of the lands. For he found a prodigious inequality; the city overcharged
with many indigent persons, who had no land; and the wealth centred in
the hands of the few. Determined, therefore, to root out the evils of
insolence, envy, avarice, and luxury, and those distempers of a state
still more inveterate than fatal--I mean poverty and riches--he
persuaded them to cancel all former divisions of land and to make new
ones, in such a manner as they might be perfectly equal in their
possessions and way of living.
His proposal was put in practice.
"After this he attempted to divide also the movables, in order to take
away all appearance of inequality; but he soon perceived that they could
not bear to have their goods taken directly from them, and therefore
took another method, counterworking their avarice by a stratagem."
Now, this seems to be the only law to which they made objection; and
this proves that the love of personal "icties" has very deep roots.
Perhaps the influence of the "senate" sustained them in this, for
qualifications for a senator, even in those days, must have called for
men of some means, and they, when the shoe began to pinch their own
feet, would not care to divide up their sugar and flour with the rank
and file. It does not appear, however, that they had any say in the
matter, and, beyond the statement that they were formed for a purpose,
they seem to have taken no part in the affairs of state; if they had,
Lycurgus and his laws would never have been made part of history.
"First he stopped the currency of the gold and silver coin"--thus he
paralyzed industry--"and ordered that they should make use of iron money
only; then to a great quantity and weight of this he assigned but a
small value.... In the next place he excluded unprofitable and
superfluous arts.... Their iron coin would not pass in the rest of
Greece, but was ridiculed and despised, so that the Spartans had no
means of purchasing any foreign or curious wares, nor did any merchant
ship unlade in their harbor." Even Plutarch sees nothing suicidal in all
this voluntary isolating of themselves from the main arteries of
commerce.
"Desirous to complete the conquest of luxury and exterminate the love of
riches, he introduced a third institution, which was wisely enough and
ingeniously contrived. This was the use of public tables, where all were
to eat in common of the same meat, and such kinds of it as were
appointed by law. At the same time they were forbidden to eat at home,
or on expensive couches and tables.... Another ordinance levelled
against magnificence and expense, directed that the ceilings of houses
should be wrought with no tool but the axe, and the doors with nothing
but the saw. Indeed, no man could be so absurd as to bring into a
dwelling so homely and simple, bedsteads with silver feet, purple
coverlets, or golden cups." Thus he smothered art and personal ambition,
two of the most requisite essentials to a people on their onward and
upward trend to civilization and success. "A third ordinance of Lycurgus
was, that they should not often make war against the same enemy, lest,
by being frequently put upon defending themselves, they too should
become able warriors in their turn."
And thus he made them defenceless against their enemies.
"For the same reason he would not permit all that desired to go abroad
and see other countries, lest they should contract foreign manners, gain
traces of a life of little discipline, and of a different form of
government. He forbade strangers, too, to resort to Sparta who could not
assign a good reason for their coming!"
Improvement with Lycurgus means retrogression with us. He wished,
perhaps ignorantly, to arrest the progress of civilization and
substitute a slovenly ideal of his own. His purpose was to cancel the
civilization which the race had gained during thousands of years of
effort, and bring it back to a semi-savagery. But the world was too big
for him. It had things in view which were too great for his small,
hampered mind to have any suspicion of. No doubt he was sincere in his
little, infinitesimal way; but it is a blessing for the world that his
influence was confined to a very small corner of the then civilized
world, and that others of broader views succeeded him to manage the
affairs of states and nations. With all deference to old Plutarch, the
biographer of Lycurgus, we wish to say that however grand the laws of
this man may have been as ideals, they were utter failures when brought
into practice.
Of Joan of Arc
Some people say the world is getting no better, but if we take a dip
into history and consider the conditions which prevailed there from the
earliest times up to only a few hundred years ago, we will find a race
of human beings which in no wise resemble the present output except in
form and stature. And our own forefathers--the people of the British
Isles, the Anglo-Saxons who are to-day leading in the social world--were
not one iota better throughout those pages than many of the smallest and
most unpretentious of obscure tribes living here and there in ignorant,
local isolation. One of the strongest points in our argument is the fact
that history, as we have it, is composed of the clang of battles and the
private lives of kings and despots. The ordinary, everyday life of the
peasant people--the working classes--the backbone of the nation, so to
speak--was beneath the consideration of the historian throughout all
times. The only virtue, in his estimation, was a strong arm--a large
army to murder and destroy property. And the life of the historian must
needs reflect that of the people. There is no doubt that in a great
majority they were of a cruel, murderous nature. We get rare glimpses,
however (at intervals of sometimes hundreds of years), of the doings,
manners, and customs, likes and dislikes of the common people, that we
can rely upon as authentic; the rest is poetry and legend, and,
although typical, are relations of incidents that did not really occur.
There is no doubt that, although it has been withheld, there was a great
deal of virtue, which blushed and bloomed unseen, amid all this blood
and war.
As though by accident the historian who immortalized Joan of Arc has let
slip a few words in connection with this heroine's early life that are
more valuable to us than page upon page of some of our so-called
history. "Jeanne d'Arc was the child of a laborer of Domremy, a little
village on the borders of Lorraine and Champagne. Just without the
cottage where she was born began the great woods of the Vosges, where
the children of Domremy drank in poetry and legend from fairy ring and
haunted well, hung their flower garlands on the sacred trees and sang
songs to the good people who might not drink of the fountain because of
their sins. Jeanne loved the forest; its birds and beasts came lovingly
to her at her childish call. But at home men saw nothing in her but 'a
good girl,' simple and pleasant in her way, spinning and sewing by her
mother's side while the other girls went to the fields--tender to the
poor and sick."
This is a little domestic scene of the year A.D. 1425, and how homelike
and real and familiar it all is. What a sweet peace spot, among all the
bloodshed and horror that was going on throughout France at that time.
Joan of Arc is undoubtedly one of the most remarkable characters in all
history. She was born at Domremy, France, in 1412, and was executed in
1431. Before she had reached twenty this girl had practically freed
France from the English, or at least put the country upon such a footing
that a few years accomplished its freedom.
The superstitions of the times are no doubt responsible to a great
extent for the success which was attained by this Maid of Orleans. "The
English believed in her supernatural mission as firmly as the French
did, but they thought her a sorceress who had come to overthrow them by
her enchantments," and so on. The fact remains that this innocent
peasant girl of eighteen years of age freed France from the English and
accomplished things which no man of France at that time was able to do.
Either the French generalship of the times was very incompetent or the
army was very much demoralized--at all events they had been awaiting the
advent of a leader who was both determined and fearless, for skill does
not seem to have been a requisite--and this appeared in the person of
Joan of Arc.
It is difficult to believe that an entirely inexperienced person of this
kind could take charge of an army of ten thousand men and lead them to
victory when the best trained generals of the time could do nothing and
suffered defeat at every turn.
With the coronation of the King the Maid felt that her errand was over.
"Oh, gentle king, the pleasure of God is done," she cried, as she flung
herself at the feet of Charles, and asked leave to go home. "Would it
were His good will," she pleaded with the archbishop, as he forced her
to remain, "that I might go and keep sheep once more with my sisters and
my brothers; they would be glad to see me again."
But the policy of the French court detained her. France was depending on
one of its peasant girls for its very national existence. The
humiliation of the thing should make all good Frenchmen blush with
shame. So she fought on with the conviction that she was superfluous in
the army, and a slave to the French court. It does not appear that she
was even placed upon the payroll, or that she received reward of any
kind for her services--and there were no "Victoria crosses" in those
days. She fought on without pay; rendered all her services for
nothing--perhaps for the love of the thing. During the defence of
Compiegne in May, 1430, she fell into the hands of one Vendome, who sold
her to the Duke of Burgundy. Burgundy sold her to the English--her
remuneration for her self-sacrificing, voluntarily-given services.
And now comes the tragic part of a most pathetic story enacted out at a
time when the name civilization, applied to the French and English, is a
mockery. "In December she was carried to Rouen, the headquarters of the
English, heavily fettered, and flung into a gloomy prison, and at
length, arraigned before the spiritual tribunal of the Bishop of
Beauvais, a wretched creature of the English, as a sorceress and a
heretic, while the dastard she had crowned king left her to die." She
was not even granted a legal, judicial trial.
Some say that her sentence was at one time commuted to perpetual
imprisonment, which proves that there was a glimmer of humanity hid away
in some corner of the world, knocking hysterically in its imprisonment
for admission. "But the English found a pretext to treat her as a
criminal and condemned her to be burned." And at this juncture it may be
well to say that we have good reason to be proud of ourselves to-day,
and ashamed of our ancestors.
"She was brought to the stake on May 30th, 1431. The woman's tears dried
upon her cheeks, and she faced her doom with the triumphant courage of
the martyr." During her last awful moments, as she left this world with
the torture of the flames slowly consuming her body, what were the last
impressions of this girl of nineteen who left home and happiness to free
a people who allowed her to be thus tormented to death? "A court was
constituted by Pope Calixtus III., in 1455, which declared her innocent
and pronounced her trial unjust. And through the whole civilized world
her memory is fittingly commemorated in statuary and literature." But
this is poor consolation and does not undo the mischief. So far as Joan
of Arc is concerned, she is still burning, scorching, suffering at that
stake, and the world and the English are her torturers, still tormenting
her, while the man she made king stands looking on indifferently,
heartlessly. All the honor and statuary that ever had creation on this
green earth cannot atone for this crime of "civilization" on the
innocent. But it is only one blot of many with which the world moves
on, branded indelibly to its unknown end; and beneath a pleasant
exterior we know, but try to hide, those blots, with apologies for our
ancestors. And yet some say the world is getting no better. Out of this
chaos of blood, crime and heathendom we sprang with all our pride and
greatness, and with such a record it behooves us to be rather humble
than high-minded, for crime and disgrace are lying at our very
door-step.
"The story of Joan has been a rich motive in the world of art, and
painter and sculptor have spent their genius on the theme without as yet
adequately realizing its simple grandeur."
Of Voices Long Dead
The following is not history, although we have placed it under this
heading. It is the literal translation of a poem by Theocritus, a light
in the ancient literature of the Greeks. Although the actual incident
never occurred, it is typical of what was going on among that long dead
people, and it is of as much importance to us as the most valuable
record of history, and is of vital interest when viewed in retrospect
from the year 1915, because it gives us a rare glimpse into the domestic
manners of a people who lived when all the present civilized world was
in the hands of savages--and how modern it all seems. The scene might
have been enacted yesterday even to the smallest detail.
Imagine yourself in the city of Alexandria about the year 280 B.C.
"Some Syracusan women staying at Alexandria, agreed, on the occasion of
a great religious solemnity--the feast of Adonis--to go together to the
palace of King Ptolemy Philadelphus, to see the image of Adonis, which
the Queen Arsinoe, Ptolemy's wife, had had decorated with peculiar
magnificence. A hymn, by a celebrated performer, was to be recited over
the image. The names of the two women are Gorgo and Praxinoe; their
maids, who are mentioned in the poem, are called Eunoe and Eutychis.
Gorgo comes by appointment to Praxinoe's house to fetch her, and there
the dialogue begins."
We are following the translation of William Cleaver Wilkinson.
Gorgo. Is Praxinoe at home?
Praxinoe. My dear Gorgo, at last! Yes, here I am. Eunoe, find a
chair--get a cushion for it.
G. It will do beautifully as it is.
P. Do sit down.
G. Oh, this gadabout spirit! I could hardly get to you, Praxinoe,
through all the crowd and all the carriages. Nothing but heavy boots,
nothing but men in uniform. And what a journey it is! My dear child, you
really live too far off.
P. It is all that insane husband of mine. He has chosen to come out here
to the end of the world, and take a hole of a place--for a house it is
not--on purpose that you and I might not be neighbors. He is always just
the same--anything to quarrel with one! anything for spite!
G. My dear, don't talk so of your husband before the little fellow. Just
see how astonished he looks at you. Never mind, Zopyrio, my pet, she is
not talking about papa.
P. Good heavens! the child does really understand.
G. Pretty papa!
P. That pretty papa of his the other day (though I told him beforehand
to mind what he was about), when I sent him to shop to buy soap and
rouge, he brought me home salt instead--stupid, great, big,
interminable animal.
G. Mine is just the fellow to him.... But never mind; get on your things
and let us be off to the palace to see the Adonis. I hear the queen's
decorations are something splendid.
P. In grand people's houses everything is grand. What things you have
seen in Alexandria! What a deal you will have to tell anybody who has
never been here!
G. Come, we ought to be going.
P. Every day is holiday to people who have nothing to do. Eunoe, pick up
your work; and take care, lazy girl, how you leave it lying about again;
the cats find it just the bed they like. Come, stir yourself; fetch me
some water, quick! I wanted the water first, and the girl brings me the
soap. Never mind, give it me. Not all that, extravagant! Now pour out
the water--stupid! why don't you take care of my dress? That will do. I
have got my hands washed as it pleases God. Where is the key of the
large wardrobe? Bring it here--quick!
G. Praxinoe, you can't think how well that dress, made full, as you've
got it, suits you. Tell me, how much did it cost?--the dress by itself,
I mean.
P. Don't talk of it, Gorgo; more than eight guineas of good hard money.
And about the work on it I have almost worn my life out.
G. Well, you couldn't have done better.
P. Thank you. Bring me my shawl, and put my hat properly on my
head--properly. No, child (to her little boy), I am not going to take
you; there is a bogey on horseback, who bites. Cry as much as you like,
I'm not going to have you lamed for life. Now we'll start. Nurse, take
the little one and amuse him; call the dog in, and shut the street door.
(They go out.) Good heavens! what a crowd of people! How on earth are we
ever to get through all this? They are like ants--you can't count them.
My dearest Gorgo, what will become of us? Here are the Royal Horse
Guards. My good man, don't ride over me! Look at that bay horse rearing
bolt upright; what a vicious one! Eunoe, you mad girl, do take
care!--that horse will certainly be the death of the man on his back.
How glad I am now that I left the child at home!
G. All right, Praxinoe, we are safe behind them, and they have gone on
to where they are stationed.
P. Well, yes, I begin to revive again. From the time I was a little girl
I have had more horror of horses and snakes than of anything in the
world. Let us get on; here's a great crowd coming this way upon us.
G. (to an old woman). Mother, are you from the palace?
Old Woman. Yes, my dears.
G. Has one a tolerable chance of getting there?
O.W. My pretty young lady, the Greeks got to Troy by dint of trying
hard; trying will do anything in this world.
G. The old creature has delivered herself of an oracle and departed.
P. Women can tell you everything about everything. Jupiter's marriage
with Juno not excepted.
G. Look, Praxinoe, what a squeeze at the palace gates!
P. Tremendous! Take hold of me, Gorgo, and you, Eunoe, take hold of
Eutychis!--tight hold, or you'll be lost. Here we go in all together.
Hold tight to us, Eunoe. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Gorgo, there's my
scarf torn right in two. For heaven's sake, my good man, as you hope to
be saved, take care of my dress!
Stranger. I'll do what I can, but it doesn't depend upon me.
P. What heaps of people! They push like a drove of pigs.
Str. Don't be frightened, ma'am; we are all right.
P. May you be all right, my dear sir, to the last day you live, for the
care you have taken of us! What a kind, considerate man! There is Eunoe
jammed in a squeeze. Push, you goose, push! Capital! We are all of us
the right side of the door, as the bridegroom said when he had locked
himself in with the bride.
G. Praxinoe, come this way. Do but look at that work, how delicate it
is! how exquisite! Why, they might wear it in heaven!
P. Heavenly patroness of needle-women, what hands we hired to do that
work? Who designed those beautiful patterns? They seem to stand up and
move about, as if they were real--as if they were living things and not
needlework. Well, man is a wonderful creature! And look, look, how
charming he lies there on his silver couch, with just a soft down on his
cheeks, that beloved Adonis--Adonis, whom one loves, even though he is
dead!
Another Stranger. You wretched woman, do stop your incessant chatter.
Like turtles, you go on forever. They are enough to kill one with their
broad lingo--nothing but a, a, a.
G. Lord, where does the man come from? What is it to you if we are
chatterboxes? Order about your own servants. Do you give orders to
Syracusan women? If you want to know, we came originally from Corinth,
as Bellerophon did; we speak Peloponnesian. I suppose Dorian women may
be allowed to have a Dorian accent.
P. Oh, honey-sweet Proserpine, let us have no more masters than the one
we've got! We don't the least care for you; pray don't trouble yourself
for nothing.
G. Be quiet, Praxinoe! That first-rate singer, the Argive woman's
daughter, is going to sing the Adonis hymn. She is the same who was
chosen to sing the dirge last year. We are sure to have something first
rate from her. She is going through her airs and graces ready to begin.
* * * * *
And here the voices die away in the remote past. How difficult it is to
believe that this dialogue took place more than two thousand years ago!
As a last glimpse of such a beautiful, modernly remote gem of
conversation, we will give a few more words to show what those ancient
gossipy ladies thought of their husbands.
The following are the last surviving words which Gorgo gave to the
world:
Gorgo. Praxinoe, certainly women are wonderful things. That lucky woman,
to know all that; and luckier still to have such a voice! And now we
must see about getting home. My husband has not had his dinner. That man
is all vinegar, and nothing else; and if you keep him waiting for his
dinner he's dangerous to go near. Adieu! precious Adonis, and may you
find us all well when you come next year!
He might have been a husband of yesterday!
For how many years have the husbands been coming home from work daily to
partake of a meal which an attentive and tender wife has prepared for
him? This was twenty-two hundred years ago.
Of the White Woman Who Became an Indian Squaw
The early history of the northwest frontier of Massachusetts is fraught
with blood-curdling tales of savage invasions against the home-builders
and empire-makers of that once troubled boundary between the French of
Canada and the English of the New England States, but there is not a
more pitiful story than that which has been recorded touching the
Williams family of Deerfield, who were captured by the Indians during
one of their inroads in the year 1704. John Williams was a minister who
had come to Deerfield when it was still suffering from the ruinous
effects of King Philip's war. His parishioners built him a house, he
married, and had eight children. The story of the Indians' invasion, the
destruction of the village, and the capture of over one hundred
prisoners is admirably told by Francis Parkman in one of those excellent
works of his dealing with the old régime of Canada and New England.
"A war party of about fifty Canadians and two hundred Indians left
Quebec about mid-winter, and arrived at Deerfield on the 28th of
February, 1704. Savage and hungry, they lay shivering under the pines
till about two hours before dawn the following morning; then, leaving
their packs and their snowshoes behind, they moved cautiously towards
their prey. The hideous din startled the minister, Williams, from his
sleep. Half naked, he sprang out of bed, and saw, dimly, a crowd of
savages bursting through the shattered door. With more valor than
discretion he snatched a pistol that hung at the head of the bed, cocked
it and snapped it at the breast of the foremost Indian. It missed fire.
Amid the screams of his terrified children, three of the party seized
him and bound him fast, for they came well provided with cords, as
prisoners had a great market value. Nevertheless, in the first fury of
their attack, they dragged to the door and murdered two of the children.
They kept Williams shivering in his shirt for an hour, while a frightful
uproar of yells, shrieks, and gunshots sounded from within. At length
they permitted him, his wife, and five remaining children to dress
themselves. After the entire village had been destroyed and the
inhabitants either murdered or made captive, Williams and his wife and
family were led from their burning house across the Connecticut River to
the foot of the mountain, and the following day the march north began
with the hundred or more prisoners."
The hardships of the prisoners, and the crimes of the victors during
that long and arduous march north through snow and ice, forms a chapter
of pathos in the early history of those eastern states.