History of the transmission of ancient books to modern times / together with the process of historical proof; or, a concise account of the means by which genuineness of ancient literature generally, and the authenticity of historical works especially are ascertained including incidental remarks upon the relative strength of the evidence usually adduced in behalf of the Holy Scriptures

by Isaac Taylor

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Travels in Georgia, Persia, Armenia, Ancient Babylonia, &c. Two vols. quarto, 1821.

CHAPTER XXI.
INFERENTIAL HISTORIC MATERIALS.

A book may come into my hand which contains no narrative of events—no allusion to the persons or transactions of the author’s times—in a word, nothing, from the first page to the last, which in a direct manner should enable me to assign a date to it. Nevertheless, such a book may actually possess much historic significance, and it may take its place among those materials of which a writer of history will eagerly avail himself. This assertion may need some explanation; as thus:—

Each nation, as distinguished from other nations, its contemporaries, and each period in the world’s history, as compared with periods anterior to it and subsequent, has its characteristics, its moral tone, its intellectual range, and its tastes; it has its principles, its modes of reasoning, and especially its condition as a season, either of progress and expansion, or of decay and decline. Now these characteristics are important in themselves, and they are often highly so, in clearing up historic problems.

Nevertheless historians seldom afford direct information illustrative either of the moral or the intellectual condition of ancient nations; nor indeed is this deficiency much to be regretted, for such subjects are too indefinite to be treated in the style proper to history; and when historians philosophise, they bring the simplicity of their testimony into just suspicion. Besides, the mental condition of a people can be fairly estimated only by being placed in comparison with that of others; and few writers, how extensive soever may be their acquaintance with facts, are qualified to arbitrate between their contemporaries, and their predecessors, or between their own countrymen and their neighbours.

Yet although information of this sort may not present itself on the pages of historians, it may be derivable from other sources; for when the literary monuments of an ancient people are in existence, the knowledge we are in search of may be collected with a high degree of certainty therefrom. Yet the process may be nice and difficult, inasmuch as the indications from which it is to be gathered are more or less recondite. For this very reason the conclusions we obtain by a course of inferences and comparisons, may be the more exempt from suspicion. The pages of historians may be swelled with descriptions of the resources, the foreign influence, the population, and the polity of empires; meantime an intelligent inquirer may obtain—from the casual hints and allusions of writers of a less pretentious class, a true knowledge of the taste and the morals of a people.

It is obvious that we are not to attach much value, in this sense, to the embittered sarcasms of misanthropes, or to the epigrams of satirists, who hold up to view the two corrupted extremes of a social system—namely, the pampered favourites, and the desperate outcasts of fortune. Nor should we listen, without caution, either to the dreams of poets, from whose pictures the ills of reality have been discharged, or to the averments of philosophers, who are often less true to nature than even the poets.

Inferences, in an inquiry of this kind, may be drawn from what is recorded of—the modes of life, and the domestic usages, and the amusements of a people; or from the characteristics of their worship; or from the popular feeling, whether of approbation, surprise, or abhorrence, that is excited by the actions of public persons.

Valid information also is to be gathered from the enactments of a people whose moral condition is under inquiry. This sort of material is either that which is fixed, and has been consigned to the executive, by legislative authority; or that which floats at large in those ethical writings which have taken a permanent place in the literature of the country. In deriving inferences from the first—namely, the sanctioned laws of a people, several distinctions must be observed; for we must not bring forward antiquated laws; and in examining recent enactments, the political circumstances of the time must not be forgotten, for the momentary interests of parties, or of individuals, not seldom produce legislative decisions that are altogether anomalous, as to the condition of the people. Often mere chance has had sway in senates, and may have exercised more influence in the grave business of law-making than the sage and solemn forms of the place would seem to bespeak.

But it must be with the last-named source of information only that we shall now have to do. What we say is this—That, with due caution, substantial information relative to the moral and intellectual condition of a people, may be collected from the ethical writings that have been accepted and approved among them. This proposition carries several important consequences, and it may be well to illustrate it by some examples.

Every hortatory composition contains, explicitly or by implication, two fixed points, which it is the business of the inquirer to ascertain. One of these is much more readily found than the other; yet there exists a means of measuring the distance between the two; so that the one being determined, the other also may be discovered:—for example, The first point ascertainable in an ethical composition is—the system of morals, or the standard of excellence which the author has imagined, and which he recommends and enforces. This point may be termed the ideal level of the writer’s mind in morals, and it is in most cases quite easy to be fixed. The second, and less obvious point, and that which is the very object of our inquiries, is—the actual state of morals among those whom the writer addresses, and which may be called the real level of popular morals. Our business then is to find this last or unknown point, by measuring the distance between the two. Now this distance is more or less distinctly indicated by the tone of every ethical composition. We have then in our problem three terms: one known, one demanded, and a middle term, connecting the two, which remains to be worked out of the materials before us.

The distinctness of the indications from which our middle, or measuring term, is to be formed, will vary greatly in different cases. In works of a philosophical cast they will be extremely faint, and perhaps not available for our purpose; while in treatises that are of a simple and popular character, and which consist of precise exhortations—reproofs and advices—there will be little difficulty in drawing the inferences we are in search of. It will be found, also, that serious writers are more safe guides than those that indulge in satire; for the satirist seeks for extremes.

We say that writings of a philosophic or moral cast, and in which there occurs no allusion to events or to individual persons, may nevertheless be made available as the materials of history.—Two or three instances will show what we mean. We take our first example from a book which is as abstract in its form and style as any that could be found; and give, in brief, the purport of a section on Magnanimity, in Aristotle’s Ethics.

Magnanimity, says Aristotle, is a quality conversant with what is great. But what things are these? He then may properly be termed magnanimous who deems himself worthy of great things, and who is so, in truth. For he who thus deems of himself without cause is a fool. He whose merits are equal only to a humble station, and who thus thinks of himself, is called wise, not magnanimous; for magnanimity belongs to what is actually great. In like manner, as handsomeness belongs only to height of stature; those who are small, may be comely, or symmetrical, but not handsome. On the other hand, one who falsely deems himself to possess great merit, is called vain—a term which can never properly belong to those who are truly great. Again; one who under-rates his merits is mean-spirited, whether his real deserts be great, moderate, or slender; since he still thinks that less than he possesses is his due: especially is he pusillanimous who thus disparages great qualities in himself; for what would such a man do if destitute of that merit? He, therefore, who is truly magnanimous, is of necessity a good man; and whatever there is great in any virtue belongs to him. It befits not him to flee, wringing his hands, nor to do wrong to any one; for why should he commit unworthy actions to whom nothing great can be added?—Wherefore this greatness of soul seems to be a sort of ornament to all the virtues—enhancing all of them, and not, by any means, consisting without them. True greatness of soul is therefore rare, since it demands the perfection of probity and goodness. Magnanimity is peculiarly displayed both in honour and in disgrace; for the great man, when surrounded by opulence and by assiduous attendants, experiences only a moderate happiness; since what he enjoys is not more than what befits him; or perhaps, not so much; for virtue can hardly ever be said to possess its due reward. The honours bestowed upon him he therefore calmly admits as being, though not equal to his merits, the utmost that those around him have to bestow; while ordinary or mean praises he utterly contemns; for of such he deems himself undeserving. In like manner he despises disgrace; for he knows that it is unjustly cast upon him. Thus, in prosperity he is not elated; in adversity not dejected.

Without attempting to draw inferences too far from a passage like this, it may fairly be said to indicate the existence of popular notions of moral greatness, more refined than those of nations merely warlike; and far exalted above those of a people—merely commercial. The writer must, in his own country, have seen examples of heroic virtue which approached the perfect image he exhibits. One is not surprised to learn that he belonged to the race which produced Aristides, Cimon, Epaminondas, and Phocion. It is observable that Aristotle’s magnanimous man is decked only with the honours that befit a citizen, or a distinguished leader in a republic—not with the gaudy shows of oriental despotism: it is not deemed a becoming part of his hero’s glory that millions of his species should lay in the dust at his feet. We may also fairly remark, that this acute thinker had evidently no idea of that peculiar sentiment which is engendered, in great minds, by an habitual reference to the moral attributes of the Deity: his hero is a purely mundane person; or, if we might so accommodate the term—he is atheistical. Neither did his notion of moral greatness include that humility which springs from a sense of delinquency, or imperfection, in the sight of the Supreme Lawgiver and Judge. If ideas of this class had at all been known to the Greeks of that age, or if they had come within the writer’s view, he would assuredly have included them among his definitions, whether he thought them worthy of commendation, or not so. For his manner is to omit no abstract idea that bears any relation to his topic.

To what extent sentiments like those mentioned by Aristotle were prevalent in his times, it is not easy to ascertain from the passage just quoted; since the treatise in which it appears is of an abstract, not of a hortatory character; yet it contains one expression which, on the principle of our present argument, we should call a term of measurement; he says, that true magnanimity is exceedingly rare, or hard to be attained; in other words, that it was much easier to find, among the writer’s countrymen, an Alcibiades than an Epaminondas. But the historical significance of a passage like this will best appear by bringing it into comparison with a quotation, on a similar topic, from the most eminent of the Roman moralists.

Cicero’s Treatise, De Officiis, is abstract rather than hortatory; and yet, compared with the Ethics of Aristotle, it is less metaphysical, and it approaches nearer to the modern idea of a practical work. Without designedly painting the manners, or formally estimating the morals of his times, this great writer furnishes, in his various compositions, many indications from which the state of both may be inferred. Of all social bonds, none, he says, can be found more weighty or more dear, than that which binds each one of us to our country. Dear are our parents, dear our children, relatives, friends; but in our country are centred the endearments of all—for which, what good man would hesitate to die, if his death might promote its interests? Whence the more detestable is the ferocity of those who, by every crime, rend their country; and who have ever been busied in accomplishing its ruin. Actions performed magnanimously and courageously we are wont to applaud, as it were, with a fuller mouth. Hence the themes of orators on Marathon, Salamis, Platæa, Thermopylæ, Leuctra; hence our Cocles, hence the Decii, hence Cnæus and Publius Scipio, hence Marcellus, and others without number; for the Roman people especially excels in greatness of soul. Indeed, our love of military glory is declared by the fact, that our statues are adorned with the garb of the warrior. But that elevation of soul which displays itself in dangers and labours, if it wants probity—if it contends not for public, but private advantages, becomes a vice. Not merely is it not a virtue, but is rather to be deemed a ferocity—repulsive to human nature. Well therefore is fortitude defined by the Stoics, when they say, it is ‘virtue defending right.’ Wherefore no man who has attained the praise of fortitude has been renowned for treachery or mischief; for nothing can be laudable which is unjust. Those, therefore, are to be esteemed valiant and magnanimous, not who commit, but who repress wrongs. That true and wise greatness of soul, which is indeed laudable and consonant to nature, regards deeds more than fame; and would rather be, than seem illustrious. And he is not to be reckoned among great men who is dependent upon the erring opinion of the thoughtless multitude. For lofty spirits, always thirsting for glory, are easily driven on to what is unjust. And it is indeed hard to find one who, while he undergoes labours and dangers, does not seek glory as the wages of his exploits.

In these expressions there is conspicuous that paramount passion—the love of country, which belonged so peculiarly to the Roman people—which was a principal cause of the growth of their power, and which, though then on the wane, was not extinct in the age when the state ceased to be free:—no good man would hesitate to die for his country’s good—this was a sentiment more characteristic of the Romans than of the Greeks. The Grecian chiefs not seldom betrayed their country for gold; those of Rome, scarcely ever. Then the military spirit is much more prominent in the one instance than in the other. Cicero’s great man is, of course, a warrior; Aristotle’s is a statesman: the Roman obtains glory; the Greek, honour, dignity. The one, if destitute of probity, becomes the factious destroyer of his country, and is regardless of dangers and toils: the other—merely vain. The Greeks addicted themselves to war to defend their liberties, and to determine their intestine quarrels; but the Romans did so from the innate love of combat, and the insatiable desire of conquest. Both moralists make true virtue essential to true magnanimity; but the Greek proves this necessary connexion on abstract principles; the Roman insists that utility must be made the ultimate rule of conduct; and this principle is expressive of that practical feeling in which the Romans so much excelled the Greeks. If then, by some error, the passages above quoted were attributed—each to the other writer, a reader well acquainted with the history of the two people, would not fail to detect the incongruity of the sentiments and the phraseology. The two authors hold essentially the same opinions; but the one thinks like the companion of sophists, the other like the friend of soldiers. This perceptible difference between the two is an index to the historical significance of both.

We shall now cite a passage on a subject not very dissimilar, from a modern writer; and the reader will perceive that a great change and improvement has taken place in the sentiments of mankind, between the times of the ancient writers and the modern.

The duty (of respecting the natural equality of men) says Puffendorf, is violated by pride or arrogance, which leads a man, without cause, or without sufficient cause, to prefer himself to others, and to contemn them as not on a level with himself. We say without cause; for when a man rightfully demands that which gives him pre-eminence over others, he may properly exercise and maintain that advantage—yet avoiding absurd ostentation or contempt of others. As, on the other hand, any one properly renders honour or preference to whom it is due. But a true generosity or greatness of soul is always accompanied by a certain seemly humility, which springs from the reflection we make upon the infirmity of our nature, and the faults which heretofore we may have committed, or which yet we may commit, and are not less than those of other men.... It is a still greater offence for a man to make known his contempt for others by external signs, as by actions, words, gestures, a laugh, or any other contumelious behaviour. This offence is to be deemed so much the greater, inasmuch as it so excites the minds of others to wrath and the desire of revenge. Thus it is that many may be found who would rather put their life in immediate peril, and much rather break amity with their neighbours, than sustain an unrevenged affront. Since, by this means, honour and reputation are injured, the unblemished integrity of which is essential to peace of mind.

The latter sentences of this passage preclude the idea that the writer lived in times when a sordid, or servile insensibility to reputation had extinguished those sentiments to which so much importance, and so much merit, was attributed by ancient warlike nations. At the same time, the first part of it contains a corrective sentiment, of which scarcely a trace is to be found in any of the Greek or Roman writers—a sentiment plainly arising from an enhancement of the notion of moral responsibility, and from a far higher estimate of the nature of virtue. In other words, the two first quoted writers were polytheists; the last was a Christian.

Our next instance is taken from the Enchiridion of Epictetus. The icy sophism of the Stoics had found some admirers at Rome before the times when the ancient republican severity of manners had disappeared. But theoretical stoicism does not reach its perfection till some time after practical stoicism has become obsolete. It is a reaction in the moral world, produced by the rank exuberance of luxury, sensuality, effeminacy, and the arrogance of preposterous wealth. If, therefore, the date of the Enchiridion were unknown, it would be more safely attributed to the times of Domitian, than to the age of Cincinnatus, or of Cato. In reading the following passage one may readily imagine the lame sage,[11] wrapping himself in his spare blanket, and his ample self-complacency, as he makes his way—unnoticed, through the insolence and voluptuousness of imperial Rome.

—If it ever happens to thee to turn from thy path with the intent to gratify any one, know that thou hast lost thy institute (i.e. forsaken thy rule). Let it be enough for thee, on all occasions, to be—a philosopher. But if, indeed, thou desirest to seem a philosopher, look to thyself, and be content with that. Let not such thoughts as these trouble thee—I live without honours, and am no where accounted of.... Is some one preferred to thee at table, or saluted before thee, or consulted before thee? If these things are goods, thou oughtest to congratulate him to whose lot they fall; if they are ills, do not grieve because they have not befallen thee. But remember, that as thou dost not pay attention to those things by which exterior advantages are obtained, it cannot be that they should be given thee. For how can he who stays at home fare the same as he who goes abroad?—or can the same things happen to him who is obsequious, and to him who is not?—to him who praises, and to him who praises not? Thou wilt be unjust and greedy if, without having paid the price at which these things are sold, thou dost expect to receive them freely. Now, what is the price of a lettuce?—say a farthing: one therefore pays his farthing, and takes his lettuce; but thou dost not pay, and dost not take. Think not thyself in worse condition than he. For as he has his lettuce, so thou hast the farthing thou didst not pay. And thus it is in other things.—Thou hast not paid the price at which an invitation to a feast is sold: for he who makes a feast sells invitations for flattery—for obsequiousness. Give then the price, if thou thinkest the bargain to thy advantage. But if thou likest not to afford the cost, and yet wouldst receive the things, thou art at once greedy and foolish. And hast thou then nothing instead of the feast? Yes, truly; thou hast this, that thou didst not commend one whom thou didst not approve; nor hast thou had to bear his insolence on entering his halls.

Many admirable sentiments are to be found in the writings of Epictetus; though, for a portion of them, there may be reason to believe he was indebted to Christianity, of which obligation he makes no acknowledgment. The treatise from which this passage is derived furnishes an example of that laborious and unsuccessful conflicting of pride with pride, which is natural to men of superior intelligence, who occupy an inferior condition, and are surrounded by vulgar insolence, servility, and profligacy. There was evidently a class of persons in the author’s time in circumstances like his own—that is to say—intellectualists, who, as a defence against the scorn of worldlings, put on a mail of steely logic.

The Enchiridion, if regarded as a material of history, may fairly support the inference that, in the writer’s time, wealth and luxury had triumphed over stern principles and severe manners;—that the philosophical character had ceased to command general respect, as it did at Athens in the age of Plato;—and that philosophy itself, having passed its prime, was fast becoming palsied and querulous.

A comparison, at once curious and instructive, might be drawn between two writers who, at first sight, may seem too unlike to be named together—Epictetus and Thomas à Kempis. Yet quotations from the Enchiridion and the De Imitatione, might be adduced in proof of a real affinity. There is even a similarity in the form of the two works; for both writers, in a style of severe and laconic simplicity, address their pointed aphorisms—now to themselves, now to their half-refractory disciple, much in the manner of a nurse, upbraiding a pettish child. A monotony, both of principle and of topics, pervades both books. Both authors compel Wisdom to ascend the summit of a snow-girt peak, where she can be neither approached, nor even heard, by the mass of mankind. Both writers were in fact, though on widely different principles, not only recluses from the ordinary walks of human life, but recusants of the common emotions of our nature. And both, by an implicit contrast, exhibit the falling condition of the social system of their times. Yet there is this difference between the two, that while the Stoic presents to view the darkness of paganism, enlivened by a glimmer from Christianity, the Monk holds forth the brightness of Christian truth, dimmed by the errors of superstition.

The moral treatises of Plutarch are of a practical, more than of a philosophical kind, and they yield therefore abundant indications, as well of the opinions, as of the manners of his age. In truth, the student of history would hardly need other aid in ascertaining the religious and moral sentiments of the times of Trajan, than he may find in the pages of this writer. Among this author’s moral pieces there is one that is curious, and valuable too, as a material of history—namely, the tract on Superstition—the dread of dæmons. With great force of language and aptness of illustration, he depicts the mental torments of the man who believes the gods to be malignant, inexorable, and capricious; and he contrasts this unhappy temper with the comparatively harmless error of those bolder spirits who cast away altogether the belief and fear of supernal beings; and while he recommends “the mean of piety,” he decidedly prefers atheism to superstition.

What say you?—The man who thinks there are no gods is impious? But is not he who thinks them to be cruel and malignant, chargeable with an opinion that is much more impious? For my own part, I would rather that men should say, ‘There is no such person as Plutarch,’ than that they should affirm that Plutarch is a man capricious, instable, prone to wrath, revengeful of accidental affronts, pettish; one who, if you have neglected to invite him with others to a feast, or if, being otherwise engaged, you have failed to salute him at your gate, will devour you, or seize and torture your son; or will send a beast, which he keeps for the purpose, to ravage your fields.

Plutarch speaks of four states of mind, as known and existing in his times—namely, 1. The wise piety, which he recommends, and which forms the medium between superstition and atheism.—2. The joyous or festive worship of the gods, in which he sees nothing to reprehend.—3. A bold rejection of all religion, which he thinks an error, though an innocent error:—and 4. Superstition, which is not merely an error, but a practical evil of the worst kind. Of the first he says almost nothing; nor does he offer a single hint explanatory of the mode in which the gods and goddesses of the Greek mythology might be made the objects of a devout and reasonable piety:—and yet piety without a god, must be an unmeaning term. Plutarch’s piety is a vague sentiment, which he feels to be proper to human nature, and highly beneficial; but which was absolutely destitute of solid ground, or certainty; for no invisible being or beings were known to him whom he could both love and fear. Even if the philosopher, by a course of doubtful reasonings, might work out for himself an idea of the Deity, such as might keep alive the sentiment of piety, no such abstruse notion could be brought within the apprehension of the vulgar. What is there then left to the vulgar?—not atheism—for that is an error:—not superstition; for that is a tormenting mischief:—nothing remains but the festive worship of the gods; and this, with all its impurities, and all its follies, was the only portion that could be assigned to the millions of mankind:—Plutarch knew of no alternative on which to found the religious sentiments of men. Yet on another occasion he expresses his opinion strongly as to the necessity of religion for the support of the social system.—It seems to me that it were easier to build a city without a foundation, than to construct or to preserve a polity, from which all belief of the gods should be removed. Yet how great soever were the evils of atheism, he deemed those arising from superstition to be greater. According to his testimony, when the only theology known to the Greeks took possession of timid minds, it rendered life intolerably burdensome.—Of all kinds of fear, none produces such incurable despondency and perplexity as superstition. He who never goes on board a ship, does not fear the sea; nor he the combat, who is not a soldier; nor he the robbers, who stays at home; nor does the poor man fear informers, nor he who is low, the eye of envy; nor he who inhabits Gaul, earthquakes; nor the Ethiopian, the thunderbolt. But the man who dreads the gods, dreads all things;—the earth, the sea, the air, the heavens, darkness, light, noise, silence, dreams. The slave in slumber forgets his master, the captive his chain, the wounded and the diseased their anguish:—kind sleep, friend of the sufferer, how sweet are thy visits! But superstition admits not even this solace; it accepts no truce, it gives no breathing time to the mind, nor permits the spirits to rally or to dispel its harsh and grievous surmises. But like the very region of the wicked, so the dreams of the superstitious man abound with terrific apparitions, and fatal portents: and this passion, always inflicting punishments upon the distracted spirit, scares the man from sleep by visions. And he—self-tortured, believes himself obliged to comply with fearful and monstrous behests. Such a man, when he awakes, instead of contemning his dreams, or smiling with pleasure in finding that what had disturbed him has no reality, still flies before an innoxious shadow, while at the same time he is substantially deluded by falling into the hands of conjurers and impostors, who strip him of his money, and impose upon him various penances.

The tortures inflicted upon timid spirits by the Grecian polytheism are depicted with not less force by the observant Theophrastus.—Superstition is a desponding dread of divinities (dæmons). The superstitious man, having washed his hands in the sacred font, and being well sprinkled with holy water from the temple, takes a leaf of laurel in his mouth, and walks about with it all the day. If a weasel cross his path, he will not proceed until some one has gone before him, or until he has thrown three stones across the way. If he sees a serpent in the house, he builds a chapel on the spot. When he passes the consecrated stones, placed where three ways meet, he is careful to pour oil from his cruet upon them: then falling upon his knees, he worships, and retires. A mouse, perchance, has gnawed a hole in a flour-sack: away he goes to the seer, to know what it behoves him to do; and if he is simply answered, ‘Send it to the cobbler to be patched,’ he views the business in a more serious light, and running home, he devotes the sack as an article no more to be used. He is occupied in frequent purifications of his house; saying that it has been invaded by Hecate. If in his walks an owl flies past, he is horror-struck, and exclaims—Thus comes the divine Minerva. He is careful not to tread upon a tomb, or to approach a corpse; saying that it is profitable to him to avoid every pollution. On the fourth and seventh days of the month, he directs mulled wine to be prepared for his family; and going himself to purchase myrtles and frankincense, he returns, and spends the day in crowning the statues of Mercury and Venus. As often as he has a dream, he runs to the interpreter, the soothsayer, or the augur, to inquire what god or goddess he ought to propitiate. Before he is initiated in the mysteries, he attends to receive instruction every month, accompanied by his wife, or by the nurse and his children. Whenever he passes a cross-way, he bathes his head. For the benefit of a special purification, he invites the priestesses to his house, who, while he stands reverently in the midst of them, bear about him an onion, or a little dog. If he encounters a lunatic, or a man in a fit, he shudders horrifically, and spits in his bosom.

The four centuries that had intervened between Theophrastus and Plutarch, during which a philosophical atheism had spread widely among the educated classes, had not, it appears, lessened the terrific influence of the Grecian polytheism over melancholy minds. On the contrary, it seems to have been enhanced rather than diminished; for the language of Plutarch is stronger than that of Theophrastus. The verisimilitude of both descriptions, and their accordance, leave no room to doubt that this effect of the religious belief of the Greeks was of frequent or ordinary occurrence among them. Indeed there is reason to think that few persons of serious temper, even though imbued with the spirit of the sceptical philosophy, could free themselves from the burdensome scrupulosities and the horrific fears which attend every form of polytheism, and from which neither the refinement, nor the scepticism, nor the voluptuousness, nor the frivolity, nor the good taste, nor the subtile reasonings of the Greeks, could emancipate the devotees of their religion. The philosophic Julian might be named in illustration of this assertion. Beside his hatred of Christianity, his conduct was evidently influenced on many occasions by a very honest dread of the capricious dæmons whose falling interests he so zealously upheld: witness his magical practices.

It will be seen that passages such as those above quoted, possess a substantial value, when brought to their place among the materials of history. Ethical writers reflect the image of the principles and the manners of their times. In some instances we may infer too much; in others may mistake a partial for a general representation; but if, with due caution, we review a wide field of ethical literature, the general result of such an induction cannot differ much from truth.

If, for example, from the entire series of Greek writers, all passages of a purely ethical kind were to be extracted, and were arranged in chronological order, the collection would afford the means of ascertaining, not only the system of morals and religion that was known to that people, but also the actual state of morals and manners, as it varied from age to age. With such materials before us, there would be less room for conjecture, and less danger of error, in determining the moral condition of the people, than is found in ascertaining the extent of their political power, or the amount of their national wealth. Upon ethical passages, such as those we have adduced above, one fact presents itself—namely, that in the profane authors there is little of direct admonition or reproof, and rarely an appeal to a recognised standard of right. The reason is obvious. The Greek and Roman ethical writers discuss questions of morality in the tone proper to a learned disquisition, each saying the best things in the best manner he could:—no man was authorized to do more than propose his opinion: no feeling of official responsibility, no high solicitude, gave seriousness or force to his manner. Morals were not founded upon religion: on the contrary, an ethical treatise, containing the expression of reason and conscience, was at once a virtual refutation of the national theology, and a sarcasm upon the gods. Especially it is to be observed, that the instruction and reformation of the mass of mankind entered not into the contemplation of moralists and philosophers, who, while they amused one another with eloquent disquisitions, were not troubled by the thought that the millions of their fellow-men remained, from age to age, untaught in wisdom and virtue.

Not so was it with the people of Palestine. Not philosophy, but morality, was paramount; and morality was taught in its dependence upon religion. And it was not to a small class in the community, but to the people at large, that ethical writings were addressed:—and it was not for amusement, but for reproof, that they were so addressed:—and these writers, instead of propounding their individual opinions, and supporting those opinions by abstract reasonings, took the short course of appealing to a known standard of right and wrong. They speak to their fellow-men as from on high, and in the tone of authority; and each acquits himself, with gravity, of a weighty responsibility. From the writers of Palestine the modern Western nations have learned the style of instruction, admonition, and reproof, and this can have its origin, and derive its force, and maintain its influence, only from a Divine Revelation, entrusted to the administration of human agents.

But our present object leads us to remark that, whether or not this peculiarity of the Jewish and Christian writings be attributed to their Divine origination, it renders them far more available as historical documents, than are the writings of other ancient nations. For inasmuch as these compositions unite the several qualities of being authoritative, hortative, and popular, they leave nothing to be wished for in ascertaining, either the moral level of the writer’s mind, or the actual level of manners in his times. It is evident that an appeal to a fixed standard, and an admonitory application of its known rules to the existing practices of the people, completes the requisite data of the historical problem above-mentioned. In the standard we have a known quantity; and in the hortatory forms of address, we have a mean of measurement, by which the actual state of morals may be ascertained.

An inquiry of this kind, if pursued in its details, would prove the existence and operation of an ethical system, so pure and perfect, that all after nations to whom it has been made known, have found nothing left to them but to admire and adopt its principles. What can the modern moralist do but work up the materials which he finds ready to his hand in the New Testament? To devise a new theology, or to invent a new morality—which should recommend itself to the common sense of mankind, would be as impracticable as to propose a new set of mathematical axioms. Truth is single and simple; and when once discovered, it must be adopted and followed. As a matter of history, it appears that the writers of ancient Palestine have taken possession of the regions of religion and morality.

But it would be practicable to ascertain, not only the system of morals taught by the Jewish and Christian writers; but the actual state of morals among those whom they immediately addressed. The Hebrew prophets furnish ample means for pursuing such an inquiry; but the unstudied earnestness of the Apostles, and especially the epistolary form of their compositions, would render the task of the inquirer easy, and conclusive in its results. In an argument of this kind we should not be entitled to conclude that the persons addressed were blameless in their lives—because their teachers address them as “Saints”—a conventional term. Our inferences must be of a less ambiguous kind. We must assume nothing but what is necessary to give consistency to the writer’s assertions:—in other words, we are to assume just as much as is found to be safe and reasonable in the interpretation of any ancient author.

In the Epistles to the Galatians and the Corinthians, we find proof that Paul was not the man to spare the faults or errors of those to whom he wrote; and each of his letters affords some evidence as well of his quick-sightedness, as of his sincerity. Men will more easily bear to be charged with vices, or with evil tempers, than to be reproached for dulness of apprehension: but in an Epistle addressed, as it seems, to the better-informed class of his own nation, he does not hesitate to blame their inaptitude and non-proficiency. (Heb. v. 11, 14.) Instances of a similar kind are the characteristics of the writer’s manner.

If a father in writing to a son addresses him in the language of approving affection; and if his admonitions relate only to the graces of an amiable deportment and temper, it is fair to conclude that the character of the son is unstained by grievous vices; for such a letter would not be addressed by a wise parent to a son who was “wasting his substance in riotous living.” This inference would be confirmed, if we found the same father writing to another son in terms of mingled affection, remonstrance, and severe reproof; and that he urged upon him, with pungent persuasions, the virtues of justice and temperance. Now it is an inference of this kind that we are entitled to draw from Paul’s Epistles. In some of them he discharges the painful duty of administering stern reproof on points of common morality; and in these instances he carries the requirements of virtue as far as can be imagined possible; and he enforces his injunctions by the most awful sanctions. Such is the writer, and such is his system of morals. But the same moralist, in addressing other societies, writes in the style of a happy father to an exemplary son. The Epistles to the Philippians, the Thessalonians, and the Ephesians are of this kind; and the inference is this—that these societies were in a state not far below the writer’s own standard of morals. In every society there will be a diversity of character, and in every numerous society there will be those to whom a wise teacher will address strongly-worded cautions, on the prime articles of morality. So it is in these Epistles; and the passages are vouchers for the writer’s consistency and faithfulness. These more serious admonitions are, however, manifestly addressed to a minority, or to an individual; or they are directed to persons who are not within the pale of the society.

A passage so often quoted (Phil. iv. 8) might be compared to the last sedulous touches of an accomplished artist, who having completed an excellent piece of work, reluctantly withdraws his hand while it seems yet possible to add a higher lustre to its polish. Passages like these, from such a writer, whose discrimination and whose sincerity are proved, afford the best kind of evidence in attestation of purity of manners among the Christians of Philippi.

Other of the Epistles of Paul, as well as those of James, Peter, and John, furnish instances to the same effect. The result of bringing them forward would be proof irrefragable, that the teaching of the apostles had produced a high degree of conformity to that new and refined standard of morals which they promulgated:—it would show that, in many cities of the Roman world, where, formerly, nothing had been seen but shameless dissoluteness, and abominable idolatries; or, at the best, Jewish sanctimoniousness, or philosophical pride, societies were formed, which had been collected chiefly from the humbler classes, and in which the full loveliness of virtue was suddenly generated and expanded, and produced its fruits. Not only were the gods expelled by the new doctrine, but the vices also.

Facts and inferences of this kind have often been brought forward by writers who have taken up the Christian argument: we in this place are not taking up that argument as if it were our subject and purpose in this volume. The facts above briefly referred to, and the inferences that are thence derivable, fairly challenge for themselves a place as belonging to a summary of the method or process of historical proof. For if we affirm that various passages occurring in the ethical writings of Aristotle, and of Cicero, and of Epictetus, and of Theophrastus, and of Plutarch, are highly significant, as materials of history, it must be proper also to show that the apostolic Epistles—ethical as they are—come within the same range, and should be duly regarded as authentic evidences, touching the moral condition of the community within which they were circulated, and involving therefore the truth and the excellence of the religion which then spread itself throughout the Roman world.