Of the increasing influence of Roman matrons, a strong proof may be
found in the public honors they began to receive. Many of these were
of a conveniently perfunctory sort, and meant little more than a
tribute to the vanity of a family which demanded respect for its name;
but they had their significance. It became a fashion to give women a
semblance of power that was not always genuine, and to compensate them
for any sorrow or neglect they might have had in this world with a fine
position and a grand title, which cost little, in the next. Julius
Cæsar was far from a model husband, but he celebrated the virtues
of his young wife Cornelia, whom he loved devotedly, in an eloquent
oration over her remains. He also pronounced a public eulogy for his
aunt Julia, wife of Marius who came in for a large share of the glory.
Augustus, a boy of twelve, gave a funeral oration over his grandmother.
He also honored his sister, the amiable Octavia, with a eulogy and a
national funeral, the first one ever given to a woman who was not a
sovereign. If there have been others I do not recall them. He decreed
divine honors to Livia, but he died before her, and her ungrateful
son forbade them, though the more appreciative Senate proclaimed her
“Mother of her Country,” and voted a funeral arch in her memory. Later,
this Roman Juno was placed in the ranks of the gods by her grand-nephew
Claudius, who was not wholly disinterested, as he did not wish to owe
his descent to a simple mortal. The emptiness of some of these numerous
honors was aptly illustrated by Nero, who killed his young but not
immaculate wife, Poppæa, with a kick, then, like a dutiful husband,
pronounced her eulogy and made her a diva! Many of them, however, were
paid to worth and to great services for the State.
“I feel that I am becoming a god,” said Vespasian, when dying, with a
skeptical smile at his approaching apotheosis. Women are more trustful.
Perhaps they took their divine honors more seriously, and found in them
a sort of consolation, as when, in later ages, they looked wistfully
from the sorrows of life toward a saint’s crown.
We have seen the Roman women of primitive times reach great heights of
courage and patriotism; we have seen them rise from virtual bondage to
a measure of freedom and consideration. In the days of Scipio and the
Gracchi they had won the privileges of education, and a certain respect
for their intellectual abilities, as well as for their virtues. We find
them later not only noted for fine domestic qualities, but patrons
of literature, and helpful companions of great husbands and sons. The
last days of the Republic saw many strong and capable women, and we
begin to trace their influence in large affairs. The instances were not
numerous, perhaps, but individual talent asserted itself. With the new
intelligence they moved rapidly, as our women have done, and apparently
without aggression. But it was not until the privileges of rank offset
in a degree the disabilities of sex that the Roman woman reached the
height of her power and her honors. No doubt she sometimes schemed
for a throne in the interest of a husband or a son, but she often
proved herself eminently qualified for her own part in its duties and
responsibilities. If her talents and energies sometimes went wrong in
the lurid and immoral world in which she found herself, they were more
frequently exerted for the general good.