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.