Engraved on certain Syrian or Assyrian rocks lie innumerable
inscriptions in an unknown character; the solid rock and an Asiatic
climate have preserved them for us: they lie there facing the world, in
the broad light of day, but none can read them. A whole mountain-side
seems covered with the records of departed greatness. What truths, what
historic facts might not these mysterious characters disclose! The
scholar cannot sleep for desire to interpret them. At length, by extreme
ingenuity and indomitable patience, and those happy sudden incidental
revelations which ever reward the persevering man, some clue is put into
his hand. He begins to read, he begins to translate. We gather round and
listen breathless. “I, Shalmanasser,” so runs the inscription, “I
assembled a great army—I engaged—I defeated—I slew their sovereigns,—I
cast in chains their captains and men of war—I, Shalmanasser, I——” Oh,
hold! hold! we exclaim, with thy Shalmanasser! There was no need to
decipher the mysterious characters for this. If the rock, with all its
inscriptions, can tell us nothing wiser or newer, it is a pity that
there were no rains in that climate to wash the surface smooth, and
obliterate these boastful records of barbarian cruelty and destruction.
Better that the simple weather-stained rock should face the eye of day,
oblivious of all but nature’s painless and progressive activities.
Some such feeling as this has passed across the minds of most of us,
when invited to peruse new histories of the ancient world. They were
terrible men, those warriors of olden time. They besieged towns—and so,
indeed, do we; but they did more; they put the children to the sword,
and carried away the mother into captivity, and those of the men whom
they did not chain and enslave, they slew as grateful sacrifices to
their gods! Strange and execrable insanity! and yet the religious rite
was the legitimate result, and the clear exponent of their own savage
nature. There was no spectacle to them so pleasant as blood that flowed
from an enemy. How deny the god who had helped them to win the victory
his share in the triumphant slaughter! There have been loathsome and
terrible things done upon the earth; let us forget them, as we forget
some horrible nightmare. At all events, having known that such men and
such times have been, and having gathered what lesson we can from them,
let us be spared from the infliction of new Shalmanassers, or from new
details of their atrocities. Such feeling of satiety in the old
narrative of war and conquest we must confess to participate in, when
the narrative relates to some Asiatic monarchy that has appeared and
disappeared, leaving no trace of any good result behind it, or which
merely lingers on the scene undergoing fruitless and bewildering
changes. It is otherwise, however, when we are invited again to peruse
the history of Rome, and her conquest of the world, as it has been
proudly called. We are reading here the history of European
civilisation. The slow, persistent, continuous progress of her consular
armies is one of those great indispensable facts, without which the
history of humanity could not be written, without which a civilised
Christendom could not have existed. It is the conquest of a people, not
of a monarch—a people who for many years have to struggle for
self-preservation (the secret this of their lasting union and exalted
patriotism)—of a people whose pride and ambition undergo the noble
discipline of adversity, who, being firmly knit together, proceed
steadily to the taming and subjection and settlement of the surrounding
nations. It is a conquest the very reverse of those great invasions of
Hun or Scythian, where population rolls like an enormous sea from one
part of the world to another; it was truly the _settlement_, first of
Italy, then of surrounding countries. Nomadic habits were checked.
Siculi and Oscans, Sabines, Samnites, and a host of shifting populations
too numerous to name, were brought under one government, and moulded
into one nation. What the Alps could not do for Italy, was done by the
republic of the seven hills. The peninsula was secured from the invasion
of the more northern barbarian. The Gaul was first arrested, then
subjugated, settled in his own home, civilised and protected. Carthage,
who would have conquered or colonised in the interest only of her own
commerce, was driven back. Greece, and her arts and her philosophy, were
embraced and absorbed in the new empire, which extended over the finest
races of men and the most propitious climates of the earth.
It has been well said that the Romans were not the only people who
entertained the glorious anticipation of the conquest of the world.
There was one other nation that had a still more magnificent conception
of its own future destiny, of its own exalted prominence and supremacy.
It was impossible for the monotheism of the Jews to attain the elevated
character it did, and yet sanction the belief, in any narrow sense, of a
national god. The only God of all the world must surely reign over all
the world. The universal Monarch must imply a universal monarchy. From
this centre of the world,—this holy temple at Jerusalem, and through His
chosen and peculiar people, would God govern all the nations of the
earth. Such extension of the faith of the Jew to the Gentile was
inevitable. All nations would come in, as suppliants and subjects, to
the throne of God’s elect. And the prophetic inspiration, though not
precisely in the sense in which the ancient Hebrew understood it, was
destined to be fulfilled. But it was not the sword of Israel, nor of the
angels, that Divine Providence employed to establish the supremacy of
the great Truth developed in Judea. It was the sword of the legions of
Rome. The armies of a Scipio and a Cæsar were gathering the nations
together under the one true worship. The spiritual dominion did issue
from Judea, but it governed the world from the throne of the Cæsars.
Egypt, Greece, Rome, and Judea,—these are the four great names which
occur to one who looks back on the history of European civilisation. To
these four powers or nations we owe that status or condition which has
enabled us to make such advances as we claim to be peculiarly our own.
Indirect contributions are doubtless due to India and to Persia. Babylon
is no more; but a people who once sojourned in Babylon may have learnt
something there from the Persian, and transmitted it to us in their
imperishable records; and Greek philosophy bears impress, in one phase
of it, of the teaching of Indian theosophists. But still the four whom
we have mentioned would furnish forth all the essential elements which
the past has given to our present European culture.
If we look at the map of the world, or turn under our hand a terrestrial
globe, we shall be struck with the peculiar adaptation of the banks of
the Nile to be an early seat of civilisation. It is not only that the
river, by periodically overflowing its banks, produces a spontaneous or
unlaboured fertility, but this fertile tract of land is made precious,
and the people are bound to it, by the enormous deserts that extend
around it. The desert and the sea imprison the people in their “happy
valley,” thus rendering it in all probability one of the earliest abodes
of a stationary population. However that may be, it is certain that,
whether we appeal to written history or to monumental inscriptions,
there is no spot on the earth where the records of the human race extend
so far back into antiquity. We must open our history of civilisation
with the growth of arts and knowledge in Egypt. From Egypt we proceed to
Greece—to Athens, the marvellous, who did so much in so short time, and
who accomplished even more for the world at large than for her
individual self. She learnt her arts from Egypt; her scientific spirit
was her own. What we owe to Judea (which at an early period was not
unconnected with Egypt, nor at a later with the mind of Greece) needs
not to be here particularised. It was the part of Rome to reduce into
order and combine under one sway large tracts of territory and great
varieties of people; so that whatever had been given to the Greek, or
revealed to the Hebrew, might blend and be diffused over vast portions
of the human race. Nor was this office less effectually performed
because the empire is seen to break up amidst much temporary confusion,
produced by internal corruption and rude invaders. Europe finally
assumes a form the most conducive imaginable to progress. It is divided
into separate kingdoms, speaking different languages, but possessing a
common religion, and many of the same sources of culture. Their
similarities, their contrasts, their emulations, form together a
condition the most favourable for the excitement and progress of the
human intellect.
We can therefore look with complacent admiration, and undecaying
interest, upon the wars and victories of ancient Rome. But indeed, such
has been the revolution lately brought about in our historical studies,
that the mention of a new History of Rome is more likely to call to mind
perplexed controversies upon myths and fables, than visions of battles
or triumphal processions winding up to the Capitol. Not many years ago,
the early periods of Roman history suggested to the imagination the most
vivid pictures of war and patriotism; we heard the march of the
legions—we followed Cincinnatus from the plough to the camp—we were
busied with the most stirring realities and the strongest passions of
life. Now these realities have grown dim and disputable, and we are
reminded of learned controversies upon poetic legends, or on early forms
of the constitution,—we think more of Niebuhr than of Camillus, more of
German critics than of the Conscript Fathers. It is not a pleasant
exchange, but it is one which must be submitted to. The first question
that every one will ask, who hears that Dr Liddell has told again the
history of Rome, is, How has he dealt with the mythical or legendary
portions? What degree of credibility has he attached to them? Has he
followed the example of Arnold, and reserved for them a peculiar style
savouring of antique simplicity; or has he followed the older, and, we
think, the wiser course, of Livy, and told them with genuine unaffected
eloquence, without either disguising their legendary character, or
making the very vain attempt to distinguish the germ or nucleus of real
fact from the accretions and embellishments of oral tradition?
Before we answer this question, let us say generally of Dr Liddell’s
History, that we think the public is indebted to him for a pre-eminently
_useful_ book. To the youthful student, to the man who cannot read many
volumes, we should commend it as the one History which will convey the
latest views and most extensive information. The style is simple, clear,
explanatory. There are, indeed, certain high qualities of the writer and
the thinker which are requisite to complete our ideal of the perfect
historian. We are accustomed to require in him something of the
imagination of the poet, combined with and subdued by the wide
generalising spirit of the philosopher. We do not wish to have it
understood that there is a signal deficiency in these qualities, but,
whilst acknowledging the utility of Dr Liddell’s laborious and learned
work, we cannot say that he has given to the literature of England a
History of Rome.
Indeed, the author in his preface claims for his work no such high
distinction. He describes the origin it had in the desire to supply the
more advanced students at public schools with a fit work of instruction,
conveying to them “some knowledge of the altered aspect which Roman
history has assumed.” The work grew upon his hands, “and the character
of the book,” he continues, “is considerably changed from that which it
was originally intended to bear. A History of Rome suited to the wants
of general readers of the present day does not in fact exist, and
certainly is much wanted. Whether this work will in any way supply the
want is for others to say.”
We have already intimated our opinion that there is no other work at
present existing which so ably supplies this want; and our immediate
object in placing it at the head of this paper was to assist in giving
notice to all whom it might concern where such a work of instruction was
to be found. The preface then proceeds to touch upon the thorny and
perplexing controversies in the early history:—
“The difficulty inseparable from a work of this kind lies in the
treatment of the Early History. Since what may be called ‘The
Revolution of Niebuhr,’ it has been customary to give an abstract of
his conclusions, with little attention to the evidence upon which they
rest. But the acute and laborious criticisms of many scholars, chiefly
German, have greatly modified the faith which the present generation
is disposed to place in Niebuhr’s authoritative dicta; and in some
cases there may be observed a disposition to speak lightly of his
services. If I may say anything of myself, I still feel that reverence
for the great master which I gained in youth, when we, at Oxford,
first applied his lamp to illuminate the pages of Livy. No doubt, many
of the results which he assumes as positive are little better than
arbitrary assertions. But I conceive that his main positions are still
unshaken, or rather have been confirmed by examination and attack. If,
however, they were all abandoned, it will remain true for ever, that
to him is due the new spirit in which Roman history has been studied;
that to him must be referred the origin of that new light which has
been thrown upon the whole subject by the labours of his successors.
In a work like this, dissertation is impossible; and I have
endeavoured to state only such results of the new criticism as seem to
be established. If the young reader has less of positive set before
him to learn, he will at all events find less that he will have to
unlearn.
“Far the greater part of this work was printed off before the
appearance of Sir George Cornewall Lewis’s _Inquiry into the
Credibility of Early Roman History_. Much labour might be saved by
adopting his conclusions, that Roman history deserves little or no
attention till the age at which we can securely refer to
contemporaneous writers, and that this age cannot be carried back
further than the times of Pyrrhus. It is impossible to speak too
highly of the fulness, the clearness, the patience, the judicial
calmness of his elaborate argument. _But while his conclusions may be
conceded in full for almost all the wars and foreign transactions of
early times_, we must yet claim attention for the civil history of
Rome in the first ages of the republic. There is about it a
consistency of progress, and a clearness of intelligence, that would
make its fabrication more wonderful than its transmission in a
half-traditionary form. When tradition rests solely on memory, it is
fleeting and uncertain; but when it is connected with customs, laws,
and institutions such as those of which Rome was justly proud, and to
which the ruling party clung with desperate tenacity, its evidence
must doubtless be carefully sifted and duly estimated, but ought not
altogether to be set aside.”
The large concession which the work of Sir G. C. Lewis seems to have
extorted from Dr Liddell after the writing of his own History, was not
present to his mind during its composition. He sometimes gives as
historical fact such-and-such a war, and then relates some legend as
connected with this war. “With the Volscian wars is inseparably
connected the noble legend of Coriolanus.” The story of Coriolanus is
marked as legend, the Volscian wars as fact. If we are justified in
making the concession marked in italics, the Volscian wars are no more
history than the story of Coriolanus.
As to the remark here made on the civil or constitutional history of
this period, it would have great weight if there were really presented
to us in that history a clear, intelligible, indisputable account of the
earlier constitutions or governments of Rome. It happens that it is
precisely on this subject there has been so much conjecture, and so much
debate. So far as Dr Liddell can really trace in the narrative preceding
the time of Pyrrhus, a manifest, indisputable, _constitutional history_,
so far as he can confidently point to that “consistency of progress and
clearness of intelligence” of which he speaks, so far he is entitled to
claim for the whole narrative our most respectful attention. But the
difficulty is notorious of forming a distinct conception of many points
in this constitutional history, and this difficulty has given rise to
much of our guess-work. We must take care, therefore, and not fall into
the logical error, of _first_ eliminating some consistent view of the
constitutional history by the aid of much ingenious conjecture, and
_then_ appealing to this consistency in the constitutional history as
ground of presumption in favour of the whole narrative.
For our own part, we suspect that there is a greater measure of truth in
the legend as it stands than is now generally conceded; and at the same
time we have an utter distrust of all the attempts which have been
made—laudable and ingenious as they may be—to separate the truth from
the fable. We can believe in Tarquin the Proud, in Lucretia, in
Coriolanus, much more readily than in any new historical views obtained
by a sifting of the narrative which contains these heroic stories. One
thing is plain, that no historian of Rome can omit these narratives; and
we should much prefer that he would relate them in a natural style—in
the style due at least to the noble sentiments they illustrate—than
reserve for them (a manner to which Dr Liddell on some occasions leans)
a certain bald and ballad simplicity, as if the writer were almost
ashamed of having to relate them at all.
It is now generally understood, by all who have paid any attention to
the subject, that although the name of Niebuhr is popularly associated
with a sceptical and destructive criticism, he is really distinguished
by the bold manner in which he has undertaken to construct and restore
certain portions of the history. Preceding writers, both ancient and
modern, had uttered the word “fable” or “legend;” it was the gathering
from the fable some truth indirectly revealed; it was the bold inventive
genius, which could recast the old materials into a new form, which
characterised his labours. Amongst other things, he fearlessly asserted
that a modern critic might obtain a more precise knowledge of the civil
history and early constitutions of Rome than Livy or Cicero possessed.
Now, these reconstructions of Niebuhr, though received at first with
great enthusiasm in many quarters, have not stood their ground against a
calm and severe examination; and in this country all such conjectural
methods of writing the early history of Rome have lately received a
decisive check from the work of Sir George Cornewall Lewis, _On the
Credibility of Early Roman History_. This is a work which combines the
ample and laborious scholarship of the German, with that sound sense
which the Englishman lays especial claim to. We can only here
incidentally mention it; but it is impossible, and it will be a long
time impossible, for any one to touch upon Roman history without
alluding to this work. It will be for many years the text-book for the
subject of which it treats.
The manner in which a legend, which is itself admitted to be false, may
yet convey to us indirectly some important historical truth, admits of
easy illustration. Suppose that some chronicler, living in the time of
our Henry V., chose to relate a quite fictitious history of Prince
Arthur. All his battles, all his victories, his whole kingdom, might be
a mere dream; but as the imagination of the writer would have no other
types to follow than those which his own times presented to him, he
would necessarily convey to us much historical truth touching the reign
of Henry V., whilst describing his imaginary Prince Arthur. His
inevitable anachronisms would betray him into a species of historical
truth. Prince Arthur would assuredly be a valorous knight, and whence
would come the ceremony of investiture, and all the moral code of
knighthood? Prince Arthur would undoubtedly be a good son of the Church,
and from what type would be drawn the picture of the orthodox and pious
Christian? If the Prince were to be crowned, whence would come the
sceptre and the ball, and the oaths he would take upon his coronation?
Prince Arthur would be a knight, a Christian, and a king, after the
order of the Plantagenets. It is plain that, in such a fabulous
narrative, there would be mingled up much historical matter; it is plain
that we, reading such a narrative by the light of knowledge gained from
other sources, can detect and discriminate the historic truth: whether,
if such a fabulous narrative _stood alone_ before us, we could then make
the same discrimination, whether we could then take advantage of its
involuntary anachronisms, is another question. Imagination must always
have its type or starting-place in some reality, but it may deal as
freely with one reality as another; it may take as much liberty with
religious ceremonies and coronation oaths as with anything else.
Is there not a slight oversight in the following criticism, which Sir G.
C. Lewis makes on the method of Niebuhr? At all events, our quotation of
the passage from his work, with a solitary remark of our own upon it,
will constitute as brief an exposition as any we can give of this branch
of the subject. The question is, what can be gathered of the
constitution of Rome under her kings? There is clearly no contemporary
history; but _if_ a tradition, though of a quite mythical character,
could be fairly pronounced to have originated in the regal period, that
tradition might indirectly convey to us some knowledge of the regal
constitution. Fragments have come down to us through the works of later
classical writers, which may convey this sort of traditional knowledge.
Let them by all means be rigidly examined, whatever their ultimate value
may be found to be.
“One of the passages,” says Sir G. C. Lewis, “which Niebuhr cites from
Cicero, relates to the constitutional proceedings upon the election of
Numa. Yet Niebuhr holds, not merely that the entire regal period is
unhistorical, but that Numa is an unreal and imaginary personage—a
name and not a man. Now, what reliance, according to Niebuhr’s own
view, is to be placed upon Cicero’s information respecting a man who
never lived, and an event which never happened, even if it was derived
from some pontifical book, which professed to record old customs?”