Augustus, for instance, was a grave, well-balanced, and prudent man, who avoided all extremes. Yet the ancient writers tell us to his credit that he had amongst his numerous freedmen several men of the loftiest intellect, of wide knowledge, and of transparent honesty, who had rendered him great services; but that, though he held them in great honour, he never invited any of them to his table. Such an act of familiarity between freedmen and patricians would have seemed to the ancients derogatory, and so they praised Augustus for having avoided it. To us, on the other hand, this attitude of reserve on the part of the great Emperor seems strange and incomprehensible, as it would seem on the part of a great and wealthy manufacturer who was ashamed to dine with the heads of departments of his business.
On the other hand, the difference between rich and poor was much less marked in the ancient world than it is in the modern. This is, perhaps, the most striking and important of the lines of cleavage between the world of antiquity and that of to-day. The idea of the moral equality of men, who are all sons of God, which was disseminated by Christianity; the idea of political and social equality, which was promulgated by the French Revolution, have in modern civilisation cut at the roots of the ancient distinctions of class, of religion, and even to a certain extent of nationality. But modern society is organising itself, in compensation, into a hierarchy of wealth. Men may consider themselves in theory all equal to one another; but each tries to associate with those persons who have approximately the same means as he, because it is they who are able to have the same habits as he has. Precisely because the modern world is so rich and so luxurious, the modes of living among the richest, the rich, and the moderately well-to-do classes show striking differences. And what is true of the modes of living is also true of tastes and inclinations. Everybody realises nowadays that differences or resemblances in habits, tastes, and inclinations are what most attract and repel men and influence them in treating each other as equals or unequals, when custom and tradition have established no other moral difference between them. The motor-car is as powerful a barrier between the social classes of to-day as was aristocratic prejudice before the Revolution.
In ancient times, on the other hand, precisely because the world was then so much poorer and simpler, the difference in the mode of living between poor and rich was much smaller. Both lived in closer contact, treating each other really as equals, provided always that they were of the same rank socially and politically. Augustus, who could not have freedmen, however enlightened, to dinner, invited poor, but free-born, plebeians. A rich Roman would never have entertained a freedman in his house or at his table, or treated him as an equal, even if the latter had been as rich as, or richer than, himself. On the other hand, he welcomed and treated as an equal a citizen free-born like himself, however miserable and reduced to living on his bounty.
If, therefore, the ancient conception of the social relations was less humane and less generous than ours, it was not wanting in a certain moral grandeur that is wanting to ours, inasmuch as in estimating a man, it subordinated his wealth to ideal qualities, such as free birth, or good birth, or citizenship. So it maintained in society certain moral values which were not to be bought with money. The poorest of Roman citizens was conscious and proud of possessing something of inestimable value, which the richest and most opulent of Roman freedmen could not acquire for all his wealth; and this sentiment was a very real alleviation of, and compensation for, his poverty. Dare we assert that in this respect our social system does not fall short of the ancient one? Such an assertion would be, in my opinion, a very bold one. The gravest weakness in modern society consists precisely in this continual increase of the power of money, as an all-regulating force and universal standard. If the social evolution which we are witnessing continues on the path on which it has started, in a short time there will be nothing in life worth having which is not purchasable for money; and then what means will there be left of bridling the greed and envy of the poor?
But this superiority of ancient society was in its turn the effect of a different conception of wealth, of its rights, its duties, and its objects. It is an exaggeration to credit the ancients with a simplicity and a contempt for riches, qualities which serve as a strange contrast with the greed and the insatiable thirst for gold which possess the moderns. In ancient times, it is true, men preached moderation in desires and taught the art of being contented with but little, with greater zeal and success than it is taught in modern times. Nevertheless, the men of those days, with but few exceptions, were not less greedy than we, and not less apt to consider wealth as the greatest of life’s blessings. Those who could, accumulated large private fortunes with the same frenzy and the same insatiate greed that inflame so many speculators and business men of the present day; and many of those who were content to live the simple life were converts to this noble and lofty philosophy from necessity rather than from conviction. The wealth of the ancient world was infinitely smaller than that of the modern world. Consequently a large number of persons had to be content to live the simple life. On this account the religions and the philosophers invented many theories and doctrines to prove that simplicity and parsimony were more desirable than opulence and luxury. That is the reason for the numberless theories regarding austerity that antiquity invented.
But though the ancients desired riches as much as we do, they were not infatuated by the desire to multiply them to the same extent as the moderns. In this respect, the ancients may truly be said to have been more austere and disinterested than we. And the difference between their thoughts and feelings on the subject and our own is seen most strikingly in one fundamental principle, which is, as it were, the keystone of the whole fabric of ideas and sentiments which concern riches; I mean, the question of putting money out at interest. To modern society it seems the most natural thing in the world that money should earn interest. Nowadays, the number of those who lend or invest capital in the countless ways offered by modern finance is infinite. Every one of these big and little capitalists, who possess State bonds, shares in railways or industrials, or bank or commercial securities, would be thunderstruck if anyone told him that he was behaving in an unseemly way. Matters have reached a point at which the distinction between investment and usury is fading from our minds. And yet numberless generations, and not a few of the most brilliant civilisations in history, professed the idea that any business of that sort was unbecoming. The ancients as a rule, with but few casual exceptions, judged it unfitting for a man of the respectable classes to earn money in any other way than either from land and houses—realty—or from direct participation in commerce and the arts; never from money lent at interest to others. That was usury; and was considered nearly always, with but few exceptions of time and place, as the exercise of a degrading profession. Wealthy men, with large sums of money at their disposal, were able, and were expected, to help those who needed money; but with gratuitous, not with interest-bearing loans. The letters of Cicero, for instance, are full of references to these gratuitous loans, for which the great orator, when short of money, often asked his friends. When he was in funds, he lent to those who were in need. In short, the lending of money without interest to upright and honourable persons was considered in those days a duty of the rich.
Of course, ideas like these about money and interest were bound to retard the development of the ancient world and the increase of wealth. But they were ideas which kept alive in men’s minds a certain noble disinterestedness of which it would be difficult to find traces to-day, and which makes amends for many of the asperities of ancient civilisation.
Considering, then, the separate virtues one by one, we find that in some we have progressed, in others we have not. Therefore, in certain respects we are better than the ancients, in others we are worse. Must we conclude that the good and the evil balance each other, and that, therefore, there has been no real moral progress from the ancient world to the modern? That would be, in my opinion, a very bold assertion. It is, in fact, undeniable that our moral life is richer in principles than that of the ancients, because we have retained many of the ancient principles, and have added to them the moral principles which were invented by the civilisations which flourished after the fall of the Roman Empire. We appreciate the virtues of patriotism, civic affection, and valour in war which were proper to the ancient cities. To them we add the sense of legality and right, the need for precise and prompt justice, which were invented by the ancient jurists and perfected by the moderns. We add charity, mercy, love of our neighbour, horror of cruel amusements, virtues which Christ taught us. We add the sentiment of the dignity and the rights of man, which was created by the philosophy of the eighteenth century and by the French Revolution. We add certain other brand-new sentiments, the creation of the civilisation of machinery, which are, therefore, stronger in America than in Europe: ardour for the new, enthusiasm for progress, confidence in our own strength. In war, we fight like the Romans, and in peace, we turn our eyes away from bloody spectacles. We should hold the gladiatorial games in no whit less horror than the most pious of Christian monks. We trade like the Phœnicians and we love knowledge like the Greeks. We appreciate liberty and we appreciate authority. Does not all this constitute real progress? And does it not suffice to counterbalance certain other defects of ours, such as intemperance and the immoderate desire for riches?
I think so. But that does not mean that we are at liberty to abandon ourselves freely to our vices and defects, under the pretext that they are compensated for by other virtues. It is the duty of every civilisation, as of every man, to make himself as perfect as possible. And this duty we must not forget, not even in the midst of the immeasurable triumphs of the richest, most powerful, and wisest civilisation that has ever yet seen the light of day.