
come to know these things, then you will be carried on with very
little trouble (and will be able of yourself to understand all the
rest). For one thing shall grow clear after another, nor shall
blind night rob you of the road, to keep you from seeing to the
very end all the utmost ways of nature ; on this wise will things
ever be lighting the torch for other things." Lucretius opens his
Second Book with a brilliant encomium upon reason as the sole
guide of man through the dark mazes of life, the sole deliverer from
all carking cares and fears, and shows in a series of fine pictures
how superior it is in possession and use to wealth and birth
and rank and power and all the other worldly prizes that men
covet and toil for. From such a serene philosophic and poetic
height he then descends, as is his wont, to his task of philosophic
discussion, and proceeds to unfold what may be termed the kinet-
ics of the atomic theory, or- the motion of the atoms, which he
treats as " the only ultimate form of what is now called the en-
ergy of the universe." With a spirited Nunc age^ — a favorite
Lucretian spur of expression, by which the poet stirs anew at
once his muse and the perhaps rather languid attention of his
friend Memmius, — he promises to show " by what motion the be-
getting bodies of matter beget different things, and again break
them up, and by what force they are compelled to do so, and what
velocity is given them for traveling through the great void," — in
short, he will show how it is that all things ever wax and wane, and
yet the whole remains ever the same. The power which explains
such perpetual motion Lucretius finds partly in the inherent weight
of the atoms, and partly in their contact and clashiiig with one
another ; by such power it is that the atoms are borne with incon-
ceivable velocity through space. Swifter far than light, these
atomic first-beginnings, infinite in number, are ceaselessly pouring
down from infinite space above to infinite space below, and so they
have been ceaselessly pouring through aeons of time, and will ever-
lastingly pour through aeons and seons more. It is this conception
of eternally falling atoms which, as Mr. Tyndall remarks, created
in the imagination of Kant the nebular hypothesis of the origin
of the solar system. As you look at the Lucretian pictures of
this conception it well-nigh blinds your eyes and dazes your brain,
— this everlasting rain of primordial atoms falling down all
around you, and far away through the immeasurable spaces of the
universe. But Lucretius found a serious difficulty in the working
326 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
of his conception, for which, however, he devised a very curious
doctrine. One element of motion he had in the weight of the
atoms. But as these traveled down space in parallel straight
lines, how were they to come into contact and by their friendly
collisions unite into forms and bodies of matter ? So with a fresh
spur to attention, he bids his friend clearly apprehend this point :
" The atoms at quite uncertain points of space and at quite uncer-
tain points of time swerve a little from their equal poise ; you
just and only just can call it a change of inclination." This is
the doctrine of the Exiguum Clinamen or Minimum Declination
of the atoms which has brought down upon Lucretius' head a
rain of ridicule from Cicero's days to Bentley's, and from Bent-
ley's to our own. But let us do justice to our Roman poet-philo-
sopher. The doctrine is of course an assumption, but who ever
heard of a philosojAy from the time of Thales down which was
quite without some pet assumptions ; and I find a learned scientific
writer of our day, who seems to be quite at home in all the region
of Physics, vindicating the scientific value of Lucretius' doctrine,
and pronouncing it to be a simple and original solution of the
difficulty ("British Quarterly," October, 1875). Lucretius saw
that his atoms in their parallel straight movement were rela-
tively motionless, and but for declination could not change their
relative position or come into collision. The minimum swerve set
them in relative motion, and as the atoms were infinite, it pro-
duced innumerable collisions ; and in these collisions . the whole
velocity of the atoms came into action, and thus developed an
ample source of power. But Lucretius had another motive for
this power of a fitful declination in his atoms, than merely to get
them into contact. This, strange as it may seem, was no less
than to find a basis in these very first-beginnings of things for the
doctrine of free-will^ which he believed in most religiously, and
which he maintained in opposition to the inexorable Necessity of
Democritus. This power, he says, is the only principle which
avails to break the decrees of Fate (" quod fati foedera rumpat ").
Hence it is that he carefully says that the declination takes place
at " quite uncertain times and places." The atoms have a freedom
of action in the premises quite analogous to the action of free-
will in man ; and with Lucretius it is the cause of this human
free-will. " Else," he asks, " else how have we men and all liv-
ing creatures this free power, whence, I say, has been wrested
from the fates the power by which we go forward whither the will
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 327
leads each, and likewise change the direction of our motions
(declinamus motus, — the same word which he uses of the
atoms), and at no certain time or place, but when and where the
mind itself has prompted ? " " When some outward force is push-
ing men on, there is something in our breast sufficient to resist
it." " Wherefore you must admit that in the first-beginnings, too,
there must be a third cause of motions in addition to the weights
and the collisions, . . . and that the mind itself does not suifer an
internal necessity in its action is caused by a minute swerving of
the first-beginnings " (" exiguum clinamen principiorum^^^. Here
we have a defense of free-will worthy at least a poetic material-
ist. Mr, Tyndall, in remarking upon the process of Lucretius in
bringing a kind of volition into the region of physics, asks the
question, " Was the instinct utterly at fault which caused Lucre-
tius thus to swerve from his own principles?" He gives no an-
swer to his question ; but it would seem that any one would say
that Lucretius was unconsciously yielding to the human instinct
which rejects any sheer physical hypothesis for the explanation of
a spiritual truth. How could he in touching such a question as
that of will have missed at least the conjecture that there must
be something in the universe besides material atoms ?
The time would fail me to follow Lucretius through all the
applications of his theory in the remaining books of his poem.
I shall confine myself to those which are contained in the Third
and the Fifth Book. In the Third Booh he gathers up all the
force of his philosophy and his poetry for the explanation of
the nature of the soul, and for the refutation of the doctrine
of its immortality. And here his ethical point of departure is
the removal of the fear of death, which he thinks can be destroyed
only by the true knowledge of nature, or, as would be said in
modern times, by true science. I will endeavor to present in
brief his views of the souVs nature, and then his chief arguments
for its mortality.
Lucretius first distinguishes between the soul or the vital prin-
ciple, which he calls anima, and the mind, which he calls animus
or mens. Each is no less a part of man, and no more, than the
foot or the hand or the eyes. The mind and the soul, however,
are in close union and make a single nature ; but the mind as the
ruling and sovereign principle has its seat in the heart, while
the soul (amma) is spread throughout the body. But both the
mind and the soul are bodily, for they move the body, and they
328 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
cannot do this without touching it, and there can be no touch
without hody. Now to explain the consistence of the mind and
soul, considered as one nature, — it consists, like everything else,
of atoms, but of atoms very small and fine and round; hence
its mobility, as nothing else moves with such celerity, nothing
is so swift as thought. How fine and small these atoms are
may be shown from this, that when the soul is quite gone
from the body not a tittle of its weight is lost; just as when
the aroma of wine or of any perfume is gone, the thing itself
is not a whit smaller or lighter than before. Yet this one na-
ture, and of this consistence, is not to be conceived of as single.
It is in the first place threefold, made up of spirit or breath,
heat, and air : yet these all together cannot explain sensation ;
so a fourth substance must be added, nameless to be sure, a kind
of quartessence, something yet finer, smaller, smoother, rounder ;
this is the source of all sensation, this sends all sense-giving mo-
tions through the whole body ; this is, so to speak, the souFs soul
(^animce anima)^ yet it is to the soul what the soul is to the
body, and is supreme over both. Finally the soul or mind as
thus explained is held together by the body, and is in turn the
body's guardian ; the one cannot be torn from the other with-
out destruction to both, any more than perfume can be parted
from frankincense.
From such views as these of the soul's nature, the transition
is easy and necessary to its mortality. The poet goes on, therefore,
with a score or more of arguments, skillfully knit together by
prceterea^s or moreover' s^ and concluding with three rapidly follow-
ing denique^s ot finally^ s. These, though different, yet ultimately
rest alike upon the premise that there is no generic difference be-
tween body and soul, and so both must share from beginning to end
the same destiny. They are, in short, the stock arguments of
materialism, which have so often reappeared in philosophy and
science since Lucretius' time, and are not unfamiliar to these
days of ours. They have to do especially with the view now
often presented, that we know of no action and so no existence
of mind, except as connected with action and existence of body,
and thus when the body passes out of existence, we must infer
also non-existence of mind. Let me touch briefly the chief items
of this materialistic score. First then, as Lucretius says, it has
been shown that the soul is composed of the smallest atoms, even
smaller than those of mist or smoke ; now as these dissolve and
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 329
melt into air, so must the soul for a still stronger reason yet
sooner perish and melt away into its first-beginnings ; how, indeed,
when the body cannot keep the soul, could the air, which is
much rarer, hold it together? Moreover, when the body is ill,
the mind is ill too ; it wanders and becomes senseless ; reached
then as it is by disease like the body, it is liable, too, to death
like the body ; thus in drunkenness the mind itself shares all
the disorder of the body, and even if some cause yet more potent
get an entrance to it, it may perish just like the body. So, too,
the mind may be healed like the body; and, like the body, it
thus also gives mortal symptoms.
Again, as it has been shown that the mind is in the same
way a part of the man as the eye or the ear or any other sense,
and as we know that these do not exist apart from the body,
but decay at once, so we must believe it to be the case also with
the^mind.
Again, as life and sense are in the whole body, if some sudden
blow cleave the body in twain, then the soul must also be divided ;
but what is divided cannot be immortal. For instance, we read
how in war the chariots armed with scythes suddenly lop off
the limbs of soldiers, as the arm or the foot, and these limbs
lie there on the ground quivering, with something of the vital
principle left in them. Even the head when cut off retains for
a while as it lies on the ground the expression of life. Now
we cannot suppose that each one of these quivering parts had an
entire soul. If so, then one living being has many souls in his
body ; and if this is absurd, then the soul has been divided with
the body, and both are equally mortal.
But perhaps the gist of all these arguments is contained in
one passage, where Lucretius argues that so far as our observation
and experience go, the soul shares all the destinies of the body
to the very moment of death, and so that, by analogy, we must
suppose that it then perishes with the body. But one tires of
the manifold and minute details with which Lucretius argues and
illustrates his case. Yet the continuous illustration is ingenious,
often subtle in thought, and in the expression very beautiful to
read and gaze upon, though all so drearily chilling and even
icy cold. As you read, you recall Shakespeare's words, —
" Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction."
Measure for Measure^ Act III. Scene 1.
330 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
And yoH recall, too, that kindred passage in Byron's " Giaour,"
and especially those two lines : —
" So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there."
And as to the arguing itseK, it is all conclusive, if only you admit
the premises. But of course it is the premises which are fatally
faulty. If all is matter to begin with, then all is matter to end
with, and end with it, indeed, all will. But the poet here breaks
down utterly, as elsewhere in his conception of the relation of
matter to mind. The atoms have in them, even by the Lucretian
construction, no sensation and thought, and so they cannot impart
them to their combinations in the ajiima and the animus. And
vain is it to refine away the soul into the finest possible atoms,
and yet more vain to postulate a nameless quartessence in the
soul, and call it the soul of the soul. It matters not, or rather
it matters quite too much, for all is matter and no mind; and as
the theory fails to account for the origin of mind, so there is no
ground to believe that death is its end. Nay, the argument from
analogy, of which Lucretius is so fond, brings us to the very con-
trary result, as Bishop Butler has so conclusively shown in his
chapter on the " Future Life." That shows, as he expresses it,
" the high probability that our living powers will continue after
death, unless there be some ground to think that death is their
destruction." And let me conclude this part of my theme by
quoting one sentence of the bishop on this head, which in thought
and in language is in his most characteristic manner. " For if
it would be in a manner certain that we should survive death, pro-
vided it were certain that death would not be our destruction, it
must be highly probable we shall survive it, if there be no ground
to think death will be our destruction." Thus we may put in
contrast with the teachings of Lucretius better teachings even
from the natural religion which was accessible to him ; while for
ourselves we may rest secure in the faith of that revealed religion
which never shed its light upon his mind, and we may recall here
the words of Him who revealed it to us : " He that believeth in
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth,
and believeth in me, shall never die."
We come now to Lucretius' Fifth Boolc^ which, in its compre-
hensive applications of the atomic theory, makes the most impor-
tant part of the whole poem. For this is the book of the Lucre-
tian Genesis — or, to use the now current word, of development
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 331
or evolution of the world, in which the poet unfolds his views of
the formation of the universe and all that is in it out of the first-
beginnings and their combinations. In a series of preliminary
illustrations Lucretius shows that the world, like all else made
of atoms, is of course mortal ; it therefore had a beginning, as it
will some time have an end. This previous question disposed of,
the main question is then proposed and answered, how the world
came into being, and what were the successive stages of its devel-
opment. In the answer which he gives, he will first of all have
his friend Memmius clear his mind of the mistaken view that
" the gods, for the sake of man, have set in order the glorious
nature of the world." What could induce those blessed beings
to come forth from their remote seats of sweet and lasting repose,
to take in hand such a work, which could yield them no possible
advantage from men ? Indeed, how could they know beforehand
what nature's atoms could produce, unless nature had given some
models for forming things ? Nay, apart from our knowledge of
atoms, one might know from the imperfections of the world in its
make that it was not the work of any divine artificer. No ; this
world and all that in it is has been formed by nature alone out of
the elemental atoms; and "not by intelligent design did these
atoms station themselves each in its right place ; but after trying
unions of every kind by their motions and collisions in infinite
time, they at last met together in just such masses as became the
rudiments of great things, earth, sea, heavens, and the races of
living things." In these words we have the chief text of the Lu-
cretian evolution, and it occurs, with some slight verbal changes,
in three different places in the poem. I will by and by ask you
to consider the principle (or rather the no-principle) of the pro-
cess of evolution ; but just now, as we go through with the book,
let us see how the poet describes the successive stages of the
process itself.
In the beginning all was chaos, or, as Lucretius says, there was
" a strange stormy crisis and medley," because of the wild, battle-
like disorder of the clashing atoms of every kind. Gradually
those which had mutual affinities parted off from the rest, and
joined with one another. The earthy particles massed down to the
centre ; and as these pressed closer together they forced out the
lighter ones, which were to make sea and stars and sun and moon.
The fire-bearing ether broke forth, bearing with it ample stores
of fire wherewith to light up the firmament ; this ether, so light
332 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
and expansive, swept round, and, widely expanding, " fenced all
other things in with its greedy grasp." Then sun and moon
formed themselves of particles, neither heavy enough to sink to
earth nor light enough to mount up to highest heaven. Then the
liquid particles were pressed out from the earth, and made up the
sea ; and at last earth, ether, air, and sea were all left unmixed,
the ether highest of all, the empyrean, the air below, and the
earth in the centre supported by the air, even as our body by the
vital principle. It is interesting to compare with these concep-
tions of the Roman poet a passage of Milton where the Christian
poet's imagination is expanding and unfolding the conceptions of
the biblical Genesis.
" I saw when at his word the formless mass,
This world's material mould, came to a heap ;
Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar
Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confin'd ;
Till at his second bidding darkness fled.
Light shone, and order from disorder sprung ;
Swift to their several quarters hasted then.
The cumbrous elements, earth, flood, air, fire ;
And this ethereal quintessence of heaven
Flew upward, spirited with various forms,
That rolled orbicular, and turned to stars
Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move ;
Each had his place appointed, each his course ;
The rest in circuit wall this universe." ^
Having discoursed of the movements of sun and moon and
stars, the poet at length descends, and tells how earth in its in-
fancy produced from herself all forms of vegetable existence, then
all animals after their kind, and finally man with all his progres-
sive life. It is easy to follow the poet, as in highly poetic lan-
guage he tells how the earth put forth all kinds of herbage, how
all the hills and plains glittered in their green hues, and how the
trees, all emulous of each other, shot up into the air " with fuU
unbridled powers." But though we have been taught before that
all living, sentient beings came forth out of " lifeless and senseless
first-beginnings," yet we are startled at the extraordinary devel-
opments of animal and of human life, as they are soon described.
The earth, just now fashioned out of material atoms, suddenly,
^ A curious fact that this last line reads like a translation of Lucretius : —
" Omnia sic avido complexu cetera sepsit.^^ — v. 470.
The rest of the universe (the ether) shut in with its greedy embrace.
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 333
no one can imagine how, becomes a vast reservoir of throbbing,
pulsing, productive life, and Mother Earthy as she is in truth as in
name, gives birth to all manner of living things. In one sense,
it is true, the description is similar to Milton's, when he essays
to enumerate the " innumerous living creatures, perfect forms,
limbed and full-grown," which " teemed at a birth from out the
fertile womb of earth ; " but with him the earth is obeying the
Supreme Will, " when God said, Let the earth bring forth soul
living in her kind, cattle and creeping things, and beasts of the
earth, each in their kind." Most strangely of all, however, is
told by Lucretius, and with a veracious tone, even as of an eye-
witness, the story of the origin of human life. In the fields
where then heat and moisture abounded, infants of human kind
would grow up into the borders of light, and be cradled in suitable
spots by Mother Earth, who also would feed them from her opened
veins with a liquid very like to milk. AU other environments
were congenial; the warmth of the soil would furnish raiment,
the grass a bed of down, and the world then in the innocence of
youth would know no severe colds, nor excessive heats, nor violent
gales. The infants were thus tenderly cared for. To such strange
ideas did an exclusive faith in the primordial atoms bring a great
thinker and a great poet ! We wonder, perhaps we are shocked,
at these ideas, and this may be natural and even necessary with
the better knowledge and the better religion of our times, with
our theistic Christian beliefs inwrought from childhood into the
very texture of our being. But suppose we should try to put our-
selves back to the times of Lucretius and into his surroundings of
thought and belief, when science was in its infancy, and when the
national religion, polytheistic at its best, was then in the decrepi-
tude of age, and suppose, too, that like Lucretius we had well-
nigh a devout faith in nature's ever-fruitful, productive power,
and in the earth, as the mother of all living things, is it probable
that then we should find this account of man's origin so very irra-
tional and irreligious ? We must remember that to the mind of
Lucretius this idea of Nature, as having in herself a prolific source
of life and of life-giving power adequate to the production of all
things, was just as familiar through all annals of philosophy from
Thales to his own time as is to us the idea of the creation as given
us in the book of Genesis, and repeated or implied throughout the
whole canon of Scripture. So, too, among the Greek and Latin
poets nothing is more common than the expression for men of
334 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
" sons of earth," and " indigenous to the soil," which in their
earliest sense had a literal signification. In one respect, indeed,
we may say that Lucretius is in accord with Scripture, in that we
are taught that man was " formed of the dust of the ground ; "
but in all else, in all that is essential, how different the Scripture
teaching ! " And God said. Let us make man in our image, after
our likeness." " And the Lord God formed man of the dust of
the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life ; and
man became a living soul."
It is in reading this part of Lucretius' poem that we sometimes
come upon the mention of natural phenomena and inferences from
which are put forth also by modern and living naturalists, and
are treated as the outgrowth of modern science. Thus it is that
Lucretius dwells upon eccentricities, or imperfections in nature,
such as " rudimental organs," or abnormal forms of being. Such
views are quite in the Lucretian line of thought, as the process
he is describing is always from the lower to the higher, the less
perfect to the more perfect. Nature is at her earliest now, in
the first-beginnings of her productive energy, and needs to pass
through many successive stages of development ere she reaches
her consummate works. Thus the earth produced things coming
up with strange face and limbs, monstrous things, creatures two-
fold, androgynous, neither the one nor the other, and widely dif-
ferent from both, creatures without feet, without hands, without
mouths, or with limbs cleaving to the body, and the like. But all
such, he says, had in them a natural unfitness ; they could not
grow, or long live, and so they soon perished off. Such phenom-
ena Lucretius elsewhere uses, as do materialistic writers now, to
disprove final cause and all design in nature. But in regard
to creatures that were fitted for growth and continuance, Lucre-
tius discourses of the preservation of species and of the final sur-
vival of the fittest, quite in the modern Darwinian manner, and
he seems to have a theory of the origin of species in some respects
quite like that of Mr. Darwin. Many species, he says, must have
died out, because they lacked the needed powers of self-protection,
such as fleetness or craft or courage, or because they could not be
turned to use by man, and be protected ; hence they fell a prey
to other species, and, unable to endure the struggle for existence,
they disappeared, leaving the superior species masters of the situ-
ation.
In the remainder of the book we have from Lucretius a com-
LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA. 335
prehensive survey of the natural history of human society and civ-
ilization ; the gradual rise of man from a savage to a civilized
state, the birth of the arts, the useful and the fine, the growth of
social and political institutions, and the origin of language and
letters, and of religion and religious worship. The Lucretian end
of the whole survey is, of course, to show that all human progress
is natural ; it is of human development by the way of experience ;
it is nowise of divine guidance, no God in history. Only in a very
condensed way can I present here these views of Lucretius. The
primitive men were near akin to the beasts of the field. They
lived in the woods, or in caves and dens ; they fed on acorns or
berries; they drank from the springs and the streams. Gradually
with time they got themselves huts and skins and fire ; they built
towns; they joined ties of family, of neighborhood, of nation. As
to language, that was a natural thing — no invention, nothing con-
ventional. Nature taught all how to use the tongue, and use
struck out words for the names of things. On the language of
song, and music generally, Lucretius has elsewhere a curious pas-
sage, and in his best poetic manner. Only a hint of it can I now
give you. Song, men first caught from birds. The liquid notes
of the birds men imitated with the mouth long before they came
to sing smooth-running verses. Then the whistlings of the zephyr
through the hollows of reeds by the streams first taught peasants
to blow into hollow stalks. Then came the shepherd pipe, played
by rustic fingers, and accompanying sweet, plaintive ditties, filling
the air through pathless woods and forests. This was the culmi-
nating joy of all rustic festivals. This traditional music has come
down to us, the poet adds, though now by scientific study men are
taught to keep the proper time, and come to be more elaborate in
their style ; but for all that they get not a jot more enjoyment
than erst the rugged sons of earth received.
After abundant and exhausting experience of a life of brute
force, they settled by policy upon the even rule of law and equity
and right. At this point occurs a passage in the book of striking
moral force : " Thence," he writes, " fear of punishment mars the
prizes of life, for violence and wrong inclose as in a net all who
commit them ; and they mostly recoil on him from whom they
began ; and it is not easy for the man who, by his deeds, violates
the peace of the community to lead a tranquil life. For though
he eludes God and man, he must needs have a misgiving that his
guilty secret will not be kept forever." Mr. Munro says of this
336 LUCRETIUS' POEM, DE RERUM NATURA.
last sentence, that there is probably some " sarcasm in the use of
the word ' God ; ' " but is it not rather said in soberest earnest,
the poet's moral and religious instincts getting the better, for the
moment, of his materialistic theories? Finally, we have in this
book a passage in which Lucretius endeavors to explain the cause
of divine worship, of temples and altars and all their services,
The passage, though very impressive in its descriptions, is some-
what obscure. At first the writer seems to be tracing religion to
a vague and yet theistic view of the world, which sees in the move-
ments of the heavens and the orderly succession of the seasons
the presence and guidance of a divine Being. But, after all, he is
rather describing what he considers a superstitious fear of some
hidden power, perilous to human welfare, in the phenomena of
storm and lightning and earthquake, which men, in their igno-
rance of natural causes, suppose to be divine, and which they there-
fore seek to propitiate by worship and sacrifice. The truth is, the
idea of Deity is out of place in the theory of Lucretius, as it is
in any materialistic theory. He speaks of gods, it is true, as im-
mortal and blessed beings, precluded from all care and rule over
the world ; but his theory must assign to them a material origin,
just as much as to men and to animals, or to gross matter itself.
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
A COLLEGE LECTURE, WRITTEN IN 1875.
The theory of Lucretius is, as Lange has said, one of the
earliest attempts of philosophical speculation to explain the origin
and manifold life of the world. As expounded by Lucretius,
it professes to be a complete materialism, as it aims to explain
the universe solely by matter, and by matter moving in obedience
to purely mechanical principles. This Lucretian materialism is
also atomism, as it represents the gross matter, of which all bodies
are composed, to be ultimately resolvable into atoms. This mate-
rialism of Lucretius is the materialism of subsequent times and
also of our own times. It is not always called materialism; it
is often called naturalism, sometimes pantheism, and sometimes
also theism. We hear, too, from the modern materialism less
of atoms and atomic impulsions than of molecules and of molecular
forces; but then the molecules come from the atoms, and the
molecular forces play into all bodies very much like the atomic
impulsions; and so just as with Lucretius, so now with some
physicists of more or less pronounced materialistic principles,
matter is the beginning and source of all things. I say here
some physicists, because, of course, these physicists are material-
istic in their principles, not from being physicists as such, but from
being such physicists. Certainly they are in error who suppose
that the progress of materialism is identical with the progress
of physical science, and that those who represent the one represent
also the other. Doubtless men have been drawn into materialism
by too exclusively dealing with the physical side of things ; but
it might also be urged that other men have been drawn into
idealism by too exclusively dwelling in the realm of metaphysics.
Not all the vast reach of progress in modern physical science
need bring any one a single step towards materialism ; on the
contrary, it may lead all men to an ever widening spiritual view
of the material universe, and an ever profounder adoration of
its Creator. And in fact, notwithstanding the marked material-
istic tendency of much of the scientific speculation of our times.
338 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
some of the foremost of living scientific thinkers and writers
are pronounced theists. With this passing explanation, let me
proceed to say that modern materialism rules out of nature all
intelligent design just as much as the ancient divine intervention
is rejected by Lucretius as " the meddling of the gods," and
by a well-known modern writer is called in hardly less pagan
phrase "the intrusion of a supernatural artificer." One is also
conscious in reading some of our scientific writers, that their
science takes an attitude to religion not less unfriendly than was
the philosophy of Lucretius. Under the open opposition of the
one to superstition and of the other to theology, there seems to be
in both alike a lurking opposition to religion itself. Yet Lucretius
believes in gods, though as we have seen they seem to be of
a questionable divine quality. So Professor Tyndall has at least
a suggestion of Deity in his "inscrutable power manifested in
the whole process of evolution." He also asserts his belief in
" the facts of religious feeling," but he assigns them a place not
" in the region of knowledge," over which, he says, it holds no
command, but "in the region of emotion," which, he says, "is
its proper and elevated sphere." With Mr. Tyndall's construction
of knowledge and of science the statement may be admitted ; but
apart from such a construction it is not easy to perceive why
religion, which in the history of the world and in the life of mil-
lions of men is a reality, an objective fact, just as much as nature,
may not legitimately have place in the region of knowledge ;
and why there may not legitimately be a science of religion just
as much as a science of nature.
In reflecting upon this materialistic view of the world as pre-
sented by Lucretius, it is one's first thought that it all rests, in its
construction of matter, only upon hypothesis. The atomic doctrine
is something certainly not proved, not capable of proof by the
methods of positive science, by sense and experiment. As de-
scribed by Lange and others, it is at best a convenient hypothesis
for working use, and not sure in its value for that. No one will
assert of it that it belongs to that class of things which lie within
that select region of knowledge, where physical science, as we have
just seen, is said to reign supreme. Still, this theory is accepted,
as we have it on the best authorities, and ought to be and must
be accepted in explanation of the constitution of gross matter.
Lucretius' reasoning is admitted to be just, that there are such
things as atoms, ultimate, indivisible particles of matter. There is
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 339
a passage in Newton's writings which gives the general principles
very much in the ancient Lucretian manner, but with the radically
qualitative exception that they put it on a theistic basis. " All
things considered," says Newton, " it seems probable to me that
God in the beginning formed matter in solid, massy, hard, impen-
etrable, movable particles, of such sizes and figures, and with
such other properties and in such proportion to space, as most
conduced to the end for which he formed them, and that these
primitive particles being solids are incomparably harder than any
porous bodies compounded of them, even so very hard as never to
wear or break to pieces." "While the particles continue entire,
they may compose bodies of one and the same texture in all ages ;
but should they wear away or break in pieces, the nature of
things depending on them would be changed." It is also stated
by a recent scientific writer. Professor Jenkin of Edinburgh, that
" if matter in motion be conceived as the sole ultimate form of
energy, Lucretius must be allowed great merit in haviug taught
that the motion of matter was as indestructible as its material
existenceJ^ " If energy (he adds), as he believed, be due solely
to motion, . . . though this last point has not been proved, then
his (Lucretius') doctrine is true ; and his proposition (on this
head) foreshadows the doctrine of the conservation of energy."
It is interesting in reading Lucretius in the light of these testi-
monies of modern science to see how ardent was the curiosity of
the ancient mind, Koman as well as Greek, to pierce the veil that
hid from it the secrets of nature, and how in the absence of just
and wide observation, and of the resources of method and experi-
ment, its subtile insight and intellectual strength were able to
achieve, as by a kind of creative act, such great and lasting
results. If only the writings of Democritus, Epicurus, Empedo-
cles, and others had come down to us in their entireness instead
of the mere disjointed fragments which are now extant, we might
have the means of tracing a continuous progress of the physical
science of the ancients, and be able to form a more correct judg-
ment of the investigations and results of those masters of Lu-
cretius of whom he always speaks with admiration and affection.
But Lucretius would have cared little for men's praise of his
physical doctrines for their own sake ; it was their ethical applica-
tions which interested him, and which he longed with even a
passionate desire to have men accept, and make practical to their
own lives. He longed to show that the atoms and their properties
340 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
accounted as cause for all existence, and that Nature was sufficient
of herself for all phenomena to the end that he might rid the
world, as he says, of her haughty lords, and men of all their
superstitious terrors.
If we consider only the theology and the religion with which
Lucretius had to do, we may say that this end was no unworthy
one, as I will try to show more fully by and by ; but the means
which he employed in his atomic system were wholly inadequate
to his end. Granting the doctrine of the atoms and their proper-
ties to be fully proved, it might explain the ultimate constitution
and perhaps the mechanical motions of physical things as already
existing, but by the very Lucretian construction it does not ex-
plain the existence itself even of these, much less of all else in
the world, and, least of all, the origin and continuance of all this
world's order and manifold life. The atoms, powerless themselves,
can produce nothing; as first-beginnings they are just as inade-
quate to production as the element of water in Thales' system,
or of fire in Heraclitus, or the four elements together in Empedo-
cles. Especially conceived and described as they are by Lu-
cretius as lifeless, senseless, without intelligence, how can they by
any conceivable process of development produce beings endowed
with life, sense, and intelligence? Indeed, it is curious to see how
Lucretius, who sets such store by the working of cause and effect,
can (II. 973-990) most naively make himself merry over his own
solecisms of causation. People, he says, try very hard not to
believe that sense and consciousness can come from what is insen-
sible and unconscious. But if sense, he argues, must be in the
elements of all living beings in order that these beings may have
sense, why then the elements from which men come must them-
selves have the same powers of passion, reasoning, and speech
that men have; and then, to be sure, the human atoms would
laugh and weep and reason, and talk cunningly about the nature
of things, and indeed inquire, just as we men do about their own
first-beginnings. All this, he continues, you see at once is very
absurd, and so, as in this special case men can feel and laugh and
cry and reason wisely, though not made of laughing and crying
and reasoning seeds of things, you must, of course, believe that, in
general, all things which we see to have sense and life must come
of things wholly devoid of sense and life. It is difficult to under-
stand how Lucretius explained to himself such assertions. It
would seem that he thought life and consciousness to be modes
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 341
of matter or the results of combinations of matter ; but certainly
his theory in itself gives no rational account of their origin. The
truth is, however, that perhaps unconsciously, certainly inconsis-
tently, he supplements his theory with some provisions which are
not germane to it. We have seen, indeed, from his singular view
of the minimum declination of the atoms that he ascribes to them
the power of swerving at will, even though it be but the least pos-
sible swerving ; so far forth he makes them intelligent, at least as
good as intelligent ; for, the theory notwithstanding, they act in-
telligently, just as men do, who, he himself strenuously insists are
endowed with free-will. Then, too, if the atoms have volition in
them, they may just as well have reason, too, and creative power,
and thus they would have less difficulty to encounter in producing
this world and all that is in it. But do not modern scientific
writers fail as signally as Lucretius failed in trying to solve, on
materialistic principles, the problem of the origin of life and
mind f They differ from Lucretius, in that with a larger and
truer knowledge, they feel, and feel intensely, the difficulty of the
problem, and in that they either pronounce it to be insoluble or
leave it unsolved. The insoluble alternative has been given in
respect to the explanation of m,ind from matter in a statement
very powerfully conceived and expressed by Professor Tyndall.
" The passage," he says, " from the physics of the brain to the
corresponding facts of consciousness is unthinkable. Granted
that a definite thought and a definite molecular action in the brain
occur simultaneously, we do not possess the intellectual organ, nor
apparently any rudiment of the organ, which would enable us to
pass by a process of reasoning from the one to the other. They
appear together, but we do not know why. Were our mind and
senses so expanded as to see and feel the very molecules of the
brain, . . . and were we intimately acquainted with the corre-
sponding state of thought and feeling, we should be as far as ever
from the solution of the problem, ' How are these physical pro-
cesses connected with the facts of consciousness ? ' The chasm
between the two classes of phenomena would remain intellectually
impassable." If this statement is true, it certainly does not make
for any system known in history by the name of materialism ; on
the contrary, does it not carry with it the necessary inference, that
these two classes of phenomena, so wholly unlike in character,
spring from sources equally unlike in their nature ?
In respect to the problem of the origin of life^ I think it must
342 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
be conceded that recent scientific discussions and experiments
touching its origin from matter have thus far left the problem
unsolved. Intensely interesting, however, and ever fascinating,
all must allow, are the experiments which Mr. Tyndall cites as
suggesting such an origin, and very forcible, though far from
convincing, the reasoning by which, as he says, he crosses the
boundary of experimental evidence, and " discerns in matter the
promise and potency of all terrestrial life." I think we all share
with him, and in exact proportion to our own knowledge, the
admiration which he so nobly feels and expresses for all the phe-
nomena of crystallization, — the wonderful way in which the
atoms seem to hold themselves together, — the wonderful play of
force by which the molecules of water build themselves, as he
beautifully says, into the sheets of crystals which every winter
roof all the ponds and lakes. We go just as far as he goes, but
no farther^ when he says that all "this play of power is almost as
wonderful as the play of vitality itself." Almost as wonderful !
Of course it is ; but for all that we are not convinced ; and judging
from his words he is not convinced himself that there is vitality in
the ice, form though it does these crystals so wonderful alike in
"their outward form and their inward texture." And we are
conscious of a yet higher emotion than admiration when Mr. Tyn-
dall puts the question, perhaps anticipated by all, " Can it be there
is no being in nature that knows more about these matters than I
do ? " And we give the heartiest assent when he declares that " the
man who puts that question to himself, if he be not a shallow
man, . . . will never answer the question by professing the creed
of Atheism." In like manner we must all feel the full force of
Mr. Tyndall's question, " Where is life to be found, divorced
from matter ? " But is it not fair to ask. Does not matter exist in
forms in which, so far as we know, there is no life, where it has
had not yet any union with life, and so where divorce is quite out
of the question ? And if so, do we not need to begin there, and
then be taught by experiment, which alone can give us scientific
knowledge, that matter evolves life, and intelligent, conscious
life? But Mr. Huxley teaches us that "the present state of
knowledge furnishes us with no link between the living and the
not living." And Mr. Tyndall also admits " the inability to
point to any satisfactory experimental proof that life can be de-
veloped save from demonstrable antecedent life." Is it legitimate
procedure, then, in the absence of all experimental evidence, " to
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 343
trace the line backward," — as the expression is, — from non-liv-
ing matter, and project the so-called continuity of nature beyond
the continuity of experience, — is it safe to take this leap across
the void which may prove a salto mortale, — to some unseen, fan-
cied point, where living matter may emerge from dead matter?
But Mr. Tyndall considers himself compelled to this procedure,
because otherwise there is left him the only alternative of opening
"the doors freely to the conception of creative acts." It has been
acutely remarked by one of Mr. Tyndall's critics, that there is a
fallacy in that statement in the use of the word freely. It carries
with it the supposition that one must believe in a succession of
mediate or special creative acts to account for the appearance
of the organic forms of life in the world. But that supposition is
not at all necessary, — only is it necessary to believe in a creative
act at all, — and the act may be one and immediate. Men may
differ here as they do differ, and yet agree in accepting the idea
of creation itself. One distinguished writer, to whom I have be-
fore referred, the late Professor Clerk-Maxwell, who was one of
the most eminent inquirers in the realm of molecular physics,
inferred directly from the nature and properties of matter the
existence of a First Cause, their Maker.
Mr. Darwin's conception is, that the Creator introduced into the
midst of dead matter one primordial living form, capable of self-
development into other living forms. Mr. Tyndall mentions that
" Mr. Darwin quotes with satisfaction the words of a celebrated
author and divine who had gradually learned to see that it was
just as noble a conception of Deity to believe that He created a
few original forms, capable of self-development into other and
needful forms, as to believe that He required a fresh act of crea-
tion to supply the voids caused by the action of his laws." But
he adds as his own view, that " the anthropomorphism, which it
was Mr. Darwin's object to set aside, is as firmly associated with
the creation of a few forms as with the creation of a multitude."
In this case Mr. Tyndall does in theory what Lucretius did only
practically, when he represented his atoms as endowed with voli-
tion, that is, he supplements the conception of matter with proper-
ties not known to belong to it. Indeed, he says distinctly, " let us
radically change our notions of matter." This would seem to be
materialism in a development transition ; it is already materialism
and something else. Indeed, he proceeds to ask, " Is there not a
temptation to close to some extent with Lucretius, when he affirms
344 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
that Nature is seen to do all things spontaneously of herself ? "
or with Giordano Bruno, when he declares that matter is not " that
mere empty capacity which philosophers have pictured her to be,
but the universal matter, who brings forth all things from her-
self." But this mention of Lucretius and Bruno makes us ask
him the question, whether matter, then, is created. This question
he does not answer, so far as I know. But if matter is uncreated,
and yet the belief in the existence of God is retained, as it is re-
tained in the writings of Professor Tyndall, then we cannot avoid
the conclusion of the eternity of matter, and of its identity with
God. This is materialism already developed into pantheism, and
this is the position of Bruno ; and Mr. Tyndall also declares Bruno
to be " not an atheist or a materialist, but a pantheist." Nor is
this strange, for as Lange has said, and also when he is speaking
of Bruno, " The materialist who defines God as the sum of ani-
mated nature becomes at once a pantheist without giving up his
materialistic views."
There remains to be examined in Lucretius the principle, if
that word we may use, by which in the denial of all intelligent
design he represents the world to have come into being. We have
seen, in passing from his Second to his Fifth Book, how from that
strange scene of the atoms whirling and clashing in wild chaotic
disorder we at once pass into all the order and beauty and glory
of the material universe, and into the midst of all living things
produced from the earth, now suddenly transformed into a prolific
source of universal life. When we ask how these atoms have com-
bined so as to secure all this production, how they have arranged
themselves into this wondrous order, and how they are keeping up
such a regularity of movement, we have ever that passage to con-
sider which I quoted in the last lecture, and which with slight ver-
bal changes occurs four times in Lucretius' work. Not to translate
it again in full, it is in substance thus : Not by the gods, but by
nature was the world made ; not by intelligent design, but after
trying motions and unions of every kind in infinite time by chance
collisions, they at last fell into those arrangements out of which
this world is formed and by which it is preserved. It is needless
at this late day to spend time and words in refutation of this
Lucretian doctrine, generally known by the name of the fortui-
tous concourse of atoms. But it is worth while to gain from the
context of the passage, wherever it is declared by Lucretius, a
distinct idea of how it lay in his own mind. It is evident that he
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 345
thought the working of chance, as a kind of causation in mat-
ter, could not go on always, producing variations of disorder;
given infinite time to the variability, some time or other the disor-
derly variations would come to an end, and then, at last, chance
itself would bring in a stage of orderly organization as a happy
coincidence. Thus it was that he came to rest his faith in jpure
variability acting at random in infinite time, as the cause of the
heavens and the earth and man and all living beings, that with
their manifold orderly arrangements are luminous with the evi-
dence of supreme intelligence. Strange that a great thinker,
who was construing the world by mind, could deny mind in its
construction ! With reason, however, it was that Lucretius put as
the alternative concerning the final explanation of things either
design or chance ; and the wisest and best thought of the world,
both in ancient and in modern times, while it discerned and
accepted no other, has rested with confidence in the explanation
from design. That argument from design, coupled with a belief in
causation, which rises from the contemplation of the innumerable
facts of arrangement and system in nature looking towards defi-
nite ends, to the conception of an intelligent author of the uni-
verse, has ever formed, from times long anterior to Lucretius, the
secure basis of Natural Theology. Indeed, five hundred years be-
fore Lucretius, and a hundred before his master Democritus, the
fundamental idea of this argument first emerged in Greek thought
in Anaxagoras' doctrine of the Noi)? or Intelligence as the de-
signing and upholding principle of the universe. Of this Grecian
thinker, who was thus the first to introduce into philosophy the
conception of final cause, Aristotle has left on record the remark,
that " this man, who first announced that Intelligence was the
cause of the world and of all orderly arrangement in nature, ap-
peared like a man in his sober senses in comparison with those who
had heretofore been speaking at random and in the dark." After
him Socrates adopted this idea, and wrought it in the mould of his
own moral genius into a practical proof for the existence of one
Supreme Being as the framer and preserver of the entire Cosmos
(Xenophon, Mem. 4, 3, 13) ; and Plato, following his master,
but in his own idealistic manner, strove ever to show that all phe-
nomena presupposed eternal ideas, and that these gradually led up
to the Supreme Idea — the highest Good — to God. If we trace
the fortunes of this argument in scientific thought, we find it
maintained by the last word of that thought, " The Reign of Law,"
346 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
uttered so decisively by the Duke of Argyll, even as by the
utterances of Lord Bacon made in the very first beginnings of
modern science which we are wont to associate with that great
name. Bacon, from his insisting upon the use of efficient causes
in their proper spheres in physics, has sometimes been repre-
sented as unfriendly to the argument from design. But he de-
clares himself as follows : " When Democritus and Epicurus
asserted the fabric of all things to be raised by a fortuitous con-
course of atoms, without the help of mind, they became universally
ridiculous." " I had rather believe," he adds, " all the fables in
legend, and the Talmud, and the Koran, than that this universal
frame is without mind ; . . . for while the mind of man looketh
upon the second causes scattered, it may sometimes rest on them
and go no farther ; but when it behold eth the chain of them con-
federate and linked together, it must needs fly to Providence and
Deity." And the Duke of Argyll in the far-reaching scope of his
argument, which comprehends the operations alike of nature and
of the minds of men, all the history alike of the world's preserva-
tion and its creation, fixes the idea of everywhere reigning law in
order produced by contrivance and for a purpose of will. So
essential is this principle of design to the final explanation of all
things, that the theories of modern naturalists which exclude it
seem, with all the truth which may belong to them, yet to be as
essentially imperfect as the ancient theory of Lucretius ; indeed,
if pushed to a last analysis, they must fall back upon the Lucre-
tian alternative of chance. Is it not so with regard to the theory
of natural selection in explanation of the origin of species ? This
theory proceeds, if I understand it, exactly upon the Lucretian
conception of variability and variation in infinite time. As we
read Mr. Darwin's intensely interesting narratives of his laborious
and patient experiments in trying to make species, if I may use
this expression, we may readily admit that nature selects even as
in those experiments man selects, and that both processes proceed
by manifold variations with all their marvelous results. But after
all, the natural selection, just as the artificial, is at best only a re-
sult, it is no agent. Do not all the experiments point unerringly
to the sole natural conclusion that back of all the variation and all
the selection, back of all nature, as of man, there is intelligence
acting with design, and bringing about, not like man, what has
been called an "astonishing amount of divergence from an existing
species," but also producing new species as well. But just as Lu-
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 347
cretius construes all supernatural agency in the genesis of things
into " a meddling of the gods," so it is now said that the idea of
the presence of intelligence in nature, acting from design, is " an-
thropomorphism, or a supernatural artificer acting after human
fashion." All conclusive, however, is the remark on this head of
M. Janet, in his work on " Final Cause," that " the slippery and
perilous point in Darwinism is the passage from artificial to natu-
ral selection ; it is to establish that Nature, blind and purposeless,
is able to reach the same result by accidental circumstance, which
man obtains by deliberate and purposed diligence."
So, too, the theories, whether the ancient or the modern, which
insist so much upon natural laws, or natural causation, fail to
reach any rational view of the origin of the world, so long as they
leave out of view the idea of design. It is laws and their unbend-
ing, persistent course, which Lucretius is ever teaching with a
passionate earnestness. In his thought, as in modern thought,
law reigns supreme ; chance itself is ultimately resolved into neces-
sity ; seu casu, seu m, he says, call it chance or force, law is in all
nature, and in nature all is law. It is this conception of law which
gives his thought such stately grandeur as it marches through its
story of the world ; it is this which makes a sure repose of order
amidst the changing phenomena of nature and of man's life, and
fixes an equilibrium of opposing forces in the ever ongoing pro-
cesses of renovation and decay, of birth and death. It is this faith
in law which he upheld in opposition to a faith in the gods of the
ancient mythology. But he failed to see that natural laws with-
out a Supreme Lawgiver made another mythology more rational
only in seeming, — a kind of philosophical mythology quite as in-
consistent with reason as the older poetic one. And without the
conception of an ultimate source of law in a Supreme Intelligent
Will, does it fare any better with the laws of modern science?
One might as well accept the poetic mythology made up of Nep-
tune and Ceres and Dryads and the like as a theory of the origin
and government of the world, as the philosophic one of motion and
gravity and impulsion, or the modern scientific one of atoms and
molecular and polar forces, and the rest, which haunt the top
and the sides of this newest upheaved Olympus. And what help
is given us by resolving the many laws into the one law, and one
law acting with an unbroken continuity — as in the ancient theory,
the law of inexorable necessity, or in the modern, the law of evo-
lution or development. The one law presupposes the Lawgiver
348 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
just as much as the many laws, and the one law expressing every-
where intelligence must just as much emanate from the Supreme
Intelligent Will.
As the Duke of Argyll so distinctly says, " the laws of nature
come visibly from one pervading mind, and express the authority
of one enduring kingdom." Indeed, by the luminous interpreta-
tion given to natural phenomena by the scientific thought unfolded
in this writer's " Reign of Law," we may apply to natural laws
that fine word of the Greek poet which was applied by him to the
laws of the moral world : —
(These) " laws are set on high
Heaven-born, their only sire Olympus ;
For these there lives a mighty God
Who ne'er grows old."
And here let me put in a plea for Lucretius, in explanation of
his attitude to religion in his time. We can far more easily accept
his procedure in combating a form of polytheism which was at
variance with all philosophy, than that of any modern naturalist
who, in contending for an exclusively natural causation, is in con-
flict with a pure monotheistic religion, which furnishes a truly
religious basis for the existence and growth of science. Lange
has a very instructive thought on this head. He is speaking of
the influence of Christianity, as a complete monotheistic religion,
upon the history of materialism. With a polytheistic religion, a
philosophy which teaches law in nature has difficulties to contend
with as thousand-fold in its ranks and orders as is the mythologic
system itself. But when you assume the grand thought of one
God, and of his one uniform agency in the universe, then is the
connection of things by the law of cause and effect not only think-
able, but it is a necessary consequence of the assumption. What
the historian of materialism here says of opposition of a pagan
philosopher to a polytheistic religion applies with fullest force to
Lucretius. And yet more, and far more. His opposition was
caused quite as much by moral as by intellectual motives. He
was zealous to overthrow the gods of the popular religion, not
only because they were conceived as wrong in violation of the
truth of nature, but because they were conceived as capricious
and cruel and revengeful, and because they held men in the spell
of superstition, or under the sway of a terrible tyranny. Who
can believe such gods, he says, who torment here and hereafter^
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 349
not injustice and crime alone, but innocence and goodness too.
He would hear nothing of augury and divination, — all the num-
berless presages and omens in men's dreams and fancies, in na-
ture's phenomena, — in lightning, wind, and rain, the flight of
birds, and in the rustling of leaves, he would away with them all,
as foes to human peace and well-being. He found not only the
crowd — the turba Remi — believing, or seeming to believe, all this,
but also men of intelligence and culture. They might rail like
old Cato at the augurs, but they felt in their hearts and their lives
the pressure of the augural faith. Think of poets, he might say,
embalming in pious verse these senseless and impious traditions ;
think of sober historians recording in good faith all the prodigies
and omens of the successive years, and as for our public men,
think, for instance, of Sulla, so sensual and atrociously cruel, styl-
ing himself the Felix, and ascribing his felicity to these gods,
thanking Yenus for his victories alike in battle and in love, — think
of him stealing the image of Apollo from off the Delphic altar,
and then devoutly kissing and doing it homage in prayer. In the
name of Epicurus, let us be rid of these gods many and lords
many ; let us by teaching the true doctrine of nature and man
deliver the world from unreason and superstition, and so bring
into it light and peace and happiness. We may have some char-
ity for this Lucretian unbelief, though we may feel and know it
to be unbelief still. He did not, and perhaps he could not, see
that he was combating errors with error ; that in ridding men of
superstition he was robbing them of religion ; that in overcoming
fears of the gods, he was destroying the fear of God, which a
writer a thousand years earlier than himself had declared to be the
beginning of wisdom. But the primal beliefs of man's nature will
ever have their supremacy over false theories, let them be wrought
out with whatsoever cunning of the mind. Democritus, in spite of
his material atheism, believed and worshiped the gods ; he counted
as truly happy only the man whom the gods loved ; he called the
soul, too, because of the finest atoms, the divine part of man.
Epicurus, too, as we have seen, adored the gods, and deemed the
idea of their divine power the most elevating of all ideas ; though
they had no place in his system, they certainly, as Lange puts it,
had a subjective relation to himself and his own life.
This noble inconsistency we see everywhere in Lucretius ; and
in him the human instincts are strengthened and quickened by
the fine force of his poetic genius. His imagination lifts him out
350 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
of his blind and dead materialism into conceptions of an all-ani-
mating life in nature, and a power even creative and governing,
which are out of all keeping with the doctrines of his system.
Such conceptions appear even in the names which he has for the
Democritan atomi. He never uses atoms from the Greek dro/xoi,
or aro/xa, individual things, nor always primordia, but often sem-
ina rerum, genitalia corpora, — terms which carry with them the
notion of a creative capacity. So, too, he says that the first-be-
ginnings must have, in producings things, some latent, unseen
power. Thus he seems to be striving and feeling after a power of
a diviner quality, even a Presence and a Power pervading and rul-
ing the whole world. Such a view in the heathen philosopher was
certainly better than that of the polytheistic religion of his own
age. It may, it is true, be called no better than the one I have
mentioned as put forth in these Christian times of " an inscrutable
Power manifested in the whole process of evolution," but I think
it is to the honor of Lucretius that his view is at least quite as
good as this.
We may now pass by an easy transition to the many concep-
tions of nature and also of human life which enrich this poem,
and which disclose the writer's poetic genius. Never in all the
manifold processes of the argument through which Lucretius
moves does the genius of the poet altogether desert him. He
diffuses its genial glow through his most speculative thought, his
most abstruse reasoning. But most of all does it appear in spe-
cial passages, digressions into which the poet is ever sliding and
wandering, as pauses and resting-places in his arguments, like the
quiet nooks in woods, or haunts by streams or by the seaside, or
solitary mountain spots where alike in his life and his poetry he
loved so much to linger.
The feeling which we so often call the love of nature we find in
Latin poetry to be better illustrated and more fully possessed by
Virgil than by Lucretius ; but Virgil never rose to that tone of
philosophic contemplation of nature's aspects and life which was
so habitual with the poetic genius and manner of Lucretius. As
Virgil was a diligent and in some ways a ' congenial student of
Lucretius, and in that remarkable passage in the " Georgics " ^
where he seems to be comparing himseK with his predecessor, he
looks up with admiration to that poet who was happy indeed that
he could discover and set forth the causes of things in the uni-
^ Book III. 475-494 : " Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," etc.
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 351
verse, and would gladly have the Muses reveal to himself, too, as
to that poet, the secrets of nature ; but if that lofty gift be denied
him, then may it be his to love the woods and the running streams
in the valleys. I do not care now to discuss Mr. Tyndall's motive
for finding a close to his Belfast Address in that noble passage
from Wordsworth's " Tintern Abbey " which pictures to us the
modern poet's love and worship of nature. But I sometimes feel
in reading Lucretius that he was touched even as was Wordsworth,
in his selectest lines, by the presence of Nature ; even so did he
give himself up to the sense and the utterance of her majesty and
power, her sublimity and beauty; he never tired of holding com-
munion with her visible forms, or of pondering and piercing the
mystery of her subtle, all-pervading life, and of apprehending and
expressing her innermost meaning. How finely and richly does
all this appear in the very opening lines of his poem, where he
addresses Venus as the source of all the manifold life and glory
of the world. Let me give a translation : " It is thou, increase-
giving goddess, — Alma Venus, — who fiUest with life the ship-
carrying seas, the corn-bearing lands, through thee every living
thing after its kind is conceived and rises up to the light. Before
thee and thy coming flee the winds and the clouds ; for thee earth
manifold puts forth her sweet flowers ; for thee the propitious
heavens shine, and the levels of the sea do laugh. With every
day that opens anew, the fowls of the air show signs of thee, and
the wild herds boimd over the glad pastures ; yes, throughout all
seas and mountains and rivers, the leafy homes of birds and grassy
plains, aU living things feel thy reviving power and follow thee
whither thou leadest on."
With the same poetic feeling quite as much as with the phi-
losopher's thought, Lucretius is fond of contemplating the grand-
est processes of nature in all the changing phenomena of decay
and restoration in outward things. Plants and trees are ever
growing up and passing, and out from the winter of their death
come forth into ever new springs and summers manifold forms of
new life and beauty. And far beyond these visible changes his
imagination ranges into far-off space, and contemplates with yet
profounder awe entire worlds with all that is in them moving
through the same processes of change. So, too, individual objects
and scenes in nature — the coming of day and of the spring, the
quiet running brooks and the vast rushing sea, the rippling of
waves by the shore, the heavens in all their aspects of storm and
352 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
shine, and the ever-changing shapes and hues of their clouds —
are contemplated with the observant eye and the quickened and
quickening sense of the poet. But everywhere his feeling is
drawn to things which reveal most fully and freshly the life and
power of nature, and his descriptions have in them a like living
active quality. How life-like as a picture of Homer is Aurora
as she comes ! " When the dawn first sheds fresh light over the
earth, and birds of every kind, flitting over the pathless woods,
through the yielding air, fill all places with their liquid notes,
how suddenly the rising sun overspreads and clothes all the
world with his light ! " Out of many like passages which I had
selected from the Sixth Book let me give only one which describes
the movements of clouds. " Observe when the winds carry the
mountain-like towering clouds through tile air on the mountain
sides, and piled one above the other in rest, the winds being
buried in calm, then you shall be able to observe their huge
masses, caverns as it were, of hanging rocks. And when on the
gathering of a storm the winds have filled all these, how they
chafe and bluster in their dens like wild beasts ; how they growl
through the clouds, and, bent upon finding their way out, how
they whirl together their fire out of the clouds, and gather them
together and roll the flame in their hollow furnaces, till at last
they burst and shine forth in their forked lightning flashes."
The mystery of man's being and destiny he feels as powerfully
as the mystery of nature, and represents it in like poetic manner,
but with no less variety and freshness. The tone of his descrip-
tion is never morbid or austere, but it is grave and even solemn.
Materialist as he was, he never betrays the frivolity and flippancy
of some modern materialistic writers. Nor is there aught in his
poetry that is akin to a sensual and licentious materialism. In
this respect, nor in this alone, it seems to me that Tennyson's
poem on " Lucretius " fails to represent aright his subject. It is
powerfully conceived, and like everything that Tennyson writes
is executed with artistic finish of style. But the conception, em-
bodying as it does the incredible story of his madness and suicide,
and also some added elements of empty tradition, is not the con-
ception of the Lucretius of the poem, and I think not of the real
Lucretius. Besides, it introduces sensual and degrading thoughts
and fancies, which nowhere appear in the poem ; and the poem
is, after all, the sole biography we have of the man. Tennyson's
poem makes upon a student of Lucretius a disturbed and discord-
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 353
ant impression. That awful image of the philosophic poet tearing
passion to tatters under the maddening influence of a love-philtre,
and at last gasping and dying in horrid agonies, and an imaginary
wife Lucilia standing there the while wringing her hands in woe
over the work of a fatuous jealousy, — it is all a wild fiction just
as unworthy as it is elaborate. There is nothing in the Lucretius
of the poem that savors aught of all this. He writes of the passion
of love and of its relations in his Fourth Book, but in a love
which is scientific and didactic, never sensual and licentious.
Here and wherever he touches and delineates human life it is
with a sober and thoughtful tone. Not more thoughtful in his
contemplative views of life is Young himself in our English
poetry ; the modern poet is more sombre, and as inferior in sus-
tained elevation of feeling as he is in refinement of taste. Lucre-
tius entered with a truly human sympathy into all that is noble and
all that is depressing in human life. Whatever is cheerful and
whatever is sad, all in it that moves admiration and joy, or pity
and grief, men's hopes in all their glow of expectation and in their
bitterness of disappointment, the fears and ills that men bring
upon themselves, or which their mortal destiny brings upon them.
Their follies and weaknesses never move him to mirth or ridicule,
though sometimes to a disturbed and indignant tone that reminds
one of the satire of Juvenal. Not without a sense of human great-
ness and dignity does he look upon the fasces and purple robe
of civil power and all the pomp and circumstance of war, but with
dimmed eyes he sees the scenes of faction and bloodshed, the mis-
erable strifes of worldly ambition and all its corroding cares and
fears, the rush and tumult of human passions and lusts which
make men destructive foes to one another and foes to themselves.
And with a true tenderness of pathos he feels and describes the
real ills of man's feeble race from the first wail of the infant as he
comes into life to the funeral knell that tolls the going down to the
grave. In one brief passage he thus transforms by a single crea-
tive touch his ever-recurring primordial law into a most, impres-
sive image of this ever-recurring universal lot of man. " Here,
too," he says, " goes on ever with even issue the war of the first-
beginnings ; now here, now there, the vital elements overcome
and are overcome in turn ; with the funeral lament is mingled
the cry of children as they first come to the light ; and no night
has ever followed day, nor day followed night, which has not heard
sickly infants' cries blended with the lamentations that follow
354 THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS.
death and the black burial train." And all his solemnity of feel-
ing, awakened by these vicissitudes of human destiny, all his
sympathy with whatever is sweet and endearing in affection and
bright in prosperity or dark in adversity, with the natural iUs men
must bear and the worse unnatural ills they suffer through a bad
heart and life, — all these appear in their fullness just when he has
taught materiality of the soul, and is dwelling upon the thought
of an eternal death. Here he teaches lessons of expostulation
with men's anxieties and fears, of solace for their grief, of a stead-
fast and heroic fortitude and submission amidst inevitable trials ;
and out of his very unbelief in future retributions he preaches his
doctrine of stern retributions of the present ; and all this resting
on the view of entire unconsciousness in death, and so of death not
to be feared or deplored. As to your worst fears of the future,
he says, they should rather be fears for the present. You are
frighted by the tales of Tantalus and Tityos, of Sisyphus, of
Ixion, of Cerberus and the Furies, and all else that makes up the
horrors of Acheron's deep. The awful things these all teach do
exist, but they exist in this life ; now and here in bad men's hearts
and lives. The hell is here on earth — in the life of fools.
" Hie Acherusia fit stultorum denique vita."
But with the truest pathos he touches the fears men have of
death robbing them of the good things of life. One says to him-
self, " Soon thy glad house shall no more welcome thee home, nor
virtuous wife and sweet children run to snatch thy kisses and
touch thy heart with sweet delight. Soon shall thy fortune no
more flourish, or thou be a safeguard to thine own. One disas-
trous day has taken from thee, luckless man, all these many prizes
of life." How finely has Gray in his "Elegy " turned these lines.
Familiar as the stanza is, let me put it by the side of the version
which I have given in prose : —
" For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share."
And how earnestly does he rally all the lighter and sicklier appre-
hensions against the coming of the inevitable hour. " Men say,
with cup in hand and garland on their head. Enjoy the pass-
ing moment ; soon it will be gone and come no more. Folly
indeed ! as if after death you could crave aught of all this. No
one wakes up to crave anything, when once the chill pause of life
THE THEORY OF LUCRETIUS. 355
is come." " Nature herseK might on this wise rally men's morbid
laments : Why dread death if your life has been happy ? Why not
depart from the banquet like a satisfied guest ? If not, then why
not end your troubles ? And to an old man she might say, Why
fear now and moan ? I have nothing new to give, if thou wert
to live here forever. A truce, then, with your idle tears." " And
this remember, too, vain man, and be content : Good men have
died before you, far, far better than thou, even the greatest and
the best — the good Ancus, Scipio, and Homer, and Democritus,
aye, and Epicurus as well. Go, then, thy way, as all before thee ;
for one thing will ever rise out of another ; to none is life given in
fee-simple, to all in right of use."
But, hopeless of the future as the poet's doctrine is, hopeless
of best and dearest of human hopes, he is true to the last to his
theme and his task — he is true to the philosophic impulse to in-
quire, and to know, and to rest quiet and unmoved in the repose of
knowledge. In this unspeakably real scene of human life, where
individuals and generations are ever coming and going, passing
and repassing, and passing away, he would have each man leaving
all else, study to know the nature of things^ since the thing at
stake is the condition, not of one hour, but for eternity.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, JANUARY 14, 1876, AND PRINTED
IN THE "BAPTIST QUARTERLY."
The comparative method of study which has achieved such
great discoveries in its own province of language is winning like
results in mythology, history, politics, and religion. It is truly
marvelous how it carries light wherever it goes, and illumines
whatever it reaches ; how it brings near to us the far distant, and
binds to the immediate present the primeval past; how it joins in
friendliest union the most diverse elements of speech, race, gov-
ernment, and society, and so by its touch makes the whole world
kin. In its progress it reveals to us the broad and goodly view
not only of languages united by closest family ties, which yet be-
long to nations parted hemispheres asunder, but also of the nations
that speak them as forming one brotherhood and sharing a com-
mon heritage of civilization. It takes us to that far-off primeval
Aryan home where the forefathers of these nations were one great
family, a yet unbroken household, living as one people, speaking
one language, subject to one rule, tilling the same fields, plying
the same arts, and looking up to the same bending and protecting
skies, and there seeing and worshiping one Supreme Being as the
God of light, as Father in heaven. We may look for grander
results to be achieved from the applications of this comprehensive
method of study. As we think of its onward career we seem to
see its studious followers in brilliant succession, even as the run-
ners in the ancient torch-race, handing along the lights of science
by the successive stages of their course of research, the eyes and
energies of all bent upon the ultimate goal — the knowledge of
one united race, of the vast and varied interests of our common
humanity. It is indeed the universal human interest inspired by
this method of study that makes at once its worth and its charm,
and gives it a hold upon all thoughtful minds like the spell of a
fascination. And as it is in the province of language, in which it
became first established, we have in its results a quite new proof
of the value and function of speech, of the spoken and the written
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 357
word, as the revealer of human thought and history ; and we may
claim for philological studies as a whole what has been long ac-
corded to the study of the Greek and Roman tongues, that they
are the true Humaniora^ truly humane and humanizing studies,
counting nothing foreign to themselves that belongs to humanity,
humani nihil a se alienum. In nothing do these many- voiced
studies so powerfully address the human heart as in what they
reveal to us of the religions of the different nations of the world,
or of the religion of some on« nation which has borne a ruling
part in its history. Here they have to do with what is most cen-
tral and distinctive in man, that religious nature by virtue of
which, as it was said in an old Aryan word, he is bidden to " look
heavenward," or, as we have it in more significant Semitic speech,
"is able to lift up his face to God and have his delight in the
Almighty." It is also one of the many services rendered by com-
parative to classical philology that inquiries into the religions of
classical antiquity are now conducted on a wider basis of truth
and reason, and with a larger intelligence and charity. To rele-
gate the Greek and Roman religions to the realm of superstition
and falsehood, and to conceive of those nations themselves, who
found and expressed in those religions their best life for long gen-
erations, as being before the advent of Christianity mere outcasts
and castaways, with no knowledge of God or hope of immortality
— these views and such views as these it would now be simply
impossible to entertain. We might as weU go back to the notion
that Greek and Latin were somehow developed out of Hebrew,
or indeed that Hebrew was the original language of mankind.
When we now enumerate the gifts bestowed upon us by those
foremost nations in their letters, art, and philosophy, in their
dominion and law, and remember that the Greeks by their speech,
and the Romans by their rule, handed down to us a yet richer
gift, their own only by adoption, the gift of the Christian religion,
then may we contemplate their religions, too, as having a place in
the providential ordering of the world, as preparatory to the true
and the universal religion, and as enabling them in the fullness of
time to receive this religion themselves, and to bequeath it to all
after times and peoples.
In a former essay I endeavored to set forth the religion of
the Greeks as it has come down to us from their mythical heroic
age in the poetry of Homer. I wish now to present some aspects
of that religion in the form into which it had passed in the
358 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
brightest historic times of Greece, as it was taught and inter-
preted by Sophocles, the poet of devoutest mind and of most
harmonious genius and culture in the age of Pericles, and also the
artist poet of Attic tragedy, which was at once the ministry of
the Greek faith and the sovereign crown of the Grecian Muse.
The Greek gave always his best and his greatest to his religion,
to his conception of spiritual existence and of that unseen, aw-
ful Power that ruled supreme in it all, as well as in all the world
of nature and the life of man ; and nowhere did he give it in
such large and costly store as in the gifts of his art, in those ex-
quisite revelations of beauty and grandeur which have ever been
and will never cease to be the marvel and the study of every age.
Athenian art were aU vacant and meaningless without the presence
and interpretation of religious ideas. It was from these came
the soul of its inspiration, these bodied forth its manifold forms.
The artists themselves and their enlightened patron, the citizen
sovereign of Athens, were all the willing servants and ministers
of religion. Their minds habitually dwelt in the yet cherished
traditions of the national faith, and these they sought to repro-
duce, but purified and informed with a truer meaning, in accord-
ance with the advanced spirit of their age. Through their con-
trolling influence it was religion that gave new consecration to
recovered freedom and rekindled patriotism, new sanction and im-
pulse to the fulfillment of vows, and to the offering of dedication
gifts to commemorate recent national triumphs and adorn afresh
places made sacred by the achievements of earlier times. Of
the exalted influence and rank of religion in all that world of
Attic art we have the best symbol and witness in the Phidias
statue of Athene Promachos, that masterpiece of painting, archi-
tecture, and sculpture combined, reared up under the open sky
and into the pure air of Athens, far above all its grand assem-
blage of works of art, crowning the Acropolis itself, the sanctuary
of Athenian religion, ever looking down upon the city she had
always protected, ever looked up to by its citizens as the goddess
of the Athenians' home. Of this religion, to which all Athe-
nian art ministered, Sophocles was himself a chosen minister, in a
form of Greek poetry, which, as I have said, was in its uses a
religious one ; he was consecrated to its service by the Muse of
Attic tragedy ; in the tragic drama he was during all his life the
religious teacher of the Athenian people. Remote as we are
from that ancient Greek life, and prepossessed with the ideas of
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 359
the modern drama, we are not always apt to discern this character
of the Attic tragedy. That tragedy was in its origin a religious
solemnity, and was true to that origin during all its history ; the
play was an element of public worship, the building in which it
was represented was a temple, and its centre appropriated to an
altar ; all who took part in the representation were devoted to a
divine service ; the stage itself was the national pulpit, our word,
indeed, being the Latin name for it ; the poet was the preacher,
and his poem was in truth a sermon designed for the religious
instruction of the people. How well does the writer remember
the first living impression he received of this character of Greek
tragedy, when years ago, in his student-life at Berlin, it was his
fortune to see the " Antigone " exhibited, and then for the first
time, at the Eoyal Theatre. This representation of a Greek play
on the German stage was the idea of the late Prussian king, Fred-
erick William IV., a sovereign who in intellectual gifts and in
liberal patronage of letters and art was not unlike Pericles him-
self. He laid under contribution all the resources of his capital
in learning and scholarship and musical genius for the transla-
tion of the play and the composition of the choral music, and in
histrionic and decorative talent for its exhibition with all fitting
appointments of acting, scenery, and costume. It was an impos-
ing spectacle to behold. There was a wealth of Mendelssohn mu-
sic to delight the ear, and yet those sights and sounds have long
since quite faded from the mind ; but the moral impression which
the drama made by the truth it uttered, as it moved in solemn
march through the action, lingers yet fresh in the memory, an
abiding possession. Even now there seems to be seen that stately
figure of Antigone, and her voice seems to be heard pronouncing
her faith " in the unwritten and unchanging laws of God," and
her purpose to abide by that faith even unto death. When she
appealed to those unwritten divine laws as above Creon, above all
human decrees, what a noble utterance was that which rang out
so clear and commanding : —
" They are not of to-day nor yesterday,
But live forever, nor can man assign
When first they sprang to being. Not through fear
Of any man's resolve was I prepared
Before the gods to bear the penalty
Of sinning against these."
It was the appointed and the chosen mission of Sophocles to
360 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
fasten such moral impressions as these in men's minds, as through
his dramas he addressed his countrymen, assembled by thousands
in the great theatre of Dionysus ; yes, and as he has ever since
addressed, on the vast theatre of the world, all the succeeding
generations of men through the perpetual beneficent influence of
good letters. And how richly was he furnished for his mission
by nature and education, and by all fortunate environment of
time and place and circumstance. We have a brief biography of
him in Greek by an anonymous writer, which contains a very
significant sentence : " Sophocles was dear to the gods as no one
else ; " ^co</)tXr^9, Horace's Dis cams, one word, but a choice one,
and it strikes the key-note of all the prolonged harmonies of his
poetic life. The word was doubtless meant to express his sense of
reverence and piety, by which he was indeed highly favored, as
the best of all the good things which were his, and which by
it were made good things to others. But we may take the word
in a larger sense. Highly favored he was in his poetic genius,
Melpomene smiling upon him at his birth, in the sweetness and
serene calmness of his nature, and his fine aptitudes for all those
qualities and accomplishments of person, manners, and mind
which with the Greek entered into the ideal of manhood. Highly
favored, too, in the fortunate event when these gifts, then in their
early spring, first brought him into public notice. He was sixteen
years of age when the great victory of Salamis was won ; and on
the day of its celebration he was chosen to lead the chorus in
song and dance, as moving around the trophy they chanted the
battle-hymn in gratitude to the gods for the nation's triumph.
This was a select honor for an Athenian to win in the early years
of his education ; and the youthful Sophocles had won it by the
distinction he had gained in the pursuits of those years. Music
and gymnastics, in each of which he had carried off the garland
prize, had given him skill in song and lyre, and had rounded to
symmetry of form a person of native beauty and grace ; and his
studies in the epic and lyric poets had already touched and quick-
ened the susceptibilities of his aesthetic nature, and kindled a gen-
erous love of excellence in all that is good and noble in character
and action. Among the Fragments^ of his lost poems one has
been preserved, which perhaps embodies his own experience of
those years : —
^ Fragm. IIQ ; referred to and quoted by Professor Plumptre in his Life and
Writings of Sophocles.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 361
" Since we have rightly made our prayer to God,
Now let us go, my children, to the schools
Where wise men teach, and learn the Muses' arts,
And ever, day by day, take one step on.
Till we gain power to study nobler things."
Twelve years later came a greater day in Sophocles' life, when
that early promise, now amply increased, was to come to its first
fulfillment. It was the great Dionysia of the year 468, and a
dramatic contest of unparalleled interest was to take place. Soph-
ocles, then in his twenty-seventh year, was to appear for the first
time as a tragic poet, and in competition with ^schylus, who had
been the master of the Athenian stage for an entire generation.
In anticipation of the approaching contest, public expectation had
been wrought up to its highest pitch, and party feeling ran high
through the city, some eager for a new success of their old favor-
ite, and others desiring a maiden triumph for the young aspirant,
already known as a gifted poet. The archon, who had not yet
appointed the judges of the contest, in his fear that any arbiters
appointed in the usual way would fail to unite the people in their
decision, took, in a happy moment, the bold step of electing a
wholly new tribunal, whose decision he knew would carry all the
people. It so happened that Cimon and his nine colleagues — the
ten representing, as also the dramatic judges always did, the ten
tribes — had just come back from a sacred mission to Scyros, bring-
ing with them the bones of Theseus, to lay them in Attic soil.
They had come straight from the Piraeus to the Theatre of
Dionysus, and at the altar in the orchestra were making their
thank-offering for the success of their mission. The archon retains
them after their service was over, appoints them the judges, ad-
ministers the oath, and puts them in the judges' seats, amidst the
acclamations of the assembled citizens. By their votes the prize
was adjudged to Sophocles ; and so on that day they bade the ris-
ing poet be adorned with his first ivy crown — hedera crescentem
ornate poetani. This triumph, however, of Sophocles, never
caused any abiding unfriendly feeling between the older and the
younger dramatist. On the contrary, the relation of Sophocles to
-^schylus was by far the most important of all the influences of
time and circumstance which promoted his growth and culture as
a tragic writer. It was much that he was born into the world
with the nascent fortulies of liberated Greece, and that his youth
was reared and formed when these fortunes were firmly estab-
362 THE LIFE AXD TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
lished ; it was much that when he had reached the full maturity of
his powers he lived and labored in the age of Pericles, and, be-
sides enjoying the friendship of that gifted orator and statesman,
received into himself all the inspiring influence of that era of in-
tellectual activity marked and known by that name. But these
advantages he had in common with all the eminent men of that
time ; for himself in his own art, in preparation for it, and in all
its after exercise, it was his peculiar felicity that he had ^schylus
for his predecessor, as a model to study and imitate in all noble
conception and execution, as a teacher at whose feet he might
dutifully sit, whom he honored and venerated as an elder master,
so long as that master lived, and whose memory he cherished with
filial affection to the end of his own long life. There is a strange
passage in a play of Aristophanes, that brilliant genius of the old
Attic comedy, which contains, where you might least expect it, a
discriminating testimony to the character of Sophocles, and his
relations to ^schylus. It is in the play of the " Frogs," which
was exhibited just after the death of Sophocles, Euripides having
died the year before, and -^schylus many years earlier. So the
great trio were all gone, and the future of Attic tragedy seemed
dark. The comic poet introduces Dionysus telling of a descent
he had made to Hades, to bring back to earth, even as Orpheus
went in quest of his lost Eurydice, the best tragic poet he could
find. He says that a noisy contest was going on there, a dramatic
one, too. j^schylus had long held the laureate place of tragedy ;
but Euripides, who had recently come, was winning favor by his
newer style, and there was some chance of his getting the tragic
throne. But some one asks in the play,^ " But how was it with
Sophocles ; did he put in no claim to the throne ? " " Oh no, not
he," was the reply ; " but as soon as he came down, he kissed
^schylus, and slid his right hand into his, and ^schylus at once
would have ceded the throne to him ; but Sophocles wanted only
to be a looker-on ; and if ^schylus should win, he would stay
where he was ; but if not, he said he would himself enter the lists
with Euripides." In this comic conceit, Aristophanes reveals to
us not only the sweetness of Sophocles' disposition, but also his
place in Attic tragedy, and his relation to ^schylus. He was in
the eleventh year of his age when ^schylus won his first prize ;
he had reached his twenty-third year when ^schylus produced the
great drama of the " Persae," that one of his only two historic plays
1 Line 786, and following, Dindorf's ed., Paris, 1839.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 363
which set upon the Athenian stage that great event in the strug-
gle between Europe and Asia, the rout of Xerxes and the down-
fall of the Persian power. During all this interval it was his, in
common with all Athens, to see and hear the tragedies which the
great dramatist exhibited at the successive annual festivals ; and
what an imaginative study of education and culture to think of
that genial Athenian youth looking on from some chosen place in
the vast assembly, and following those dramas through all their
mighty movements of action, and searching and piercing into all
their hidden and intricate springs in poetic and tragic art, feed-
ing soul and mind with their lofty conceptions and lessons of wis-
dom and truth, inflamed all the while by their excellence, and
stirred with high hopes of coming, by and by, to be himself a
great poet, and famous to all ages. Sophocles was heir direct to
aU that ^schylus wrought out for the Attic stage, to the improve-
ments he introduced into its inner economy as well as its outward
conduct, and especially the religious teaching with which he in-
formed it, in his new and nobler treatment of the myths and tra-
ditions from which its chief materials were always drawn. This
teaching Sophocles took up into his own, following on still farther
in the path opened by ^schylus as a reformer of the national
faith ; he was a follower and a pupil, but an independent one,
conceiving and working according to his own nature, a nature less
grand and majestic, but certainly more calm and sustained, and
more harmonious in itself and all its development, ^schylus is
described by scholars ^ who know him best as a sublime genius,
partaking of the tone and quality of that superhuman and heroic
realm he always dwelt in, amid beings and scenes which it is hard
for ordinary mortals to reach — a warlike and overwhelming na-
ture, dealing with the conflicts of men and gods with one another
and with destiny, grappling and closing, in the drama of fiction,
with the stout problems of fate and free-will, with the same impet-
uous and victorious force as in the drama of life he encountered
and vanquished the Persians at Marathon and Salamis. But in
reading Sophocles we seem to get near to the writer, and enter
into a human sympathy with him ; and yet he draws his subjects
from the same mythic realm, and in his interpretation of its life
deals with the same complex and perplexing conditions of man's
spiritual being and destiny. His art is no less ideal ; his charac-
^ Especially by Dronke in Jahrbiicher fur Philologie, 4th Suppl. Band, pp. 1-
100.
364 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
ters, too, are ideal ; but they are human ; though of a divine kin-
ship, they yet are living and moving upon the earth, our habita-
tion ; ever under the control of a divine government, and subject
to its eternal laws, but yet freely acting out of human feelings,
impulses, and motives. Sophocles is ever so quiet and serenely
thoughtful, harmonizing so far as he may all opposing and jarring
forces, and when he cannot go farther, sure in his faith that there
is a remoter concord somewhere, if only man had the spiritual
insight and sensibility to see and feel it. In Sophocles, indeed,
we are aware of the presence, not so much of a sharp intellectual
apprehension, which seeks to fix in precise forms the knowledge
wrung from wrestling thought, but rather of the undimmed inner
sense,^ which sees and feels the truth as by immediate intuition.
We may apply to him words of his own, left in one of his brief
Fragments : —
" A heart of mildness, full of good mtent,
Far sooner than aeuteness will the truth behold."
And then what a perfection of art in aU his unfolding and ex-
pression of the truth he has thus seen ! We are craving in these
modern Christian days the fusion and union of religion and cul-
ture ; and how we miss it often in the best teaching of the pen
and of the voice, culture lacking the inspiration of religion, and
religion failing to take up into itself and master the resources of
culture. In " Sophocles," the great name of the pulpit of the
Attic drama, we find a well-nigh perfect combination of art and
religion, of the best culture of his age and its best religious ideas.
The wonder is that the thousands of the Athenian demos had
risen to such a high plane of culture themselves that they could
fully appreciate these dramas, and sit and listen to them with
delight for hours, and even entire days in succession.
But we linger too long on the prologue of the theme ; let us
come to the scenes themselves. These scenes belong to a career
extending over more than sixty years, during which the poet com-
posed ninety tragedies, and twenty times won the tragic crown.
Only seven of these tragedies are extant : the " Antigone," " Elec-
tra," " Trachiniffi," " (Edipus the King," "Ajax," " Philoctetes,"
and "(Edipus at Colonos." Without attempting any analysis of
them, or adding to what I have said of their artistic character,
I wish to draw attention to some of the religious views which they
embody, and to illustrate them by a quotation of passages. It is
^ See Dronke (as cited above), p. 62.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 365
a subject which has been often treated ; ^ but the present tenden-
cies of classical studies may justify an endeavor to treat it again,
even if no new results are reached.
Perhaps the most fundamental of all the religious conceptions
of Sophocles is his consciousness of the insufficiency of man in
himself for the attainment of the ends of his life, of the vanity
of all unassisted human endeavor. This fundamental view is,
however, nowise impaired, but rather deepened, by the poet's like
constant sense of the dignity of human nature, and of all that is
great and noble in the origin and destiny of man. Hence the
marked vicissitudes that enter the action of his dramas — of good
and ill, of hope and despair, triumph and defeat, glory and shame,
which, like alternate storm and shine, chase each other across the
scene, and throw their swift succeeding lights and shades over all
the landscape. It makes, indeed, the strange irony of the drama
as of life, that in spite of what is bravest and best in man and
his doings, and even through his own purposed agency, the direst
evils befall him. The heroic might of Ajax makes the fatal
snare by which he falls ; it is the very love of Deianeira for Hera-
cles that brings mortal agony to him and suicide to herself ; Creon
in the very boast of his power utters his weakness ; the wisdom
of CEdipus, which solved the riddle of the Sphinx, is blind to the
riddle of his own dark life, and the swift steps he takes in his
zeal for justice only haste him to his own downfall. Hence the
words of the chorus,^ when the truth of CEdipus' life is at last
revealed.
" Ah ! race of mortal men,
How as a thing of naught
I count ye, while ye live ;
For who is there of men,
That more of blessing knows,
Than just a little while
To seem to prosper well,
And, having seemed, to fall ? "
1 The most recent work on the subject, and one of inestimable value for the
study and right understanding of Sophocles, is the essay (referred to above)
by the late Gustav Dronke. Professor W. S. Tyler has also discussed it in two
able papers on the Theology of Sophocles in the Bihliotheca Sacra, vols. xvii.
and xviii. ; also Professor E. H. Plumptre, in an essay prefixed to his admira-
ble translation of Sophocles ; from this translation we take most of the quota-
tions in this article.
« (Edipus the King, 1186-1192.
366 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
But this feeling in the poet, of human insufficiency, only lifts
him up to faith in a divine Presence and his divine order in the
world, in a Supreme Being, almighty and all-wise, to whose laws
it is man's highest wisdom to bow himself in reverent submission.
For this reverent disposition of the mind Sophocles uses the word
eva-i/Sita, corresponding to the Latin pietas ; it is piety thought of
and expressed as reverent fear ; it discerns in the acknowledgment
of man's weakness the divine wisdom and power, and gives the
grace of consecration to all human virtue, in that it joins it to the
devout fear of God. Many passages illustrate this view. QCdi-
pus, in his greeting of Theseus, thus praises Athens : ^ —
" For I have found
Here only among men the fear of God."
So, too, the Chorus thus acknowledges the piety of Electra : ^
" I have ever found thee, albeit thy lot unhappy, winning the vic-
tor's prize by loyalty to duty, through thy reverent fear of Zeus."
And of Zeus himself the Chorus also says to Electra : ^ " Cour-
age, my child, take courage ; in the heavens great is Zeus, who all
things oversees and rules." And both aspects of the truth are
presented in a remarkable passage in " QEdipus the King : " * —
" Would 't were my lot to keep
A conscience pure
In words and deeds, whose laws are set on high,
Heaven-born, their only sire Olympus ;
Not mortal man begot them.
Nor e'er shall Lethe lull them to repose ;
In these there- lives a mighty God,
Who ne'er grows old."
It is to these heavenly laws that Antigone appeals from the
decree of Creon ; and when at last the catastrophe has revealed
to the stricken and penitent king his error and guilt, the Chorus
utter in the last passage of the drama the great lesson of the
blessing that waits upon piety, and the sore penalties exacted of
impious pride.
As in obedience to these everlasting laws of right Sophocles
places man's virtue and happiness, so in their transgression he
sees the source of personal guilt, and all its sure consequences of
misery and ruin. And here, passing into the province in which all
tragedy moves, we are to observe how Sophocles exhibits, with
1 CEdipus at Colonos, 1125, 1126. 2 Electra, 1093-1097.
8 Electra, 173-175. "* (Edipus the King, 863-872.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 367
moral ends in view, the mystery of human suffering, and tries
to set it in the light of truth. I shall point to the two chief
aspects in which he has presented it : the one, in which suffering is
retributive, as punishment for personal and willful transgression ;
and the other, in which it is disciplinary, and so is healing and
chastening. The idea of destiny, which Sophocles received from
^schylus, he himself presents in close connection with the work-
ing of the human will. Man may choose between good and evil ;
but a transgression, a passing over of the fixed line between right
and wrong, puts him in the path of guilt and ruin. Sometimes
swift following, sometimes lingering and laggard ^ in its coming,
calamitous evil is sure to reach him as his portion. The evil, if
persisted in, passes ever to worse and to worst in character and in
lot. It works always, and nothing but evil. As the German
poet, Schiller, briefly expresses it, in illustration of the ancient
teaching : —
*' Das ist der Fluch der bosen That,
Dass sie f ortzeugend Boses muss gebaren."
A dire element of this fruitfulness of evil and its punishment
is the judicial blindness with which the transgressor is visited.
This is the Ate, or the Erinnys, which as an avenging Being
blinds the guilty one, and drives him on to moral madness. One
striking illustration of this view we have in the poet's Ajax.
This heroic soul fell a victim to his confidence in himself. In the
" pride of his heart he waxed haughty," and boasted his inde-
pendence of the gods. To his father's parting counsel, " that
with his spear he should strive to win, but with help of God," he
proudly replied : ^ —
"My father, with God's help, a man of nought
Might victory win ; but I, I trust, shall grasp
Without his aid that glory for myseK."
This insolent pride was his first sin, a pride "going before
destruction." Next, when the arms of Achilles were adjudged
to Ulysses, he yielded to deadly anger, and then to a purpose to
slay Ulysses, and also the Atridse, who had adjudged the arms.
Then is he smitten with madness, which brings him to disgrace
^ The poet Horace has also a striking passage on this truth in O, III. 2, lines
31, 32 :
" Rare antecedentem seelestum
Deseruit pede poena elaudo."
2 Ajax, 764-769.
368 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
and humiliation before his foes. Most impressive is the way in
which the poet represents both the blinding itself and the lesson
which it teaches. It is in the dialogue between Athena and Odys-
seus. I give only a few lines ^ (and from Plumptre's translation).
Athena is speaking as from the sky, unseen by Odysseus : —
" Athena. Dost fear so much to see a madman's face ?
Odysseus. Nay ; were he sane I should not shun him then.
Athena. Though thou be near he will not see thee now.
Odysseus. How so, if he the same eyes has to see ?
Athena. Know, I will darken even clearest eyes.^'*
Then after Ajax has appeared, and so changed by his frenzy as
even to excite the pity of his adversary, Athena reads thus the
lesson to Odysseus : ^ —
" Do thou, then, seeing this, refrain thy tongue
From any lofty speech against the gods."
" The gods love those of ordered soul,
And hate the evil."
Another illustration we have in Creon, and here the downward
steps we can still more easily trace, as belonging to an inward
spiritual process. Creon, as we have seen, has uttered his decree,
which was in violation of religion and humanity. Antigone has
been arrested for violating this decree, and has been brought
before the king for judgment. But her defense has stirred
Creon' s anger all the more, and he has pronounced her doom and
sent her away. Hsemon, the king's son, and the affianced lover
of Antigone, comes in, and beseeches Creon as father, as king, as
man, by justice, by reason, and by the voice of all Thebes, to
relent and spare the condemned. But in vain, Creon's heart
grows harder, and he bids his son away, declaring that " the girl
shall die, and before the eyes of her lover." Now the Chorus
remonstrate, but only to push the king, in his yet more hardened
heart, to change the sentence to a worse doom — to be entombed
alive. Then Antigone herself passes across the scene, heroic to
the last in devotion to duty, but yet as human and as woman,
mourning that she goes on that last journey "unwept, unwed,
and whelmed in woe, — no more to look upon the eye of day."
Against all Creon stands unmoved, and his heart now hardened
to stone. Then appears the aged seer, Tiresias. Everywhere
about him he has read portents of coming disaster, and he comes
to beg the king to stop in his mad course. He recounts the por-
1 Ajax, 81, 85. ^ j^jax, 127.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 369
tents, and then as teacher and prophet bids him heed his lessons
of warning : ^ —
" Think thou on this, my son, — to err, indeed,
Is common unto all ; but having erred
He is no longer reckless or unblest
Who seeks for healing, not persists unmoved.
Self-will brings on itself the curse of blindness"
The self-willed, blinded king, daring to heap upon the seer, as
the minister of religion, his words of scorn, must now hear from
his prophetic lips the ills that are soon to befall him. Hardly is
Tiresias gone when these ills are at the door, and beat thick and
fast upon him, now — but too late — beginning to relent; the
sight of Antigone hanging dead in her caverned tomb ; the sui-
cide of his distracted son, who curses his father as he dies ; and
then the tidings of his wife's death, who has slain herself in
anguish and despair.
But in Sophocles the consequences of the transgression are not
limited to the original transgressor. They are transmitted and
entailed as an hereditary evil to his descendants, the sins of the
fathers visited upon the children to the third and fourth genera^
tion, and even ending only with the extinction of the whole race.
Thus Antigone, in the third generation from Labdacus, is repre-
sented as falling a victim to the curse that lay upon his house ;
and, indeed, all the woes of the ill-fated CEdipus and his family
are in one passage mourned by the Chorus in the " Antigone" as
springing from the same source. When Antigone is led out to
her doom, the Chorus break forth in the following strain : ^ —
" Blessed are those whose life no woe doth taste !
For unto those whose house
The gods have shaken, nothing fails of curse
Or woe, that creeps to generations far."
And in a later strain,^ still more distinctly, thus : —
" I see the woes that smote, in ancient days,
The seed of Labdacus,
"Who perished long ago, with grief on grief
Still falling ; nor does this age rescue that ;
Some god still smites it down.
Nor have they any end."
It is to be noted that in this instance the poet makes no men-
tion of the original transgression; but in the other tragic in-
stance, that of Pelops' line, to which Electra, with the Atridae,
1 Antigone, 1023-1028. 2 Antigone, 582-586. » Antigone, 597-^02.
370 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
belonged, the first sin is directly mentioned, the murder of Myrti-
los by Pelops. The deed is so interpreted in a choral ode in the
" Electra." ^ Dronke has shown ^ that ^schylus had anticipated
Sophocles in the treatment of this subject, and had brought out
with singular clearness and force his view of the hereditary
nature of evil. He declares, indeed, that ^schylus, in tracing
back the moral curse that befell a whole family to its origin in
the sin and guilt of an ancestor, was the first and the last of the
Greeks who thus ventured upon the problem of original sin ; and
he adds the striking remark, that he " needed only to extend his
conception from one race of men to the entire human race, to
reach the full truth taught by revelation."
I have thus tried to show how Sophocles exhibited human ca-
lamity on its retributive side ; and as here he fully answered the
one moral end assigned to tragedy by Aristotle, of awakening ter-
ror at the punishment of the guilty, so also, as we shall now see,
he knew how for the other moral end to touch to the quick the
sentiment of pity, by representing the chastening and even the
glorifying influence of sorrow in the sufferings of the guiltless. It
is very characteristic of Sophocles to show how the good as well
as the evil are visited with calamity, and what ends of moral gov-
ernment are reached by such visitation. In opposition to the doc-
trine of the Temanite in the Book of Job,^ he taught that the
innocent also perished, and the righteous were cut off ; and this,
too, for some just and wise end of the just and wise order of the
world. This order as planned and carried out by Zeus embraces
the whole and each individual of the race. No one comes into
account for himseK, but as a part of the whole, as a single link in
an endless chain ; and so, when the plan of the universe demands
it, some evil may befall one without any guilt of his own. But
the duty lies upon man to submit himself to the laws of right and
truth, which are written on the heart ; he must cherish a pious
fear and trust in a divine superintending power. The poet thus
conceives and represents a man as brought to some crisis in his
life, where he falls into error, and then by successive steps com-
mits acts of wrong and crime, which he has all the while purposely
shunned ; and these involve him, of course, in heaviest misfortunes.
But the error or the crime is involuntary, and the suffering unde-
1 Electra, 504-515.
^ In the essay (as above cited), p. 55.
^ Plumptre, p. 81, and the note; also Dronke, p. 67, as re-cited.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 371
served. But such an one, thus tried by a heavy lot, if only he
holds fast to his faith in a divine wisdom, which he may not com-
prehend, is ever under a divine protecting care ; and if he find
not a full moral satisfaction here, there must be a hereafter, where
the divine plan of the world will reach its consummation. We
may illustrate some of these views as they are exhibited in drama
by Sophocles. In the tragedy of " Philoctetes," the poet made to
pass on the stage before the Athenians scenes of sujffiering with
which they had been familiar in the poetry of Homer. Philoctetes
had been one of the suitors of Helen, and, bound by the oath which
the suitors had taken in common, he had joined in the expedition
against Troy. But on the way, while on the island of Chryse, he
was bitten and wounded by the fangs of a serpent ; and the wound
growing more and more painful, and the distress and sharp cries
of the sufferer in the camp making him a burden to his country-
men, at length, at the instance and under charge of Ulysses, he
was sent away to the island of Lemnos, and there treacherously
abandoned to his fate. There, far away from all companionship
and help of men, tortured and wasted from his wound, and de-
pendent upon his bow and arrows for a scanty subsistence, he wore
away months and years of a wretched life. With heroic patience
he bore all, conscious of no ill-desert, but bitterly feeling that he
was the victim of human cruelty, and also tempted often like that
other sufferer, and from physical ills, to " fling away his integrity
and curse God and die." The Chorus of the play in a wail of pity
at the lot of the hero finds it on that account worthy of compas-
sion, that he bears it for no guilt of his own. Meantime, nine
years of the Trojan war had passed away. Hector had died, and
Achilles and Ajax, and Troy was not yet taken. Now the prophet
Helenus told the Greeks that Troy never would be taken but by
Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, and with the bow of Heracles.
But Heracles had loved Philoctetes, and at his death had given
him his far-famed arrows and bow ; and these were with the suf-
ferer on Lemnos. So Neoptolemus and Ulysses were dispatched
to Lemnos to bring Philoctetes to the camp before Troy. As the
play opens these have just arrived on the island. But through
the wiles of Ulysses Philoctetes is doomed to new trials yet worse
than physical ones. Neoptolemus, yielding to the persuasions of
Ulysses, his ambition getting the better of his honor, has recourse
to stratagem. He wins the confidence of Philoctetes by professing
sympathy with his distresses, promises to take the exile to his dis-
372 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
tant home, and at last is intrusted with the weapons with which
he is to take Troy. These successful wiles slowly disclose them-
selves to their victim ; and now he is plunged into new griefs.
His confidence betrayed, himself again visited with cruel treach-
ery, he is ready to sink under his too heavy burdens, and to cast
himself into the sea. But his distresses now move the soul of
Neoptolemus to pity and penitence ; he confesses his meanness,
restores the weapons, and now gives the sufferer real sympathy
and aid. He tells him what he had been taught by the seer Hele-
nus, that aU his ills had befallen him by divine direction, as
means of good to himself and his country. He was " to be sure
of this and write it in the tablets of his mind ; " and that the ap-
pointed time had now come when he should " be healed of his dis-
ease, and then with the help of Neoptolemus lay low the towers of
Troy." But not by human lips, by a voice from heaven alone
could the sufferer be fully persuaded. Heracles speaks to him
from the sky and bids him hear his comforting and assuring words,
that confirm those of the seer, which he had just heard. Healing
is assured by Zeus through the skill of Asclepius, and then by his
hand Troy is to faU. And so with the pious assent of Philoctetes
and his words of farewell to the island where he had suffered so
long the tragedy ends, the curtain falling on " the voyage of the
homeward bound."
But the lessons of human misfortune are unfolded with far
more fullness in the two plays of " CEdipus." The words of the
Latin poet Terence, "iVoTi (^surn) (Edipus^^^ have made Roman
and perhaps most modern readers chiefly familiar with this name
as that of a cunning reader of dark riddles ; but in Greek tragedy,
this name, even as that of Job in Hebrew literature, is ever asso-
ciated with a mystery never read by man's wisdom — the suffer-
ings of the righteous. In CEdipus it is not so much the loss of
earthly good that makes his tragic story, that he must lose rank
and wealth and family, and that he must bear in his grief the
harsh judgments and evil tongues of men ; it was involuntary
errors and crimes that made the worst ingredients in his cup of
bitterness. A dark destiny was upon him from his birth. His
father had been warned by oracle of dire evil which needs must
come if a son were born to him. Yet the son was born ; and
after his birth, all in vain was it that the father sought to frus-
trate what had been foretold. Yet worse was it with CEdipus
himself. A righteous king, a father of his people, raised to the
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 373
throne by his goodness and wisdom, fearing the gods, and perpet-
ually warned by oracles he religiously believed, yet without intend-
ing it, without knowing it, he had fallen into the double crime of
slaying his father and marrying his mother. For years all goes
well with his family and his realm. Children are born to him,
Thebes and its people prosper, his kingly name and power seem
secure. But by and by all the dire horrors that underlie this
seeming prosperity come up to the surface in portentous evils.
The wrath of the gods falls upon city and people in a visitation
by plague, and an oracle declares that the murderer of Laius must
be discovered and punished. The plague smites the cattle, blights
the fruits of the earth, sweeps away the first-born of women, all
Thebes is full of the dead and the dying. With the description
of scenes like these the play of " QEdipus Rex " opens. We see the
palace of the Theban king, in front the altar of Zeus and priests
and attendants about it in attitude of supplication. They come
to tell their sovereign their tale of woe, and beg his succor as one
who had once saved the city, and who they believed by his wis-
dom can save it again. CEdipus comes forth with the state of a
monarch, but with the tenderness of a father of his people. He
tells them that, smitten as they are, one and all, yet no one is so
smitten as himself. " Each his burden bears, his own and not
another's ; but my heart mourns for the state, for you, and for
my self y How sadly ominous of what, far worse than direst
plague, is soon to break upon him ! This sore visitation is the
first motive to the action, and as the action solemnly moves on the
complex web of the intrigue is gradually unraveled in the unfold-
ing and discovery of all the dread history of the ill-fated king.
And through all, it is the king who, without a misgiving of him-
self, and in zealous obedience to the oracle, presses forward all
diverse and yet converging lines of inquiry straight to the final
catastrophe. In the midst of the testimony, sometimes accordant,
sometimes contradictory, a single word of a witness strikes upon
him, even as thunder from a clear sky, startling the sudden re-
membrance of a fatal encounter he once had in self-defense, and
instantly with that a suspicion that himself was the murderer of
Laius. The queen, who sitting by has heard the testimony, has
already foreboded all with a woman's intuition, but she shrinks
from further inquiry ; the king, however, is pushed on by the very
horror of the suspicion, till the storm of the whole revelation
bursts upon his head. That single word has proved the last fatal
374 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
impulse to the tottering edifice of his prosperity, and in a moment
all is in ruin. There can scarcely be a greater contrast in drama
or in life itself than in the fortunes of CEdipus at the beginning
and the end of this tragedy. As in that opening scene he came
forth from his palace at the call of his suffering people, by whom
he was remembered as once the savior of themselves and their
children from the destroyer, " the blessing of him that was ready
to perish came upon him, the aged arose and stood up ; men gave
ear, and waited and kept silence at his counsel." But now how
fallen! "his welfare passed away as a cloud," and "the days of
his affliction upon him." He feels that " men must abhor him
and flee from him," "he must be their song, their by-word." And
his family, his friends, what woes he brings upon them ! He
weeps for his daughters as he " pictures in his mind the sad and
dreary life that awaits them at men's hands in years to come, the
friendly gathering, the solemn feasts, to which they may go, and
yet, for all the joy, they will have to come back in tears." Nay,
he will look upon them no more ; and in his distracting anguish
he plucks out his eyes, uttering the strange words, that " as in see-
ing they never saw the ills he did, so no more shall they know
those whom he had ever loved to know." It must be, he thinks,
that some dread power is crushing him, he must be hated by the
gods. He prays to be sent out of the land, " to be led away, of
all men most accursed, most hateful to the gods." And so there
goes forth from the scene the now discrowned king, a bowed and
bending form, friendless, homeless, outcast, a blind wanderer into
the world, " bearing a burden of countless ills none can bear save
himself ; " and as he goes the Chorus thus point their moral : —
" From hence the lesson learn ye,
To reckon no man happy till ye witness
The closing day ; until he pass the border
Which severs life from death unscathed by sorrow." ^
But " the closing day " of CEdipus's life the poet lets us wit-
ness in his " Coloneus," the last of the plays of his own long life.
It is a poem of deftly woven scenes, in which we see the sufferer
chastened, ennobled by his sorrow, and at last well-nigh glorified
in his mysterious end. Since he was thrust forth from his throne
and from Thebes, he has wandered we know not where or how
long ; yet not quite friendless and alone, for by his side has wan-
dered his faithful daughter Antigone, like the after Cordelia of
1 CEdipus R.J Plumptre's translation, last lines.
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 375
Lear, the staff and comfort of his blind and helpless age. In
the opening of the poem they are nearing the plain of Colonus,
though all unknown to themselves. But the spot seems to fore-
bode peace to the tired wanderer, for Antigone tells him " it is a
holy spot, as one may clearly see ; full of laurel, olive, and vine,
and many a nightingale singing sweetly within it." But soon they
are told that they have encroached upon sacred ground. It is the
grove of the Dread Powers ; they must quit it at once. But that
word, instead of terrifying, reassures the mind of QEdipus, for he
recalls an oracular promise he has long kept in his heart, that
after many years of suffering he should be " a suppliant at the
shrine of dreaded gods, and then should near the goal of his woe-
worn life." Dronke, with his profound insight into the nature of
Sophocles, has called special attention to the religious sense which
the poet had of the communion of man with a Divine Power,
whenever there is in his soul a spirit of reverent fear and trust.
The gods hear even inaudible prayer, the inward desires of the
pious soul ; they hear and guide by an inward voice ; such a soul
listens and follows, often all unconscious, whither and to what it is
to be led, but by and by learning and acknowledging it by a grate-
ful experience. So it is here with CEdipus. It is the promises he
has heard and has cherished, which in their gradual fulfillment
make the precious burden of the poem. Those Dread Powers are
now for CEdipus the Eumenides, the gentle ones, and their grove,
where other mortals might not set their foot, is for him the chosen
sanctuary of rest and peace. Of this he is soon also outwardly
assured by Theseus, the Athenian king, who comes out to meet
him with all the gracious courtesy of a soul as kingly as his per-
son, and proffers him hospitality and protection. Indeed, a
noble figure has Sophocles, as an Athenian poet, here made to
pass before his countrymen in Theseus, their ancient king. In
sympathy with the sufferings of the wanderer, he tells him that
he, too, has struggled through many a risk and peril in a strange
land, and even now, though a king, can count no more than other
mortals on what the morrow may bring. He accepts the privilege
accorded him, as the sovereign of Athens, to receive CEdipus and
bury him in Attic soil. No one but himself is to know, and he
is to tell no one where CEdipus dies ; and for this he is assured
Athens will be blessed with " a boon greater than many shields."
And now all seems nearing the weary wanderer's earthly end ;
and all, too, is strangely significant in the manner of his passing
376 THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES.
away. The hallowed spot at length found, there takes place a
last ceremony of libation and cleansing. Sophocles may have
been familiar with it as belonging to the ritual of the sacred
grove of his native deme ; he may have administered it himself
in the functions of the priestly office he held in his later years.
First, libations from the flowing stream, poured thrice, turning
to the east, and with a lifting up of holy hands. Then prayers
to be offered, that he may be received and saved as a suppliant.
With singular minuteness of detail is the prayer described:
"Pray both thyself, and some one in thy stead, in low voice
speaking, not in lengthened cry." One other expression should
be noted, in illustration of the words some one in thy stead.
When CEdipus was bidden to go and perform this last service he
said to Antigone and Ismene : —
" I may not go. Two evils press on me,
My failing strength and loss of power to see ;
Let one of you go on and do these things,
For one soul working in the strength of love.
Is mightier than ten thousand to atoneJ' ^
Then must be said the parting words to his daughters : " And
when they had wept and sobbed, and their wailing was ended,"
there came a silence. " Then a voice called aloud to him and
filled them all with fear." This he perceived to be the call of
God, and so bade Theseus to come and alone, as had been ap-
pointed. So only the two went together, and what then came to
pass Theseus only knew ; and he told it not. Only he was soon
seen " holding his hand to shade his eyes, as one to whom there
comes a vision dread, he may not bear to look upon." " And so,"
as the " Messenger " in the poem reports it, " he did not leave the
world as worn with pain and sickness ; but his end, if any ever
was, was wonderful.^'
We may readily accept the prevailing view, that this poem
belongs to the close of Sophocles' life, so fitting are all its scenes
to the contemplation of the poet himself, then awaiting at an
advanced age the inevitable hour. And how meet it was for the
poet to lay the scenes of such a tragedy in Athens, his birthplace
and cherished home for nearly ninety years ; to celebrate with his
last Muse all that he had so loved from childhood of the scenery
^ CEdipus at Colonus, 495-499 ; quoted and translated by Plumptre (p. 86),
who adds : " We may well say with Dronke (p. 87), that the thought stands
out * with no parallel to it in the literature of antiquity.' "
THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF SOPHOCLES. 377
of his native Colonus, casting a new glory by his poetry over its
groves and waters, to which nature had already given such an
enduring beauty ; to recall and fix in the memory of his country-
men the heroic virtues of their revered Theseus, and to consecrate
their city anew and forever as the refuge of the oppressed, and
the sanctuary of religion. There is a pleasant story told both by
Plutarch ^ and by Cicero,^ which gives a special interest to this
poem and to the personal history of Sophocles. His sons, declar-
ing that their father was incapable, from imbecile age, of managing
his property, appealed to the court to have it taken out of his
hands. The poet in his defense simply read to his judges part of
this play, which he had just written, and asked whether that were
the work of a man in his dotage ; when he was at once acquitted
by all the votes, and went out of court amidst such applause as
he had been wont to win in the theatre. Nor was it strange, for
the passage he read was that finest and most musical of the choral
odes ^ of the Attic drama, in which are sung the beautiful groves
of Colonus. We are reminded of the words Plato says* of
Apollo's swans, " who, when they are near to die, having sung all
their life long, do then sing more sweetly than ever, rejoicing that
they are about to go away to the god, whose ministers they are."
And so in such a song, having in it and upon it that double grace
of art and religion, which had adorned all that he had ever
touched, we may think of Sophocles as breathing out his life
tranquilly, cheerfully, full of years, crowned with honors, be-
loved by all men, and " dear to the gods."
The Old Comedy of Athens hushed its voice of license at the
tidings of his death, and in the " Muses " of Phrynichus thus
honored his memory : —
" Blest, yea, thrice blest was Sophocles, who lived
Long years, — of subtle wit and prosperous life,
Who many noblest tragedies did frame,
And passed away at last without a pang."
"^ An seni sit gerenda respuhlica, 3.
2 De Senectute, c. 7. But SchoU, in his Life of Sophocles, p. 345, considers
the story apocryphal, and thinks also that the (Edipus Coloneus was written
many years before the poet's death.
8 (Edipus Coloneusy 668-719.
* Phcedo, p. 84.
KOMAN WOMEN IN THE FIRST CENTURY OF
THE EMPIRE.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, FEBRUARY, 18T7.
It was a pithy word of the sturdy Cato Major: "We Ro-
mans, it is true, rule aU the world, but we ourselves are ruled by
our wives." The old Sabine meant by it no compliment to the
sex ; it was a rough sarcasm, by which he aimed to sting his fel-
low-citizens into resistance to the growing influence of the women
at a time when a very singular but quite Roman contest was go-
ing on in public life. It was a contest for what would be called
in modern phrase women's rights. The great question which then
agitated all Rome was the abolition of the sumptuous Oppian
law which had put grievous restrictions on female dress, and espe-
cially the wearing of purple and of ornaments in gold. Livy
presents the whole scene in one of his most highly pictured pages.
In the college of tribunes, two were in favor of the measure and
two against it. Of the consuls, Flaccus was wavering, but Cato
inexorable in opposition ; and the nobles and the people were also
well-nigh equally divided. Pending the public discussion, the
women abandoned all their usual avocations, and gave themselves
with the utmost zeal to all the arts of canvassing. They poured
forth into the streets en masse ; they besieged all the avenues to
the Forum, intercepting the citizen voters as they came down
to the assembly and plying them by argument and entreaty to
vote for the abolition of the odious law. They even invaded
the judicial dignity of the praetors, and set aside the consuls'
lictors, to force their way to these higher magistrates and implore
their good offices. As might have been expected, when at last
the house came to vote upon the bill, the women were trium-
phant. They overcame the opposition of the recusant tribunes,
they carried the suffrages of all the tribes, and, except the inex-
orable Cato, they conquered and ruled all the Roman world.
" Cuncta terrarum subacta, Prrnter atrocem animum Catonis.^^
And so old Cato's sarcasm proved true, in spite of himself and
his characteristic ungallant speech ; and the Romans, rulers of the
ROMAN WOMEN. 379
world, were ruled by their wives. I have begun our discussion with
this remark, and the particular scene to which it belongs, because
it illustrates a general fact in Roman social and national life. Far
more than any other ancient people, and hardly less than any
modern one, the Romans accorded to woman a high position,
and a commanding influence in the family, in society, and in all
the great interests of life. Some of the oldest and the proudest
Roman memories are linked to the fortunes of women and their
services to the country, whether in the fortitude with which they
endured evils or the courage with which they encountered dan-
gers. In the deadly fight which followed the rape of the Sabine
women, it was the women themselves who by their bold interven-
tion stopped the unnatural strife and reconciled the combatants,
and by their courageous conduct they won grateful honors from
Romulus, who called the thirty Curies after the name of their
leaders, and instituted the celebrated Matronalia, a national fes-
tival, which survived the fall both of the monarchy and of the
republic. In the great Volscian war, when Rome was at the
mercy of her victorious foe, Coriolanus, the leader and soul of
the war, could sternly send back embassy after embassy of the
distinguished men of the state who came to sue for peace, but he
broke down all humbled and subdued at the coming of a suppli-
ant company of Roman matrons, his mother and wife at their
head, and immediately withdrew his army and went himself into
voluntary exile. Livy tells us that the Roman men grudged not
the Roman women the praise due them for this victory of peace ;
in honor of their service a temple was built and dedicated to
Woman's Fortune on the very spot where the conquering Cori-
olanus was conquered by his mother's words. It was Roman vir-
gins who were alone counted worthy to keep the sacred fire ever
burning in the Temple of Yesta, the national hearthstone. It was
only Roman matrons to whom was intrusted the sacred symbol of
the worship of Cybele, the great mother of the gods. Two great
national revolutions, the overthrow of the monarchy and the
abolition of the decemvirate, grew out of the avenging of the in-
vaded honor of woman, and consecrated forever in history the
names of Lucretia and Virginia. The heroic Cloelia shared with
brave Horatius the honors of the war with Porsena, winning
recognition alike from friend and foe, a war-horse adorned with
splendid trappings from Porsena, and from the Romans the quite
unique honor of a statue of a woman on horseback, which was
380 ROMAN WOMEN.
set up in the Sacred Way, and which stood there during all the
ages of the republic, down to the empire, to perpetuate the
memory of her heroism. Not to extend farther these illustrations
drawn from the earlier Roman times, let me sum up the truth
which they all set forth in the words of the younger Seneca, who
lived and wrote in the first half century of the empire, and so
may bring me nearer to my immediate theme. In his letter of
consolation to Marcia he says, " Who, indeed, can ever assert that
nature has dealt ill with woman in respect to intellectual endow-
ments, or has confined her virtues within any narrow limits ? In
what city is it that we ask such a question ? In that one, for-
sooth, where Lucretia and Brutus overthrew the monarchy ; free-
dom we owe indeed to Brutus, but Brutus himself we owe to Lu-
cretia ; in that city, too, where we have put Clcelia in respect to
courage on a level with men. There in the Sacred Way she sits
mounted high on that noble war-horse, and rebukes our effem-
inate youth who are borne by her on their soft-cushioned litters,
that they dare to show themselves thus in a city where women
have been honored with an equestrian statue."
During the subsequent ages of the republic and the early
period of the empire, the relative estimation in which women
were held was never impaired. On the contrary, their position in
respect to freedom and independence, and the means of gaining
and exerting influence, was constantly rising, while they severely
suffered at first from the growing laxity of social morality, and
at last came to have their full personal share in the degeneracy
and corruption of Roman society. In the contemporary Roman
writers we have sufficient material for a delineation of the edu-
cation, character, and influence of the women of this period. The
poetry of Martial and Ovid and of TibuUus, Propertius, and
Horace, and especially the Satires of Juvenal and the historical
pages of Tacitus furnish lights and the darker shades of the pic-
ture of the sex as a whole, as well as full portraits of individual
women who figured more prominently in the brilliant society of the
imperial capital. To begin with their earliest years, we discover,
from the glimpses opened to us by these writers, fond and anx-
ious fathers there were in Rome, and mothers yet fonder and
more anxious, who followed their children even in their infancy
with their warmest hopes and wishes, and carried them on their
hearts and their lips when they went to the temples of the gods.
The Roman girls, like all other children, were fondled with caress-
ROMAN WOMEN. 381
ing names and words; they had their nursery playthings, their
New Year and birthday gifts, and were guarded with superstitious
care by charms and amulets against the evil eye and other forms
of sorcery. Their eager minds were fed by nurses and mothers
with stories of virtue and wisdom drawn from the heroic and
golden days of their country, and their childish fancy quickened
and entertained by excursions into the wonderland of myth and
fable, Greek as well as Roman. When the years of education
came, they were first of all carefully trained to domestic labors ;
especially they were taught to spin and weave ; for at that time,
also, it was common for articles of clothing for the family to be
wrought at home by the daughters under the direction of the mo-
ther. We are told that Augustus himself had his daughters and
granddaughters trained to these useful occupations, and that he
was wont to wear tunics and togas that were manufactured under
his own roof. Even women that laid no claim to matronly dignity,
like the Cynthia of Propertius and the Delia of TibuUus, formed
no exception to these honest household labors. It is curious to
see in a poem of TibuUus a picture of busy female industry in
the interior of this Delia's house that reminds us of Livy's de-
scription of the home of the virtuous Lucretia. The lover com-
forts himself in the pains of absence by fancying the scene of
the next meeting ; how Delia is at work at evening by lamplight
in the midst of her spinning maidens, an aged nurse the while
reading aloud a charming story, when the poet breaks in upon the
group, and Delia springs forth to meet him with bare feet and
hair all streaming over her neck and shoulders. And though a
later writer living in Claudius' reign complains that the women
are growing luxurious and lazy, that they neglect even their do-
mestic spinning, the complaint itself only proves what was still the
Eoman custom, though in some cases it was honored more in the
breach than in the observance. The education by books and
teaching was usually conducted at home for the girls of the higher
classes, while the people in general were wont to send their chil-
dren to the common school, which, in Martial's words, the school-
master kept with a rigid discipline, his " head hated alike by boys
and girls," ^' invisum pueris virginibusque ca'puV Horace com-
plains that the Roman boys were drilled all too much in arithme-
tic, and always with an eye to its sordid uses in making money ;
however that may have been, the chief subjects of instruction for
the girls were the masterpieces of Greek and Roman letters, espe-
382 , ROMAN WOMEN.
cially the poets. Sometimes the mothers themselves read Homer
and Virgil to their daughters, but generally they had teachers who
came to the house and gave lessons in the study of these and other
poets. Special attention was also given to the instruction of girls
in music and dancing. The poet Statins describes his step-daugh-
ter as a model of a well-educated Roman maiden. He assures
her fond mother that soon her daughter will find a husband, at
least that she deserves the best one alike for her personal charms
and for her mental gifts and attainments ; whether she plays on the
lute, singing her father's songs from melodies of her own compos-
ing, or whether she moves gracefully in the mazes of the dance.
" Yet," he adds, " her talents and her musical skill are far sur-
passed by the virtues of her character." It was the custom for
girls from the noblest families, three times nine in number, to pre-
cede the processions on holy days, singing in chorus the sacred
hymns. Horace, in a charming stanza, bids those who were
maidens at the date of his secular hymn to remember by and by,
when wedded wives, how then they " sang song dear to gods, song
taught by him, — Horace, the poet." Another picture of such a
well-educated girl is given by the younger Pliny, in his eulogy of
the daughter of the Consul Fundanus, who died just before the day
appointed for her wedding. " She was not yet quite fourteen,"
he says, " and yet she united a maiden's modesty and grace with
womanly dignity. How fondly she hung upon her father's neck !
How she loved her attendants and her teachers, each according to
his rank ! How diligent, how intelligent, in her studies ! With
what skill she played upon musical instruments ! And with what
patience and composure she bore her last illness ! "
Very early the parents sought to secure the future fortune of
their daughters by a suitable marriage. The Roman girl reached
her majority in respect to marriage at twelve years of age, and it
may be said that, as a rule, Roman women were married between
the twelfth and the seventeenth year. The completed nineteenth
year was looked upon as the quite late limit for marriage. In re-
gard to men, it may be said that the usual age for marriage was
twenty-five, the age which was fixed by law for entering the quses-
torship, the first in time of the civil offices. The historian Tacitus
married Agricola's daughter at the age of twenty-four, and when
the bride was thirteen. Agricola himself was married at twenty-
three. Ovid makes it the burden of a line in his " Tristia," that
he had a wife given him when he was yet a boy, and he adds that
ROMAN WOMEN. 383
she was " neither worthy nor useful " (" nee digna nee utilis ").
The young Marcellus was married at eighteen, and Julia, the em-
peror's daughter, whom he married, was fourteen. Many other
similar instances might be cited. Girls were often betrothed in
childhood, but Augustus decreed that none should be betrothed
earlier than at ten years of age. The betrothal was always a fes-
tive occasion, celebrated in the presence of a large company of the
family and friends of the parties. I have not space to dwell upon
the preparations for the marriage, or the details of the wedding
ceremony. It is worthy of note that the bride took leave of her
childhood by a formal consecration of her dolls and other toys to
the deities who had hitherto watched over her, and that on the
momentous day she was dressed and adorned for the long-expected
hour only by the hands of her mother. Already at early morn the
houses of both parties were filled with relations and friends, who
also assisted at the signing of the marriage contract. Both houses
glittered in festive adornments, and the atria were hung with gar-
lands and branches of laurel. At the home altars, and also in the
temples, libations and sacrifices were made, and wherever the mar-
riage procession went, the streets were crowded with spectators.
In olden time the bride was conducted to the house of her hus-
band on the rising of the evening star, and though this custom
had long since passed away, yet it was always a torch procession
which brought her to her new home, with the accompaniment of
lute and song. Arrived there and lifted over the threshold, she
was escorted to the triclinium^ where was celebrated the marriage
feast. The luxury which had come to prevail at these feasts had
brought about a sumptuous law of Augustus, which restricted the
outlay to one thousand sesterces, about forty dollars, but the small-
ness of this sum makes it well-nigh sure that this law, like all
Roman enactments of this class, was never observed.
At marriage the Roman woman passed at once from a condition
of dependence and subjection to one of unlimited freedom ; to her-
self, especially considering her extreme youth, it must have seemed
an emerging into a new world, a sudden opening and widening all
around her of the horizon of her life. Hitherto confined and in-
deed immured within her father's house, hardly passing beyond
the bounds- of the nursery and the schoolroom, under the strict
custody of parents and attendants and teachers, she suddenly
found herself in a domestic realm of her own, where she was an
acknowledged sovereign by the side of her husband. And outside
384 ROMAN WOMEN.
of this, her own peculiar sphere, if she bSlonged to a family of
rank, she had now the entree into the great and brilliant, though
most perilous world of imperial Roman society. In her own home,
never confined, like the Greek woman, to any gynceceum or wo-
man's apartments, she had always the free range of the whole
house, as materfamilias and as domina^ presiding over the house-
hold, and sharing with her husband, on equal terms, all its honors
at the table, in the atrium^ and at all entertainments. Tacitus'
brief description of the conjugal relations of Agricola and his wife
is an illustration in real life of the ideal of a genuine Roman mar-
riage. " They lived together," he says, " in wonderful harmony,
by means of mutual affection, and by each in turn preferring the
other." " With this exception," he adds, with a tacit allusion to
the corruption of the times, " with this exception in favor of the
wife, that a good wife always deserves the greater praise in propor-
tion as a bad one incurs the more blame." The Roman religion con-
secrated Juno as the guardian divinity of the conjugal union, who,
as the spouse of Jove and the queen of Olympus, was worshiped
as the presiding genius of woman and the protectress of her mar-
ried life. I may venture here the reflection that, if we may credit
Homer's description of the many quite serious disturbances in the
Olympian household which grew out of the imperious will of
Jove, we may well believe that Juno was eminently qualified, by
personal sympathy, to be the protectress of her sex in the house-
holds of earth. Be that, however, as it may, Juno had always a
cherished shrine on the Palatine, and as the Roman husbands
were not all like Agricola, this shrine was an asylum, whither an
injured wife was wont to betake herself to make known her griev-
ances ; and she would not return to her home till her repentant
husband sought her out and brought her back, with promises of
reparation and amendment. It is a good testimony which Plu-
tarch bears to Cato Major, that with all his sternness he was a
dutiful and humane husband ; and he quotes a golden remark of
his, " that men who maltreated their wives, laid violent hands on
the choicest sanctuaries of earth ; and that for himself he honored
far more a good husband than a wise senator." In other than
personal relations the position of the Roman wife was a very in-
dependent one. The old law, which gave to the husband as his
own the dowry which his wife brought and all else which she had
possessed, was now no longer in force, and the existing law vested
in the woman the right to her property. It was now only the
ROMAN WOMEN. 385
dowry that came into possession of the husband, nor was the right
to this an unlimited one ; the rest of her property the wife re-
tained in her own right as possession as well as in use. In point
of fact, however, there was in the marriages of this period a com-
mon use of the property of both parties, and the legal division
took place only in case of death or of divorce. There were some
results of these legal and actual relations in ancient Rome of a
quite human sort, which we find sufficiently illustrated in modern
times. It was not uncommon for men who had been unfortunate
in business, and were unable to pay their debts, to make over to
their wives such property as they had left, and so the creditors
could lay no claim to it. Sometimes, too, the wife chose to have
her property managed by a procurator, or an attorney, instead of
by her husband. Such an agent not unfrequently proved dishon-
est, and squandered the property confided to him, or, what was
far worse, became, in a bad sense, the wife's confidential friend.
One of Martial's most pointed epigrams turns upon a relation of
this kind. Let me give a version of it. " Who is that curled lit-
tle fellow, my good Marianus, who always keeps so close to your
wife, who has his arm about her chair, and seems to be whisper-
ing something soft in her ear ? Who is the fellow, pray ? " " Oh,
that is my wife's attorney," is the reply; "he manages her affairs."
"Ah, an attorney ; yes, that is plain enough, I see ; but whose at-
torney, that 's the question ; let me tell you now, he 's your attor-
ney, not your wife's ; and not her affairs he manages, but your
own, my blind friend."
As another result of such an independent position, it sometimes
happened that women who together with riches could boast of
a long line of noble ancestors usurped the exclusive control of
household affairs, and ruled their husbands as well as their chil-
dren and servants. The poets are full of illustrations of this
phase of Eoman life. It was found that women who carried the
purse managed also to get and keep the reins in the house. Juve-
nal tells us that in such a case the " lioc volo^ sic juheo " of the
wife was the ultimate reason of all things. Horace counts it a
blessed thing in the barbarism of the Scythians, that there " no
dowered wife rules the husband ; " and Martial, when asked why
he did not marry a rich wife, answered, " Because I don't want
to become the wife of my wife."
Outside of her own home the position of the Roman woman of
this time was also one of great freedom. Though in earlier times
386 ROMAN WOMEN.
the domestic virtues of a Roman matron were of chief value, yet
even then she was never kept in seclusion. Even in the last age
of the republic, Nepos, while comparing Greek and Roman man-
ners, asks, " What Roman hesitates to take his wife with him to
a party ? or what Roman matron do we not see holding the first
place in her own home, and also mingling in general society ? "
But the far freer manners of the empire widened to the utmost
limits the old usages, and women were not only present with men
at banquets and general parties, but visited all places of public
amusement, as the circus, the theatre, and the amphitheatre. In-
troduced thus at once at marriage under such conditions as these
into the great world of Roman life, the Roman woman of rank
was exposed to a moral ordeal always most perilous, and often
fatal to personal character. Allurements and temptations beset
her every step, and disturbing and corrupting influences poured
in upon her from all sides. In her own house, which of itself
was a little world with its extended possessions, its legions of
slaves, its numerous train of clients and dependents, she was
greeted and acknowledged as domina and even regina, and there
her will was absolute law. In society she saw men paying court
to her, young and old, scholars and soldiers, the wealthy and
the high-born, all vying with one another for her favor. What-
ever claims to admiration she might have, whether beauty, or
grace of manners, or talents, or culture, were sure to win brilliant
recognition. In the circles in which she moved, vanity, love of
pleasure, ambition, might be fully gratified ; intrigues had fullest
scope of opportunity, passion the strongest excitements, coquetry
th6 utmost variety of subject. " Nothing," says the philosopher
Seneca, " was secure in such an ordeal ; whatever and whoever it
may be is in some way and at some moment assailed and carried."
Let us unfold this general view into some particular illustrations.
The institution of slavery had now at Rome, as always and every-
where, a most pernicious influence on the morality of domestic and
married life. The prevailing low estimate in which the common
house slaves were held as beings hardly belonging to the human
race was so demoralizing that young and gentle women could
come to treat them, without compunction, with wanton and even
brutal cruelty. If we are to give historical value to the pictures
drawn by Ovid and Martial and Juvenal of every-day dressing-
room scenes in Roman mansions, we must believe that the poor
female slaves were liable, even for the pettiest mistake or over-
ROMAN WOMEN. 387
sight in the grand business of the toilette, not only to be petu-
lantly abused by the sharp finger-nails and violent hands of their
mistresses, but to be lashed to blood and even to death by pro-
fessional scourgers and executioners. Ovid in one place begs his
fair readers never in a fit of ill-humor to scratch the faces of their
slaves, or to stick the hair-pins into their neck and breast ; and *
in another he praises the clemency of Corinna, in that her hair-
dresser never went from her with arms all swollen and bloody
from the cruel pins. But such treatment was only gentle when
compared with the atrocities described by other writers. Hadrian
is said to have banished a woman who shockingly maltreated her
female slaves. It was the class to which this criminal belonged
which Juvenal describes in his Sixth Satire. From this Satire,
\^^hich is devoted to the condition and life of the women of his
time, I give one passage, in Gifford's words : —
" There are who hire a beadle by the year,
To lash their female slaves, who pleased to hear
The eternal thong, bid him lay on, while they
At perfect ease, the silk-man's stores survey,
Chat with their female gossips, or replace
The cracked enamel on their treacherous face.
No respite yet. They leisurely hum o'er
The countless items of the day before.
And bid him still lay on ; till faint with toil,
He drops the scourge, when with a rancorous smile,
* Begone,' they thunder in a horrid tone,
' Now your accounts are settled, rogues, begone.' "
But slavery ministered to other passions no less ruinous to
morals through the male slaves who served in various ways in a
Roman house as cooks and waiters, as messengers, and as lecticarii
or chair-men. These were often in great request, and brought high
prices for their beauty and their intelligence and accomplishments.
Slaves and freedmen were also attached to a house more or less
directly as moriones or jesters, or as musicians, or as pantomime
players, or athletes and gladiators. Already in earlier times the
conjugal infidelity of men was often a consequence of slavery,
and now with the growing license in morals the women claimed
and used the right of retaliation upon their lords.
Other influences there were no less corrupting in Roman society.
Perhaps among them might be reckoned the reading of some of
the literature of the times ; and yet such productions as Ovid's
" Elegies " and " The Art of Loving," poems no less vicious in
388 ROMAN WOMEN.
their complexion and tone than exquisite in their finish of num-
bers and diction, were rather symptoms than causes of the pre-
vailing corruption. More direct and more general were the evil
influences of the fine arts in painting and sculpture, in interior
decorations, and in trinkets and domestic utensils of all kinds. In
%one of his elegies Propertius bitterly complains of " the hand that
was the first to paint obscene pictures and put base sights in a
chaste home." " Such an one," he says, " corrupted the ingenu-
ous eyes of virgins, and would fain have them versed in his own
iniquity." The Museum at Naples and the unearthed Pompeii
from which it was filled are a full, yet extant commentary of the
poet's words. Two prolific sources of immoral influence Tacitus
mentions in a significant passage. In his description of the wo-
men of the rude Germans he says, with grave reflection upon his
own countrywomen, " Thus then they live, their virtue guarded,
corrupted by no allurements of theatres, no excitements of social
banquets." The passion for public shows was a marked charac-
teristic of the Roman women of this time. Thither they came, as
Ovid says in an often quoted passage, " to see and to be seen,"
" like thick swarming bees, our women crowd the theatre, all in
their gayest attire ; " and he adds in a comprehensive word, " that
place has always had its losses of virtue ever since the first shows
of Romulus and the rape of the Sabine women." Propertius con-
gratulates a female acquaintance that she is going into the coun-
try where she will be away from the seductions of the theatre and
of the circus. At the latter place, since Augustus' time, women
might sit with men, while at the theatre and amphitheatre the
sexes were obliged to sit apart. Indeed, Augustus excluded wo-
men entirely from the performances of wrestlers, and so punctili-
ous was he on this head, that in the great games he exhibited on
his accession to the office of chief pontiff, he put off till the next
day the fight of a pair of combatants which the people called be-
fore, and made known his will by proclamation, that no woman
should appear till after this part of the show was over. Probably
the circus, with all the excitements of the races, furnished more
innocent holiday shows than the theatre and the amphitheatre.
The bloody fights and encounters with wild beasts were no less
fatal to gladiators and martyrs than they were deadening and
deadly to the sensibilities and humanities, especially of woman.
But the low comedies and broad farces of the stage which were
the passion of the masses, and the more artistic but far more licen-
ROMAN WOMEN. 389
tious pantomime dances, the pet delicice of the higher classes, were
full of motive to sensual excitements and passions. The allure-
ments of convivial occasions Tacitus coupled with those of the
public spectacles ; for at these luxurious scenes similar influences
prevailed, as music and dance and theatricals were the usual
means of entertainment. Here, as Quintilian says, chaste ears
must needs listen to unchaste songs, and things shameful to speak
of are see/i, dances of Syrian or Andalusian girls, which rival in
voluptuous wantonness the worst pantomime performances of the
stage. All writers agree in their testimony to a general tendency
to immorality of women as of men, as the results of such causes
as these which were at work in Roman society. The pathetic
verses of Horace, the sad complaints of Propertius, and the bold
jests of Ovid, all agree with the debates in the senate and with
the legislation of Augustus in bearing witness to the contempt
and violation of marriage ties, and the prevalence of licentious
living. Horace, coming to the aid of Augustus, declares that the
age fruitful in crime first polluted wedlock and offspring and
home, and from this fountain flowed a stream of poison over the
whole country and people. Propertius asks, " Of what avail are
temples of Chastity if it is allowed any wife to be whatever she
may please ? " And Ovid joins in with his sneer, " Chaste only
are the women who have never been wooed, and quite too rustic
are the men and innocent of Roman usage who fret over an un-
faithful spouse." The younger Seneca declares, " that it has now
gone so far that women have husbands only to attract lovers ; that
they divide the day among their lovers, and the hours of the day
are not enough. An affair with only one lover our women con-
temptuously call marriage, and she who does not know that is
styled simple and old-fashioned." It is a bitter taunt of Tacitus
against Roman vice, when he says of the Germans, " there no one
laughs at vices, nor is it called the fashion of the age to corrupt
and to be corrupted." Martial's epigrammatic word, " no woman
in the whole city says No," and Juvenal's descriptions in his Sixth
Satire, exaggerated as they doubtless are, must yet have rested on
a basis of truth. The levity with which the marriage tie was
joined and the frequency and ease by which it was broken in
divorce are of themselves a testimony to the immorality of the
times. Seneca declares that there were women who reckoned
the years, not by the successive consuls, but by their successive
husbands ; and Juvenal savagely says that " many a woman gets
390 ROMAN WOMEN.
divorced before the laurel branches have faded that decked her
wedding threshold." The Julian laws, though they were designed
to repress looseness of morals, yet by their practical working were
sometimes the direct causes of these divorces and swift succeeding
marriages. Martial has a strange epigram on this head : " Since
the Julian law," he says, " was reenacted, it is either less, or cer-
tainly not more, than thirty days, and here is Madame Telesina
just married to her tenth husband. Whoever," he adds, " mar-
ries so many times does not marry at all ; she is an adulteress by
law." Such words may be either bitter or jesting exaggerations,
but the reality must have been signally bad. A long list, indeed,
might be easily made of the many divorces known in history in
the lives of persons of the highest rank, in imperial families, and
in court life. Augustus himself was twice divorced, first from
Claudia, Antony's step-daughter, whom he put away on account
of a quarrel with his mother-in-law. He then married Scribonia,
who herself had been twice married to men of consular rank. On
divorcing her, he immediately married Livia, then the wife of Ti-
berius Nero, first compelling Tiberius to divorce her. The old
and the new husband and their common wife sat down together
at the marriage supper. Antony, too, divorced Octavia, the sister
of Augustus, on account of his passion for Cleopatra. The Em-
peror Claudius was twice divorced ; I may add that his third wife,
the notorious Valeria Messalina, he murdered, a fate she richly
deserved ; but in his turn he was himself poisoned to death by his
fourth wife, Agrippina, who was his niece. Nero divorced his
young and virtuous wife Octavia in order to marry the infamous
Poppaea ; this second wife he killed by his brutal treatment ; he
then proposed to marry Octavia, the daughter of Claudius and his
sister by adoption, and on her refusal he put her to death. It is
refreshing to turn from such records of imperial profligacy to the
instance preserved to us by Dion Cassius of the long and virtuous
and happy married life of the Consul Lucretius Vespillo. We
have it in Vespillo's own words, written on the decease of his wife :
" Seldom are there marriages of so long continuance, and dissolved,
not by divorce, but only by death ; for to us it was granted that
ours continued without reproach to the forty-first year." I have
just alluded to the profligate example in married life of the Em-
peror Augustus, though what I have mentioned does not cover the
half of the profligacy of this example. But it belongs more di-
rectly to this part of my subject to remark, that it was the emper-
ROMAN WOMEN. 391
or's doom to have in his only daughter Julia, and in her daughter
of the same name, signal and notorious instances of the profligacy
of the women of the time, "Even-handed justice thus commending
to his own lips the ingredients of his poisoned chalice." His
daughter Julia had been educated with the utmost strictness, under
the constant supervision of her father, her studies pursued under
the best teachers, alternating with the labors of the loom and the
needle. At the age of fourteen she was married to her cousin, the
young Marcellus, whose early death, consecrated by the verse of
Virgil, was a keen disappointment to Augustus, and the lamenta-
tion of all Kome. At the age of sixteen she was married to the
celebrated Marcus Agrippa, who was, in order to this marriage,
obliged by the emperor to put away his wife Marcella, the niece
of the emperor ; and eleven years later, on the death of Agrippa,
to whom she bore two daughters and three sons, she was married
a third time, when twenty-seven, and now to Tiberius, Livia's eld-
est son, who was also obliged, for this purpose, to divorce his wife
Vipsania (who was the daughter of Agrippa by a former consort),
and to whom he was strongly attached. Doubtless these mar-
riages, entered into from no choice of her own, but only from con-
siderations of family and policy on the part of her father, were
most demoralizing to herself. Distinguished for her beauty and
her winning and elegant manners, and no less for her mental gifts
and attainments, and especially her quick and lively wit, skilled,
too, in the now Roman accomplishments of song and dance, — with
these brilliant personal and social qualities, enhancing her claims
of birth and rank as the daughter of the emperor and the wife of
the first soldier of the time, she rose at once, a bright and glitter-
ing figure, into that elevated sphere of Roman society where she
was destined to move and shine for a while, and then to fall into
darkness and ruin. Young and full of spirits, fond of pleasure
and excitement, proudly conscious of the power she could wield
by her position as well as by her personal attractions, she courted
the admiration she could not fail to excite, and surrounded ever
by Roman youth as dissolute in heart and life as they were noble
in birth and accomplished in manners, she lapsed soon, through
easy transitions of levities and indiscretions in speech and conduct,
into intrigues and vices, which became known to all Rome, and
were talked of by every idle tongue, though they escaped the ob-
servation of her indulgent father. Sometimes, it is true, he would
chide her love of display and her too free style of dress as well as
392 ROMAN WOMEN.
manners in company, but she knew how to ply him with flattering
arts and win back his favor. It is related, when she once ap-
peared in his presence most brilliantly attired, he gave evident
signs of his displeasure, though he said not a word. The next
day she appeared in the most decorous habiliments of a grave Ro-
man matron, when he at once exclaimed, that now she was adorned
as became the daughter of Caesar. She archly replied : " To-day
I am dressed to please my father ; yesterday I thought to please
my husband." When once she was told how far her manners
were removed from the simplicity of her father's, she replied:
" Yes, he forgets that he is Caesar ; I can never even remember
that I am Caesar's daughter." But too soon, by a steep descent
in vice, she reached the lowest excesses; and these, if we may
credit such writers as Seneca and Suetonius, were no less open
than profligate, and indulged in with companions taken indiffer-
ently from the lowest and the highest orders in Rome. With
such guilty companions she traversed the streets by night, and
even the Forum and the rostra were the scenes of her orgies.
When at last the revelations of her depravity burst full upon her
father, he visited upon her the utmost severity of retribution.
Passing all bounds of discretion, as well as of self-respect, he sent
in a message to the senate, openly proclaiming the guilty conduct
of his daughter, and declaring against her an act of banishment
to a barren island off the coast of Campania. There for five years
she was doomed to live, her mother, the long ago divorced Scribo-
nia, alone sharing her exile, and she was scarcely allowed the ordi-
nary comforts of life. She was afterward removed to Rhegium,
but kept still in close confinement and distress. Her father's in-
dignation against her continued to the last day of his life, his last
will and testament denying her all share in his estate, and his un-
fortunate but guilty daughter died soon after himself of a wasting
consumption, hastened by grief and want. It was an aggravation
of the grief of Augustus in his last years, that his daughter's
daughter, the second Julia, inheriting the evil blood of her mother,
followed her with a perverse emulation in her downward path of
vicious indulgence, and came to a like disgraceful end. Her loose-
ness of life became at last such a scandal to the imperial house,
that she was banished by the emperor to a little island off the
coast of Apulia. Suetonius relates that Augustus, on any mention
of these two Julias, was wont to exclaim in the words of Homer,
" Would I had died without a wife or child." A yet more noto-
ROMAN WOMEN. 393
riously bad name of this time is that of Agrippina the second, the
granddaughter of the first Julia, the evil thus reappearing in the
third generation. After the death of her second husband, whom
she was believed to have poisoned, she became notorious for her
scandalous amours, no less than for her intriguing ambition. For
one of her intrigues she was banished by the emperor. She was
afterward restored on the accession of her uncle, the Emperor
Claudius, over whom she soon gained, by her fascinations, so pow-
erful an influence that he put his wife to death and married her,
having the marriage with her, as his niece, legalized by a decree
of the senate. Five years later, after a series of horrid murders,
she got rid of the old emperor by poisoning him, through the aid
of the notorious Locusta. She thus brought to the throne her son
Nero, who had been adopted by Claudius to the prejudice of his
own son Britannicus. She at last became so odious even to Nero
by her crimes as well as her state intrigues that by his orders she
was murdered. But even a worse woman than this Agrippina,
and the last of this class which I will mention, was Valeria Messa-
lina, who was the immediate predecessor of Agrippina as the wife
of Claudius. Alike by the pen of history and of satire is her
character drawn in the darkest colors. Avaricious, cruel, impla-
cable, ambitious, her vicious nature culminated in vileness not to
be described. But this dark side of the picture of the times is
relieved by eminent examples of female virtue. These are found,
too, in the same elevated circles, and often in the same families as
those I have mentioned. Such was Agrippina the first, the sister
of the second Julia, and the daughter of the first Julia. She was
the wife of Germanicus, a name honored and loved by the Romans
alike for his eminent virtues, talents, and services, and in his sad
and premature death illustrating what Tacitus finely calls " the
brief and ill-starred loves of the Roman people." Agrippina was
in all respects worthy of her noble consort ; gifted in mind and
endowed in character with all the qualities of a Roman matron, a
spotless chastity, a love for her husband sincere and lasting, and
a sympathy with all his great designs, and a true mother's tender
and watchful love for her children. The picture drawn by Tacitus
of her reception by consuls, senate, and the whole Roman people
when she arrived at the gates of the city, accompanied by her chil-
dren, and bearing in her arms the urn of her husband's ashes, is
one of the most touching and impressive in all his "Annals ; " and
what fastens to it most of all the interest of every beholder is the
394 ROMAN WOMEN.
reverent love conspicuous in every face in that gathered crowd for
the bereaved widow, mingled with profound regret for the death
of her brave and virtuous husband. Such examples, also, were
Antonia, the sister of Marcus Antonius, and Octavia, his wife,
women of whom the dissolute triumvir was never worthy. The
fortitude and dignified reserve with which Octavia bore her hus-
band's infidelities and her tender, undying grief for her lost Mar-
cellus are only single traits of her noble character. Her beauty
vied with her virtue in winning and securing to the end of her
unhappy life the admiration of the Roman people. Plutarch char-
acterizes her as " the marvel of the sex." She had worthy succes-
sors in her own family in her daughters, the Antonise, and in her
niece, also named Antonia, and in Octavia, her great-granddaugh-
ter, all of whom were admired in their time for their exalted char-
acter. To these names may be added those I have already alluded
to as belonging to an humbler, but no less noble class of Roman
women, Domitia Decidiana, the wife of Agricola, and their daugh-
ter, the wife of Tacitus ; and others doubtless there were of the
same class in society, who, if they had become known to fame by
like fortunes, would now shine with like lustre as virtuous orna-
ments of their sex.
I have hardly left myself sufficient time and space to illustrate
the influence exerted by the Roman women of this time in other
spheres of life. In the freedom and independence which was
allowed them there was a temptation to some of a coarser nature
to strive for distinctions uncongenial to their sex, and to engage
in occupations at war with any just conceptions of womanly char-
acter. Such as these were doubtless few, though they are men-
tioned by Juvenal, — women who were ambitious of excelling
in feats of strength, as gymnastics or gladiatorial fights, or spent
their nights in carousing, or who as litigious women took kindly
to prosecutions, and themselves prepared the indictments and argu-
ments. But the ambition of women of eminent abilities took a
higher and nobler flight ; they coveted and often gained immense
influence in politics and public life. The destinies of the Roman
world were not seldom determined by such women, many an em-
press ruling in the name of her consort, and others of less exalted
rank having an active and most important part in the affairs of
state. Augustus himself was often controlled in his measures by
Livia, who was called by her grandson Caligula " a Ulysses in
woman's dress." In her early youth she easily won Octavian by
ROMAN WOMEN. 395
her beauty and her fascinating manners ; and it may be said
of her, that, unlike many other Roman women of such personal
charms, she never tried to win any one else ; but the influence
which she thus gained was afterward surpassed in duration and
power by that which she acquired over him when he had become
the Emperor Augustus, by her force of intellect, her knowledge of
human nature, and especially her perfect knowledge of her hus-
band's character. Her ambition was bent upon securing the suc-
cession to her son Tiberius, and so to her own family ; but she had
formidable obstacles to contend with in the preference of Augus-
tus for his own family in the persons of his sister's children and
later the children of his daughter Julia. She shrewdly laid her
plans, and though often disappointed, yet never lost sight of them,
and retaining through all vicissitudes an unbounded influence over
Augustus, she at last got rid of all rivals, and secured the succes-
sion to her son Tiberius. On the death of Augustus and the suc-
cession of Tiberius, she was adopted by the emperor's will into
the Julian Gens, and received by consequence the name of Julia
Augusta. For several years she was the real sovereign, though
acting in the name of Tiberius, and finally the senate were propos-
ing to confer upon her extraordinary honors ; her son, however,
was now roused to jealousy of his mother's position and influence,
and commanded her retirement from public affairs. Still to the
last she maintained her ascendency over Tiberius, and only the
feebleness of age brought to an end her practical sovereignty.
She died at the advanced age of eighty-six, after having had for
more than sixty years, as the wife of Tiberius Claudius, the im-
perial spouse of Augustus, and the mother of the Emperor Tibe-
rius, a larger share of actual power in the Roman government
than any other individual in the state. In carrying out her ambi-
tious plans, Li via had long a powerful rival in the emperor's
sister Octavia, who was also a woman of conspicuous ability in
Roman politics. She defeated Livia in her two successive efforts
for the promotion of Tiberius, the first time when she gained
Julia as the wife of her son Marcellus, and the second time after
Marcellus' death by inducing Augustus to marry ^he young widow
to Agrippa rather than to Tiberius. In the earlier years of her
wedded life, before Marcus Antonius was infatuated by the Egyp-
tian queen, she rendered important service to the state by averting
through her intervention the misunderstandings which constantly
were arising between Antonius and Octavius. The strong hold
396 ROMAN WOMEN.
which she had upon the admiring and even fond love of the
Roman people she kept to the end of her life, and at her death
her memory was honored by a public funeral, the first instance in
Koman history of such a distinction conferred upon a woman.
The name of Maecenas is familiar to all, not only as a patron of
letters, but also as the most influential of the emperor's ministers.
In a long course of years he gave direction in many ways to the
affairs of the state, but one is here reminded again of the word
of Cato, for Maecenas was ever under the domination of his wife
Terentia hardly less in all his state policy than in his personal and
domestic affairs. She had also by her personal charms and vig-
orous mind a commanding influence over Augustus himself, whose
intimacy with her was a perpetual source of jealous irritation to
her fond husband. His married life was a constant succession of
quarrels and reconciliations, a fact which elicited Seneca's witty
remark, that Maecenas married a thousand times, but every time
the same woman. But of the Roman women who moved in the
higher circles of society, far more were interested in the pursuits
of literature, and especially of poetry, than in political affairs.
Doubtless many only affected a love of poetry, and aimed rather
to shine, it may be, as some of the satirical writers declare, by
superficial attainments than to gain real acquisitions in knowledge
and permanent literary tastes. Thus Ovid writes : " Poems are
praised, but yet great fortunes are sought ; if only he be rich, a
very barbarian pleases. Yet lettered girls there are, though a
quite select set ; the crowd are not lettered, but they would fdJn
seem so." Plutarch mentions that a philosophical work was dedi-
cated to Octavia, the sister of Augustus, on account of her interest
in learned studies ; and Macrobius mentions among the attractions
of the emperor's daughter Julia " a love of letters and much eru-
dition." The wife of the tragic poet Varius is described as a
woman of high cultivation.
It was the fortune of Ovid to have a daughter who inherited
her father's poetic gifts, and who elicited from him glad words of
praise for her own efforts in verse. From his distant and lonely
exile on the shores of the Euxine, whither he was banished by
the Emperor Augustus, — for what cause the world never knew, —
he wrote her a poetical epistle which has come down to us, a bright
gem that throws its rays of light over the prevailing darkness of
his "Tristia." He tells her of his fancy that the letter will find
her at home sitting with her sweet mother, or in the midst of her
ROMAN WOMEN. 397
books and the Muses. For himself he is still living, and from his
ever-enduring misfortunes he, too, turns to the Muses and weaves
his sad thoughts and his fond memories of home and family into
elegiac verse. " Are you, too, my daughter, still clinging to our
common studies, and singing your songs, now unheard by your ab-
sent father ? For Nature gave you with chaste manners rare gifts
of genius. So long as the Fates allowed, you were wont to read
your poems to me, and I mine to you ; often was I your critic,
oftener your teacher. It may be that your father's fate as a poet
is deterring you from poetry. But fear not ; be of good courage,
go on, devote yourself to beautiful letters ; all else, personal beauty,
riches, fortune are fleeting and pass away ; nothing do we hold
that is not mortal save only the good things of heart and mind.
I even, torn from you, from home, from country, have yet my
genius for company. Even Caesar could have no power over that ;
and when all my sad days are gone, my poetic fame shall live."
Strange that a poet who could write such high thoughts could
have ever descended to the " Amores " and the " Ars Amandi " !
In a letter of the younger Pliny his wife is described as a woman
of literary culture, and though not an author herself, yet inter-
ested in all her husband's professional pursuits. " My books," he
says, " she reads again and again, and learns them by heart. She
sits by when I lecture, and if I get any praises, she drinks them
in with eager ear. If I argue an important case in court, she
awaits the result with utmost tension of interest ; she has even
her couriers set at intervals from the court-house, to pass on to
her from minute to minute bulletins of the progress of the case,
the looks and apparent disposition of the jury, whether I am likely
to win the day." Even the satirical onslaught made by Juvenal
upon the all too learned women of the time furnishes evidence of
the interest taken by the sex in literary pursuits. The satirist
especially makes merry with the fondness of women for talking
in Greek. " What more offensive," he exclaims, " than for no
woman to think herself fine till she has made herself a Grecian !
Everything forsooth in Greek ! fear, joy, anger, care, all the
inmost feelings of the soul, they must pour forth in Attic Greek !
All this, however, we will condone to girls, but just think of a
Roman woman, eighty-six years old, still talking Greek ; hear her
prate forth her endearing words, ^w^ koI Kf/vxrj (my dear soul, my
dear life) ! Verily that is no seemly speech in an old woman ! "
The satirist especially is full of spleen at the idea of a woman
398 ROMAN WOMEN.
taking to literary criticism at a dinner party. " No sooner does
she get to the table than the aesthetic talk begins ; she lauds Vir-
gil, and pardons him for letting Dido burn herself to death ; then
how she weighs Homer and Virgil together in the scales, the one
now up, and then the other kicking the beam ; the grammarians
give way before her, the rhetoricians are beaten, all the crowd is
mum, not a lawyer nor a crier will dare utter a sound, even no
other woman will peep, — there falls upon all such a mighty power
of words, you will say all the basins and bells of the town are
beaten together." Nor were there wanting Roman women who
busied themselves with pJiilosophical studies. Plutarch relates
of Cornelia, the wife of Pompey, that besides her beauty she had
other attractions, — culture in literature, in music, in geometry, —
also, that she was fond of philosophical pursuits, and at the same
time was free from the pedantry which sometimes characterized
women of such tendencies. It was doubtless the case that some
women of deeper natures were wont to seek and find solace when
in trouble in the lessons of sages and moralists. So Livia, when
afflicted by the death of her son Drusus, sought refuge in the
teachings of Stoic philosophy. Also at a later day the Empress
Domna Julia gave herself up to philosophy and scientific studies.
The Theophila who was praised by Martial for her poetry was
also versed in the tenets both of the Stoics and the Epicureans.
But without giving other illustrations of this topic, let me rather
use these as an easy transition to the last one to which I shall call
your attention, but which I can only touch and not fully treat, —
the powerful interest awakened in women by the religious move-
ments of the time. With all the immoral influences at work in Eo-
man society, and perhaps, indeed, through their agency, there was
a prodigious activity in the sphere of religion. Classical pagan-
ism was in its decay, and yet there was in it some lingering
vitality; with its own impaired strength now reinforced from
foreign sources, it seemed gathering itself for its conflict with the
new spiritual power just emerging from a despised corner of the
empire, before which it was destined erelong to fall. Rome was
tolerant of all religions, if only they had in them no political aims
or ends ; indeed, the imperial capital swarmed with religions ; the
Romans were, as Paul said of the Athenians, quite too religious.
But it was religions and not religion which now prevailed ; sys-
tems of rites and ceremonies, not the beliefs and faiths in
moral and religious truth. With the decline of the national
ROMAN WOMEN. 399
worship foreign cults of all sorts poured into the city; by the
side of the temples of the Koman gods, now falling into con-
tempt, arose temples of the gods many and lords many of all the
world, and in them their priests went through with their super-
stitious and debasing rites in the presence of crowds of worship-
ers of both sexes. Thus superstition was avenging religion, as it
is always sure to avenge it, in the life of nations as well as of
individuals. It was the forms of worship from the East which
drew the most followers. Their pomp attracted the senses ; their
ceremonial imposed upon simplicity ; lively and susceptible minds
that were longing for somewhat on which to rest their veneration
fancied in the symbols and mysteries which abounded in these
forms of worship the sources of some higher revelation, the
medium of some mystical communication with divine beings. It
was to these religions and their rites that women were most at-
tracted, and especially to the flattering promises they held out
that by penances and expiations they might get purification from
conscious and present evil. The same moral weakness which had
induced the guilt of an immoral life now readily rested in the
credulous belief that some outward rites would insure atonement.
Not only from Juvenal and Tibullus and other poets, but also
from Plutarch, do we learn that the divinities of Eastern super-
stitions had in women their devoutest worshipers, and their priests
found them their blindest and most obedient devotees. Some-
times by priestly direction they would bathe thrice at early morn
in the Tiber, or go on their knees a certain prescribed distance,
scantily clad and trembling with cold and with superstitious fear.
Juvenal declares that by command of Isis they will go on a pil-
grimage to Egypt to bring home waters from the Nile to sprinkle
them in the temples at Rome. The Roman Juno now shared
with the Egyptian Isis the worship of women as the guardian
deity of the sex. Twice a day they would sing her choral songs
in the temples, be sprinkled with Nile water, and punctiliously
observe the fasts imposed by priests, or if they failed in the ser-
vice would propitiate Osiris with offerings of money or sacrifices.
The worship of Isis had been proscribed at Rome in earlier times
on account of the orgies with which her festivals were celebrated,
but the worship was never destroyed, and now though subject to
government inspection was firmly established. But not the tem-
ples of Isis or of other foreign divinities alone, the Roman tem-
ples, all temples to which women were wont to resort, fell into bad
400 ROMAN WOMEN.
repute as places of vice. One passage in Ovid recommends as
convenient for immoral purposes not only theatres and temples,
but also the sabbath festivals of Jews. Such a mention of the
Jewish service, while it is one of the many proofs in Roman
writers of the general suspicion and dislike with which the Jews
were regarded in Rome, yet proves at the same time the presence
of Jews in the capital as a religious community and the influence
which they had gained in Roman thought and life. The Jews
had first appeared in Rome as early as the time of Pompey and
his Eastern campaign, when they were brought thither in con-
siderable numbers as captive slaves to decorate the conqueror's
triumph. These were afterward freed, and being permanently
established in the city formed the community mentioned in the
New Testament as the synagogue of the Libertines. Afterwards
frequent accessions were made to their numbers, chiefly owing to
the mercantile relations subsisting between Rome and the East.
Though always looked upon with aversion by the Romans, espe-
cially of the higher classes, and at different times the victims of
fierce persecution, yet at this early period of the empire they
continued to be a numerous and wealthy community. The pas-
sages in Horace and in Juvenal and Tacitus which make mention
of the faith and rites of the Jews, though always expressive of
hatred and contempt, are yet a testimony to the religious influence
exerted by them upon the Gentiles by which they were surrounded.
Seneca significantly remarks, in obvious allusion to the influence
of conquered Greece upon her conquerors, that the vanquished
Jews gave laws to their conquerors. There can be no doubt that
with their wonted proselyting zeal they gained converts among the
Romans, and especially from Roman women. These, however,
were doubtless from the humbler orders of society, as we may
gather from notices in the New Testament and in Christian as
well as in pagan writers. It is very strange, however, to find
Josephus claiming the cruel and licentious Empress Poppsea as a
Jewish proselyte ; he says, employing the usual Jewish word for
a Hebrew worshiper, that she was " a woman who feared God ; "
one might rather have expected her to be characterized by that
other Jewish and New Testament word, as " one who feared not
God nor regarded man." Let me also remark in closing this too
extended paper, that there is reason to believe that the first Chris-
tian church at Rome, though chiefly composed of converted Jews,
yet contained in it native Roman men and Roman women who had
ROMAN WOMEN. 401
been baptized into the Christian faith. These, too, like the prose-
lytes to Judaism, were mostly from the poorer classes of the
people. It was the sneer of the pagan writers of a later time,
also, that the new faith gathered its converts only from the hum-
blest and the simplest, from slaves and freedmen, from women
and children, a statement certainly which finds confirmation in
the teachings of St. Paul. Yet one or two instances of the Chris-
tian conversion of Roman women of the higher classes seem to
be given in history. Of the fortunes of one of these, Pomponia
Graecina, we have mention in a passage in Tacitus which belongs
to the year 57, only a year before the date of St. Paul's Epistle
to the Romans. She was the wife of Aulus Plautius, the bravest
and most successful soldier general in Nero's reign. She was
accused by the emperor, as Tacitus says, as being " guilty of a
foreign superstition," the word elsewhere used by Tacitus for the
Christian heresy. The accusation was referred by Nero not to
any government tribunal, but to her husband and his kinsmen ;
and after the examination, whether through the leniency or the
ignorance of this domestic tribunal, she was suffered to escape
without punishment. Tacitus adds that she withdrew from all
society, and passed the rest of her life, which was prolonged
many years, in the reserve of profound retirement. A clearer
instance of a Christian convert in the person of a Roman woman
is Flavia Domitilla. She was the niece of the Emperor Domitian,
and the wife of Flavins Clemens, who was consul in the year 95.
It is related by Eusebius that both her husband and herself were
convicted of attachment to the new Christian faith, and were ban-
ished to the island of Pontia. These names thus briefly men-
tioned, as well as those mentioned by St. Paul in his writings, we
are readily disposed to accept as precursors of the many women
not only at Rome, but all over the world, who were erelong to
become partakers of that divine faith which, in the spread of its
beneficent sway, was to know no distinction of sex or race or
speech, but to become the universal faith of mankind.
TACITUS.
WRITTEN FOR THE FRIDAY CLUB, FEBRUARY 1, 1878, ALSO USED
AS A COLLEGE LECTURE.
Tacitus is a writer who needs to be studied, and patiently, too^
in order to be understood and appreciated ; those also who study
him thus, get nearest to him, and find him at his best in their
most thoughtful moods, and rather, I. think, in later than in
earlier years of life. He is no easy or attractive writer, so sober
are many of his subjects, and such the noble reserve of his tone
and manner, native to him as a man and Roman, and fixed in his
very being by the straitening education of the times of oppression
in which he lived. Popular he has never been, in ancient or in
modern times, — a favorite rather of the few, even with classical
scholars ; but in every age and country he has been admired by
these as a writer of original powers of thought and observation
and expression, who blended with the love of country a true feeling
for humanity, and who, though living in times of abounding evil,
was ever loyal to truth and virtue. By his insight and guidance
his readers have learned to pierce through the shams of men and
things to their inner realities, and especially to discern clearly the
nature and workings of government, and the awful responsibilities
of absolute power, as illustrated in that Roman empire which,
with all the wickedness wrought out in it by some of its earliest
rulers, was yet made by an overruling Providence to bring good
out of evil, and to prepare the way for the establishment of the
Christian civilization of modern times. We are doubtless always
swayed in our studies by the prepossessions which we have for
a writer of long-established and traditional fame, but for myself
I have reached a renewed conviction that with Tacitus it is a fame
which was reared and yet rests upon a basis of intrinsic worth ;
and this, too, though I have all the while had especially in view
the severe ordeal to which he has been subjected as a trustworthy
authority by the searching historical criticism of our own day.
I shall endeavor, after mentioning the little that is known of the
personal history of Tacitus, to present a view of the scope and
TACITUS. 403
contents of his two chief works, the " Histories " and the "Annals,"
and then to touch and illustrate those commanding mental quali-
ties, and especially those intensely cherished political convictions,
everywhere impressed upon these works, which give him as a
writer such a marked personality among ancient historians. Taci-
tus was born, as we have probable evidence for believing, in the
year of our Lord 54, an ill-omened year for a future annalist of
the early Caesars first to see the light in Rome ; for that was the
year when Nero, then only a youth of seventeen, climbed the impe-
rial throne over the body of the just-murdered Claudius, poisoned
by Agrippina, the mother of Nero, and both the niece and the
wife of the murdered emperor. The boyhood and early youth of
Tacitus thus fell in the fourteen years of Nero's reign ; but from
our ignorance of his parentage and family we may not discern
in what favored Roman home he may have been nurtured and
guarded amid the rapidly passing scenes of crime and calamity
which make up the profligate force of that Neronian principate.
As a boy of ten years of age he may have witnessed the frightful
scenes of that destructive fire which in the year 64 visited Rome,
as if a swift retribution of the guilt of its prince and people ; and
the yet more frightful scenes of the sacrifice by Nero of the little
band, in the city, of innocent though hated Christians, — spectacles
of misery and wickedness then seen by his own eyes, and after-
wards set by his matured genius in historic picture for the won-
dering, bewildered gaze of the world. In respect to the education
of Tacitus, we learn from letters of his friend, the younger Pliny,
that in his youth he gave himself assiduously to poetry and letters,
and especially to rhetoric, and probably under the teaching of
Quintilian, the accomplished rhetorical professor of that age. We
know also, from a delightful passage of his own, his " Dialogue
on the Decline of Eloquence," that, like other well-bred Roman
youth, he attached himself to distinguished lawyers of the time,
watching them, as he says, and studiously listening to their argu-
ments in court and their instructions at their homes, that thus, by
catching from them, if he might, the secrets of their professional
success, he might himself be fitted to enter the arena of forensic
and of public life. The younger Pliny, who at an interval of sev-
eral years emulously followed him in these pursuits, speaks of him
as having already attained distinction as a forensic speaker when
he was himself just commencing his career. He began his public
life in the year 79, the last of Vespasian's reign, having filled in
404 TACITUS.
that j^ear the office of quaestor. Under the patronage of Titus he
was promoted to the office of tribune in the year 81. The follow-
ing tyrannical reign of Domitian, though it was not unfriendly to
his political advancement, yet pressed with heavy weight upon him-
self and his family, as upon the entire generation of Roman states-
men and citizens to which he belonged. In the year 78 he had
married the daughter of Julius Agricola, the very year in which
Agricola entered upon his proconsular province of Britain. Re-
called from that province, where he had won a great military
fame, by the envious Domitian, he was now living in Rome in a
retirement which, marked though it was by studied moderation of
life and conduct, was ever shadowed and darkened by the deadly
jealousy of Domitian. Yet Tacitus himself was, during this reign,
advanced to the praetorship, and also admitted to the college of
the quindecemviral priesthood ; and, invested with this twofold
dignity, he presided at the secular games which were celebrated
by the emperor in the year 88. In 93 occurred Agricola's death,
a sore bereavement to Tacitus and his wife, and aggravated by
the remembrance that they were not by the bedside of their re-
vered father in his last moments, — that they had lost him, indeed,
four years before by reason of their so long absence from Rome.
But we know, from a memorable passage that never loses its
value by repetition, that, in their experience of the reign of terror
soon inaugurated by Domitian, they found satisfying solace in the
thought that he, in whose passing away they had mourned the
premature extinction of a great light of genius and virtue, had by
a fortunate opportunity of death escaped all that impending future,
— escaped that last dread time when, not at intervals but by one
continuous blow, the life-blood of the state was exhausted. But
those weary fifteen years of the Domitian reign at last sank below
the horizon, and in the rise of Nerva, and soon after of his adopted
successor Trajan, Tacitus greeted and afterwards commemorated
the dawn of a most happy age, which witnessed, as he records it in
a passage glowing with a venial enthusiasm, the union of elements
hitherto impossible of fellowship in the Roman state, — liberty
and imperial sovereignty. In the beginning of this period Tacitus
reached the height alike of his public and his forensic honors. In
the year 97 he gained the consulship ; and while holding that office
he delivered a funeral oration upon the distinguished Virginius,
his immediate predecessor, which Pliny pronounces, in an epistle
of exquisite grace, as a supreme honor alike to the deceased and
TACITUS. 405
his eulogist, — the felicity of a life full of amplest honors crowned
by a eulogy from the most eloquent of orators (" supremus felici-
tati cumulus^ laudator eloguentissimus,^^ II. 1). In the year 100
he undertook the last legal cause in which, so far as we know, he
was ever engaged, appearing for the government in the prosecu-
tion of Marius Prisons for maladministration of the province of
Africa. Here, too, we are indebted to Pliny, who was also en-
gaged for the prosecution, for our knowledge of Tacitus' part in
the trial. This part he describes in a single significant sentence :
" Cornelius Tacitus replied most eloquently, and with that excel-
lence which is peculiar to his forensic style, with a noble dignity,
— 0-6/X1/W? " (II. 11). But the happy era of Nerva and Trajan
was chiefly happy for Tacitus in that it was the opening for him
of his career as a writer. Withdrawing from all public and pro-
fessional pursuits, he now gave himseK to this true vocation, and
devoted to it the remaining twenty years of his life. He was now
thus past forty years of age. With distinction he had gone
through the entire course of public office, and by the part he had
thus taken in the conduct of affairs had gained the character
and fame of a statesman of experience and wisdom and influence.
Like rich results he had won as a lawyer and advocate. He was
high in favor with the emperor and with the best Roman society.
His house was the favorite resort of all men in Rome who were stu-
dious of learning. And, most and best of all, he was enjoying, as
he gratefully says in the first chapter of his first historical work,
" the rare felicity of the times when one is allowed to think what-
ever he will, and to utter whatever he thinks " (" rara tempo-
rum felicitate uhi sentire quce velis^ et quce sentias dicere, licet,^^
Hist. I. 1). What a glad ring in those exultant words of the
Rome of Nerva and Trajan, in contrast with the wail of sorrowful
remembrance of the Domitian times of oppression ! " A great les-
son, indeed, of patience have we given ; and as our fathers saw the
farthest limits of liberty, so we have seen the utmost bound of
bondage, robbed as we were by spies and informers of all inter-
course of speaking and hearing. Memory itself also had we lost,
were it as easy to forget as to be silent " (Agr. 2). Full and
fresh in Tacitus himseK was the memory of that humiliating lesson
of patience, as the " Agricola," in which it is told, was written but
little more than a year after those Domitian times had come to an
end. That was his first work, given to the Roman world in the
beginning of the year 98. In it he set forth as a biographer, for
406 TACITUS.
admiring and emulous study, the life of a good man and a great
statesman and ruler, and in the spirit of a historian opened to his
readers broad views which that life suggested of Britain and the
Britons, and their conquest by the Romans and their government
under Roman rule, and also sketched with a few master strokes,
in such passages as that I have quoted, the character of Domitian
and of his reign.
The " Agricola " was followed in the same year by the " Ger-
mania," the historical monograph in which was embodied all that
was known, from the most authentic sources, of the manners and
institutions of the ancient Germans, that great people whom the
Romans, after a struggle now going on for more than two centuries
had been unable to subjugate, and who were destined in the end
to be themselves the victors, and yet in their turn, even as the Ro-
mans by the Greeks, to be conquered and subdued by the superior
civilization of the nation and 
