Philo: a romance of life in the first century

Preface

. I should not like my readers to be deluded into the expectation of au historical novel by the title of my book. If I have used history as an element, it has only been so far as it suited my plan, and with VI

PREFACE.

. no particular care to avoid some ana chronisms, which would be unpardonable in a book which should pretend to be historical, even in the inferior position of historical romances. The times, places, and persons in which I have introduced the characters are of secondary importance. If the characters are true, there will be per sons to represent them in all times and places ; and if these portraitures of characters succeed in suggesting to those who read for suggestions, and in amus ing those who read for amusement, they

PREFACE.

. VLL will have fulfilled the purpose for which the book is intended by their humble servant THE AUTHOE. PHILO: A LIFE IN THE FIRST CENTURY. CHAPTEK I. It is always curious, often pleasant, sometimes profitable, to bring back to memory the scenes and events of a life, when, in mature age, or later, if memory continues faithful, one can weigh and appreciate what one has seen and heard, done actively, and endured passively, enjoyed and suffered. Certainly, in a philosophical point of view, per- VOL. I. A ■> PHILO, haps also in a moral, the memories of very early years are peculiarly precious, as the human being begins to learn, to grow in strength, and to be conscious of it ; to mark its positive and its relative position and condition in life. Later in life we get so mixed up with all that surrounds us, that we are hardly able to dis entangle self from those surroundings ; and in the endeavour to do so, we too often over-do our work, and self stands alone in our view and in our estimation as the proper object of our affection, or, at least, of our efforts.

When we are aware of this, and become ashamed of our selfish, self-seeking character, we are apt to fly to the opposite ex treme, and by an artificial, if not hypocritical scheme, we often try to put self down, to humi liate and even to degrade self. Yet self is always present ; and if not given its right place, will take a wrong one. A long life, much of it passed as a thinking man among thoughtful men, leaves me convinced, of what may seem or may be a truism, that to see one's-self as one really is — to be aware of the truth PHILO, 3 concerning one's-self on all points — is the only right view of self, and alone can enable a man to give self the right place. I do not mean self in the abstract, for that is nonsense. No self exists but in relation to other selves ; and as a person, who wishes to see his visible personality as it truly is, stands in the full light of day, and so becomes aware of his beauty and his deformity, of his visible qualities, and, by the same light, of things around him ; so the light of truth, when it shines to us, and in us, as the spirit offspring of the Great Spirit, shows us our selves : our origin, our present, and our destination.

In early childhood there are fewer prominences, to cast shadows across the view, than in later life ; so if we can trace and remember what we were then, — how we felt, how we learned, what view we took of this or the other thing, or person, or event, — we shall thereby acquire a kind of A'ery simple but useful knowledge of self. And, as it is said, not more poetically than truly, that the view of a child in its innocence has often effectually rebuked the strong sinner in his course PHILO. of evil, and done what no eloquence, no experi ence could do in the reformation of a character so I am persuaded that the view in memory of one's-self, in one's own childhood, looked at in the light of truth, would often prove the most effectual of all. It may seem paradoxical, but only to such as have not fathomed the depths of humanity, that nothing tends more to selfishness than the pro fession of putting self out of the question, or always in the background.

It is even more sure to have the effect than the vice of making self the chief question, and putting self in the foremost position. It is more fatal, as mining is more destructive than cannonading. In trying to write a review of my life, wishing to do so in the very blaze of sunlight, I therefore begin with my very earliest recollections. I am conscious that I was aware of the existence of my parents before I was consciously aware of my own. The first conscious inquiry of my mind that I can recall was, in the watching to see if my mother PHILO 5 was coming when I heard the sound of steps Avhich led me to expect her to appear. Soon inquiry became frequent, probably the action of mind had often occurred before that first remembered one. I cannot recall my first experiences of pain. I remember when very young, perhaps three years old, or very little more, I quite understood when I was told, " that will hurt you."

I perfectly remember doing wrong things, with out doing wrong in a blameworthy sense. I transgressed, but to me there was no law. I went the wrong way, for I could not know the right. I am persuaded that a clear idea of this un blamable erring tends very much to our taking blame to ourselves later, when we err wilfully, or after we know better. The idea that errors of unavoidable ignorance are blamable, in the same sense as those are which we commit against light, or in wilful ignorance, is quickly and reasonably reversed ; and the conclusion, logically, though half unconsciously received, that sins against light PHILO. or in wilful ignorance are no more blameworthy than those of infantine ignorance. Such, at least, is the result of my infant recol lections ; and as to my later memories, I can conceive no token of a degraded conscience greater than I should give if I were to excuse one of my later errors, or endeavour to evade the responsi bility of adult manhood.

Soon I was a boy, stronger and more conscious, mixing with boys, but aware of our inferiority to the grown-up members of our race, who ruled us by the possession of a greater degree of know ledge and of power, or at least of more knowledge of their power. These, with older, larger, and more experienced bodies and senses, had the advantage of us younger ones, and ruled us in consequence. Well for us they did so, for they kept us from much harm, and, in some respects, led us to learn what was beneficial, although it seemed to us then— and maturer life has not much changed the opinion — that they often ruled merely to exercise their power, and often taught us, in order to make us PHILO, receive their opinions, rather than led us to see the truth, and so have opinions of our own, which would make us free in our thoughts, fit to act with judgment, and desirous and capable of learning more and more.

By degrees I had become aware of what " mine" and " thine" mean. I gradually had come to know " father," " mother," and other family rela tionships. " Home," too, and several ideas of locality, were attained in their turn. And after spoken words came written letters, syllables, words, sentences. Still I knew not what I was ; nor did the ques tion in any definite form present itself to me. The vague idea that my body, which was made of earthy elements, was myself, and that it, being the essential self, was somehow possessed of life, was all that was held about ourselves by me or any of my associates. Not that we thought even of this. We occasionally heard some older men speak of a spirit — something dwelling in man ; and which, some thought, would still live somehow, after the PHILO. material body should die.

But we gave little heed to these things. Thus learning some things, and being taught many, I grew into boyhood, and found myself a son of a citizen of the city of Athens, attending a public school, and holding no dishonourable place among my fellows. We were taught, as we advanced in the school, much of the philosophy of the day, which some learnt like parrots, merely repeating forms which to them had no meaning, but which tended very surely to keep out real knowledge from the mind of those who thus inactively were crammed with words, which were in them, like undigested meat in the body, not only unprofitable but pernicious. But some — and I was among the number — chewed the cud, as it were, after our philosophical repast — thought over the things we heard — some times talked OArer them. The result was curious.

Some of us thought themselves very wise, form ing theories and building up opinions ; especially about the gods and about men ; about right and about wrong ; about good and about evil. PHILO. Others were sorely puzzled, perplexing them selves about ideas of these same things, which were apparently contradictory ; though the opposite ideas, or those that seemed contradictory, were both arrived at by arguments which were conclu sive, and proved by experiences which were in accordance. Some again — and I was among these — fluctu ated between these two states. For six months I was a philosopher indeed, in my own estimation. Then for six months, the very height of my flight, joined to the sincerity of my research, upset all my pride, and I said — " I know nothing!" Then I would shut my books, fly from the lectures of the teachers of all kinds, climb the mountains, swim the torrents, gaze upon the midnight sky, watch the rising sun.

There was a fife in my body which would exercise itself. Always ? No. I fell sick. The pestilential fever took hold upon me. PHILO. Before delirium set in, the body was low enough — no impulse in it to drive it to the hill-top or to the wave of the river ; no eye for rising sun or for starry sky. But something was fuller of life in me than ever. If the thoughts of that something were wild — un restfid — they were bright, and clear, and unfet tered. The fever, which prostrated the body, had set this thinking being rolling down hill with velo city. The thoughts were those of something very living, and they were my thoughts. And when delirium came, still there was a wondrous struggle between me — the body ; and me — the something else. The body recovered : the power of myself over it was, however, for the season, greatly diminished.

I could lie and think, but could do, bodily, httle, — for a time, nothing. The return of strength to the frame, which quickly followed the passing away of the disease, awakened new wonderings, new theoretic flights, new paradoxical stumblingblocks, and consequent stumblings and falls. PHILO, Till, at seventeen, doubt A'anished — not van quished by any convictions of what was, or was not truth, or right, or good — not by any light found or received by my mind as to gods or men. But simply, I ceased to doubt, because I ceased all voluntary thought, and gave myself up to im pulses which promised to lead me to the highest pleasures, if I would follow them. He who will not think, shall not doubt. Bad as doubt may be, it is too excellent a thing for him who degrades himself below the beasts, as I did.

They did not throw away that most excellent gift— the power of a human mind to choose, at will, its subject, and to hunt down and subju gate the objects which present themseh'es. Strange it seems, that a spirit born of the Father of Spirits should possibly so fall. But so low fell I. The life which I now lived was counted a joyous life, not by me only, but by many my seniors by ten, by twenty years. Yet I had friends — real friends — who advised me, cared for me. PHILO, I too cared for them ; but I thought I had the reins in my own hands. I thought so. But if I did so think, I at the same time was under the delusion that the body whose flesh enjoyed what I toiled for was my self. And toil I did ; ay, and suffered too, to gain for that body the things to which its impulses drove me. The advices of friends had little weight.

But an example struck me — a double example. Among my companions were several who pro fessed the same devotion to Bacchus and Venus which I also did. Epicureans they called them selves, and declared their purpose to enjoy to the utmost all that was enjoyable. " If the gods," said we, " have given us a capacity for enjoyment, and means and opportunities of enjoying, should we not be fools to deprive our selves of these blessings." There was no arguing against this. Some of my friends were Stoics, who gloried in their power to conquer their natural impulses, and PHILO 13 in refraining from even moderate indulgence of their appetites. I was struck by the fact, which forced itself upon my observation, that very many of my epicurean companions failed signally in the very object they aimed at. Some, like my friend Cymon, broke up their constitutions, so that it was a most melancholy tiling to witness their futile efforts to stimulate their failing bodies to partake again of those pleasures of which, as they said, the gods had made us capable, but which their gorged sto machs and over-taxed constitutions loathed, or sought in vain.

They had plainly undone the work of the gods ; and in following the impulses of appetites without restraint, had deprived them selves of the very enjoyments they had made their chief object. But all who followed this course did not so utterly break down. Nevertheless, the fate of the many who did, and who either died prematurely, or who lived joy lessly, (worse than joylessly, seeking satisfaction in PHILO, joys which they had themselves put out of their reach,) made me think. I saw a fate which might be mine if I went on in their way. But I saw many others who escaped so obvious a destruction. Some, whose temperament was less ardent — some, whose impulses were to pleasures less under mining — seemed to flourish in this devotedness to gratify the impulses of the natural disposition. I marked them.

Many, like Milo, continued for years in a regular course of indulgence of every appetite ; and yet, not giving way to violent irregularities, they preserved a fair degree of health and appetite for pleasures. But I was intimate enough with them to discover, that while the satisfaction they had in their pleasures constantly diminished by constant habit, by the same cause the want or absence of any of these created very great uneasiness, vexation, irritation — in fact, the occasional failures caused more dissatisfaction than the habitual indulgence gave satisfaction. Not to mention that these men PHILO, invariably became disliked by those Avho knew them well, and who always found them uncommonly and unpleasantly selfish, deliberately preferring their own pleasure to that of others. In short, their life was not what, after close observation, I could choose, on the principle that I was one to whom the gods had given a capacity for enjoyment, and who counted it wisdom to live so as to enjoy to the fullest.

Among my old friends was one Crito, whose society I much liked. I felt that he was a friend indeed. He was an old man in years. But, though some of the infirmities of age were stealing upon him, he was hale and active at above three score years, and full of such a lively, pleasant animation, that one forgot that he was an old man while in his company. Children, young men, young women, became more cheery under his influence. I dined often at his hospitable table, where all was good, and rather handsome than otherwise. Several of my companions were also not un frequent guests in his house. PHILO, After my mind was brought to consider — and I was led to mark effects and to look for causes, to which my philosophical studies much conduced — I observed how much more Crito seemed to enjoy his dinner than any of us young men.

I set my self to watch what means he took to make his food so palatable. I saw that he never used any sauces or stimulants, but eat his meat and vegetables only with salt. I mentioned it to Apelles — one of us — deeply conversant in the mysteries of feasting. "Ah!" said he, " the fellow has the stomach of an ostrich and the palate of a hog. He distinguishes not bad from good, so he is easfiy pleased." I was the more inclined to believe Apelles, when, some days afterwards, a few of us went on a boating excursion with Crito, intending to return to supper with Apelles. A contrary wind kept us out tdl after midnight, fully six hours after supper time, for which also we were very ready, the sea air having sharpened our appetites to a keen edge. There was a good deal of grumbling among the PHILO. dozen of whom our company consisted ; but it burst into a kind of fury when, after three hours beyond supper time, the sailors offered us a bag of dry crusts and some vinegar and water.

Crito alone took some, and evidently enjoyed it. I said to Apelles, " Ostrich and hog ! " He was too utterly in the sulks, at the double idea of his missing his supper at due time, and of the said supper at that very time spoiling, to be pleased at my allusion to his description. Before daybreak on a summer morning we reached the land ; and Apelles, Avho was really hospitable, insisted that we should go to his house and partake of whatever his cooks had been able to preserve of the supper in an eatable state. It was by no means a bad repast after all. Apelles' cook was a cook worthy of the name ; and where his honour was concerned, as he considered it to be every time he prepared a meal for his master's table, he was upon his mettle, and was not easily routed even by unreasonable delay, vol. i. b philo. though he severely upbraided his master for the same.

If the meats were but little the worse, the wines were nothing injured, and these were of the most costly qualities. As we sat and enjoyed ourselves, the servants filled our goblets from a fresh vessel. Crito tasted, and, looking at Apelles, he said, " Never but from one cellar and from one vessel in that cellar did I taste such wine. It was your father's. He had a label on it, marked ' Best for the Best.' Where did you match it ? It is the same flavour, mellower, and so, if possible, better." The others had observed nothing particular in the wine. But Apelles cried out, " Come and see," leading the way to his perfectly-constructed wine vault, where no change of temperature affected the precious liquor. " A lamp ! " cried he ; and, preceded by a ser vant carrying a light, he conducted us to a recess, where, mounted upon a stool of honour, sat a vessel of wine ; over it on a scroll in gilt letters, " Best for the Best."

PHILO. "It is nearly all gone, more is the pity," said he. " But it is the very identical old stuff, the real thing, my best ones, for you." " But is it not strange that Crito should have detected it at once ? I thought you cared little for wine, and were contented with anything called so, no matter how Ioav in quality." " You are partly right, my friend," said Crito. " Had you given us indifferent liquor, I should perhaps have been the only one not discontented. I have not pampered my appetites, and so my senses remain acute, while my inclinations are not masters. I alone at all enjoyed the sailors' crust and cold water, and I believe I alone enjoyed fully this best of good wine, which, however, I am sure you all enjoyed too. But,' above the pleasures of the palate and stomach, we have a higher by far in the so courteous, friendly, and elegant com pliment which we have received from our host in giving this wine to us ; and, as the senior of the party, I stand up to thank him in the name of all."

We adjourned from the table to the bath, giving philo, up our night's rest. After bathing, Apelles came home Avith me. I had but a student's apartment, as my father was not at this time resident in Athens ; but after our last meal, partaking of the nature of supper and breakfast, even he was con tented with what simple refreshment I could offer him. As we sat and talked, Apelles said to me — " Philo, my good friend, I can't help envying that old stager, Crito. By Bacchus, and by Jupiter, too, he has more enjoyment of every sort than we young fellows. We pursue pleasure at toil and cost ; and the gods and goddesses pursue him with pleasures that he never has the trouble of seeking. He rose a hundred per cent, in my estimation when he recognised that wine of my father's. He is a capital old fellow.

I do sometimes pretend to laugh at him ; and I often avoid him, for he ad vises me. And his advice is so thoroughly, unde niably good, that one can't go against it without feeling that one is a confounded fool. Still I know I shall go against it ; and so listening to it is hearing myself dubbed a very donkey. He pressed on PHILO, 21 me, the other day, the fact, as he declared it, that rules of moral virtue, so far from hindering our pleasures, were the very reverse, and teach us how to have the most pleasure of every kind for which the gods have given us a capacity. I see noAv it is not the advice of one who sulks because his powers of enjoyment fail him ; for I swear by Bacchus and Venus, that Crito, while he worships Minerva and Mercury, and seems to slight their other god ships, has more of the life, which an epicurean seeks to live, than any one of us ; while he has all the enjoyments of wisdom and science besides."

Cymon came in at this moment, and, throwing himself on a couch, cried, " Oh, my friends, what is there that you can give me to cool a parching thirst and to warm a shivering heart ? to enable me to be alert in the day and to sleep at night ? Give me a cool draught from that vase." When he had swallowed but a little he cried out, " Oh, some spiced wine — quick ! I feel the cold cramping all my vitals. I shall faint." I gave him the cordial, and he swallowed as much of the hot strong stuff as would have upset . PHILO, me for the whole day ; but it merely tuned his unstrung nerves. " Boys," said he, " where were you all day yes terday ? I looked for you on the public walks, and could not get a sight of you." " No wonder," replied Apelles ; " we were on a sailing expedition with Crito." " Two things that I hate," said Cymon — " boating and Crito."

" Why ? What is there to hate in either ?" " Why ! Look you, when you go boating, either it is calm, and you have to row, or it is windy, and you are sick ; and in either case it is ten to one but you come home late for supper as cross as cats. And then for Crito — who can bear a fellow that puts us all in the shade ? Why, at his age, he half-killed me keeping up to lfim on horseback across the plain. And on foot, I don't think even Philo there, with his athletic limbs, can distance him in walking. The old rascal ! Avhat business has he ? Hang him — I do hate him ! " " Did not old Crito get your father to pay your debts the last time, when you were in a bad Avay, PHILO, and to givre you money for a journey for your health, Cymon ?" " And what good did that do ? By Jupiter, boys ! I am worse in debt and worse in health than ever.

I '11 try what a bath hotter than usual will do to-day. Good-bye." " That is what I call gratitude," said I. " Gratitude ! Poor fellow, he is so worn out that the feeling of misery in himself, and discon tent with himself, makes him unable to like any thing, or to love any body." " His is what is called a short life and a merry one. Eh?" The sad spectacle of young Cymon had a more active effect than the good example of Crito. I was shocked, frightened, at the idea of becoming such a useless, despicable wreck, by giving way to my appetites and inclinations. For some weeks Philo was in vain sought in the places of public resort, at the theatre or at the festive board. Every one wondered where I could be. Some supposed I had gone to my father at Rome, where he was on a political mission ; others PHILO. said I was sick, and came to look after me, but found I was out early and late.

I had determined to become a disciple of one of the strictest of the Stoics, and attached myself to a. master whose name was Crassus, who taught that all virtue was in self-denial, Avho exercised the most severe discipline with regard to his own body, and required no less from his disciples. I found a curious enjoyment at first in making my body obey my will against its will. I felt I was a master. I thought I mastered myself, for I did not distinguish then between myself and my body of earthly material. Still I puzzled myself with the question, " When I refrain from the en joyments I used to indulge in, and do the things I used to shun as disagreeable, and (as I call it) force myself in these things, who is the compeller ? who the compelled ? Are they the same ? or am I two ? or is one of these I ? and one not I ?

If the last, the not I is that which has appetites and dislikes to be conquered. And what, then, am I ? The conqueror ?" Crassus had both male and female disciples. PHILO. Some of the latter were women who had tried the epicurean system like me, and, like me, been dis gusted or frightened, or had been driven from their courses by broken health or by wounded conscience. It was frightful to witness the severity of disci pline with which some devotees chastened their bodies, — denying them necessary food, because they had pampered them ; lying on cold flag stones, because they had lain on too luxurious beds ; and even putting their bodies to pains and torments, because they had before been slaves to pleasures. Most of the strictest were women, and most of these were women who had been carried far in pro fligacy.

But there were exceptions. There was one young disciple, younger than I. I was now twenty-three years old ; Chloe was a year less. She joined the class shortly after I did. She was comely, but not beautiful. There was an ear nestness in every expression, of every feature of her young full face, — full when she joined Crassus ; but week by week, under his unrelenting harangues, PHILO, she became first less full faced, then more sunken. I did not know her, though I knew who she was. Her father was a wealthy citizen, who had filled honourable places in the magistracy. Her mother was dead, and she was the youngest of several children. I was much interested in her from the first, and began to hate Crassus when I saw the effects of his philosophy upon her, — so innocent, as I was per suaded she must be, and so broken by austerities quite unfit for a girl like her.

One day, returning from our lecture, I passed a group of women, who were some of them shriek ing for aid, and some were endeavouring to raise from the ground a fallen form. I naturally stopped to offer assistance, if needed. I recognised some of the female disciples of Cras sus ; they besought me to aid, with my strength, to carry the one who had fainted. I, of course, complied ; and, lifting her in my arms, accompanied them to the house which they pointed out. It was, I knew, the house of Chloe's father. PHILO, Our summons brought servants to the door ; and, upon a cry from one of these who recognised her young mistress in the fainting form I had carried, a vision rushed forwards, the most dazzling my eyes had beheld. A woman, in the full bloom of womanhood, tall, graceful, beautiful. She threw herself upon the burden <I had just laid down, crying, " My Chloe ! my dear, dear sister !