complicated rather than helped by the statements of the generally
well-meaning but often misguided historians of later times. Their real
knowledge of the facts was in many cases no greater than ours, while
they lacked what modern historians possess: a breadth of view and a
knowledge of the phenomena of history in many periods and among many
nations. The study of the social and religious movements under Servius
presents us with an interesting illustration of this. It was customary
namely to ascribe to Servius Tullius the introduction of the cult of
Fortuna, and Plutarch takes occasion twice in his _Moralia_ to describe
the interest of Servius in this cult and to recount the extraordinary
number of temples which he built to the great goddess of chance under
her various attributes. The Romans of Plutarch's day thought of Fortuna
in very much the way in which their poets, especially Horace, described
her, as a great and powerful goddess of chance, the personification of
the element of apparent caprice which seems to be present in the running
of the universe. It is very much our way of thinking of her, and of
course both our own concept and the later Roman concept go back to
Greece. But Greece had not always had this idea of the goddess of luck.
The older purer age of Greek thought was permeated with the idea of the
absolute immutable character of the divine will, a belief which
precluded the possibility of chance or caprice. The earliest Greek Tyche
(Fortuna) was the daughter of Zeus who fulfilled his will; and that his
will through her was often a beneficent will is shown in the tendency to
think of her as a goddess of plenty. It was only the growth of
scepticism, the failure of faith to bear up under the apparently
contradictory lessons of experience, which brought into being in the
Alexandrian age Tyche, the goddess of chance, the winged capricious
deity poised on the ball. It was this habit of thought which eventually
gave the Romans that idea of Fortuna which has became our idea because
it is the prevalent one in Roman literature and life in the periods with
which we are most familiar. Now if Fortuna be thought of in this latter
way, it is a very easy matter to connect her with Servius Tullius, for
the legendary accounts of Servius's career picture him as a very child
of "fortune," raised from the lowest estate to the highest power, the
little slave boy who became king. What goddess would he delight to
honour, if not the goddess of the happy chance which had made him what
he was?
All this is very pretty, but it is unfortunately quite impossible,
because whatever the time may have been when Fortuna began to be
worshipped in Rome, it is certain that the idea of chance did not enter
into the concept of her until long after Servius's day. Instead the
early Fortuna was a goddess of plenty and fertility, among mankind as a
protectress of women and of childbirth, among the crops and the herds as
a goddess of fertility and fecundity. Her full name was probably Fors
Fortuna, a name which survived in two old temples across the river from
Rome proper, in Trastevere, where she was worshipped in the country by
the farmers in behalf of the crops. Fortuna is thus merely the cult-name
added to the old goddess Fors to intensify her meaning, which finally
broke off from her and became independent, expressing the same idea of
a goddess of plenty. Later under Greek influence the concept of luck,
especially good-luck, slowly displaced the older idea. The possibility
of such a transition from fertility to good-luck is shown us in the
phrase "_arbor felix_," which originally meant a fruitful tree and later
a tree of good omen. As regards Fortuna and Servius therefore there is
no inherent reason why they should have been connected, and whenever it
was that Fortuna began to exist, be it before or after Servius, she came
into the world as a goddess of plenty and did not turn into a goddess of
luck till centuries after her birth.
It must not be supposed that Rome in this sixth century before Christ
could take into herself all these traders and artisans, and become thus
interested also among her own citizens in these new employments, without
receiving a corresponding impulse toward a larger political life. Thus
there began that ever-increasing participation in the affairs of the
Latin league, which was her first step toward acquiring a world
dominion. It is probable that Rome had always belonged to this league,
but at first as a very insignificant member. Those were the days in
which Alba Longa stood out as leader, a leadership which she afterwards
lost, but of which the recollection was retained because the Alban Mount
behind Alba Longa remained the cult-centre, connected with the worship
of the god of the league, the Juppiter of the Latins (Juppiter
Latiaris), not only until B.C. 338 when the league ceased to exist, but
even later when Rome kept up a sentimental celebration of the old
festival. In the course of time, for reasons which we do not know, Alba
Longa's power declined and the mantle of her supremacy fell upon Aricia,
a little town still in existence not far from Albano. The coming of
Aricia to the presidency of the league started a religious movement
which is one of the most extraordinary in the checkered history of Roman
religion. The ultimate result of this movement was the introduction of
the goddess Diana into the state-cult of Rome, where she was
subsequently identified with Apollo's sister Artemis. But this is a long
story, and to understand it we must go back some distance to make our
beginning.
Among the more savage tribes and in the wilder mountain regions of both
Greece and Italy there was worshipped a goddess who had a different name
in each country, Artemis in Greece, Diana in Italy, but who was in
nature very much the same. This does not imply that it was the same
goddess originally or that the early Artemis of Greece had any influence
on the Diana of Italy. Their similarity was probably caused merely by
the similarity of the conditions from which they sprang, the similar
needs of the two peoples. She was a goddess of the woods, and of nature,
and especially of wild animals, a patroness of the hunt and the
huntsman, but also a goddess of all small animals, of all helpless
little ones, and a helper too of those that bore them, hence a goddess
of birth, and in the sphere of mankind a goddess of women and of
childbirth. Later in Greece Artemis was absorbed into the sea-cult of
Apollo on the island of Delos, where she became Apollo's sister, like
him the child of Latona; but naturally Diana experienced no similar
change until in Rome, centuries later, she was artificially identified
with Artemis. In the earliest times there were two places in Italy where
the cult of Diana was especially prominent, both, as we should expect,
in wooded mountainous regions: one on Mount Tifata (near Capua), the
modern St. Angelo in Formis; the other in Latium, in a grove near
Aricia. It is with this latter cult-centre that we have here to do. The
grove near Aricia became so famous that the goddess worshipped there was
known as "Diana of the Grove" (Diana Nemorensis), and the place where
she was worshipped was called the "Grove" (_nemus_), a name which is
still retained in the modern "Nemi." She was a goddess of the woods, of
the animal kingdom, of birth, and so of women; and almost all the
dedicatory inscriptions which have been found near her shrine were put
up by women. She was worshipped above all by the people of Aricia, and
she seems to have been the patron deity of the town. When it fell to
Aricia's lot to become the head of the league, her goddess Diana
promptly assumed an important position in the league, not because she
had by nature any political bearing whatsoever, but merely because she
was wedded to Aricia, and experienced all the vicissitudes of her
career. Thus there came into the league, alongside of the old Juppiter
Latiaris of the Alban Mount, the new Diana Nemorensis of Aricia, and
sacrifices to her formed a part of the solemn ritual of the united towns
of Latium. It does not take actually a great many years for a religious
custom to acquire sanctity, and before many generations had passed,
Diana was felt to be quite as original and essential a part of the
worship of the league as Juppiter himself. During these same centuries
Rome was growing in importance and influence in the league, until,
instead of being one of its insignificant towns, she was in a fair way
to become its president. Here her diplomacy stepped in to help her. The
league was of course essentially a political institution, but in a
primitive society political institutions are still in tutelage to
religious ones, and the direct road to strong political influence lies
through religious zeal. The way to leadership in the Latin league lay
through excessive devotion to Juppiter and Diana. It is therefore no
accidental coincidence that we find Rome in the period of Servius
building a temple to Juppiter Latiaris on the top of the Alban Mount,
and introducing the worship of Diana into Rome, building her a temple on
the Aventine, hence outside the _pomerium_. Yet it was not the
introduction of her worship as an ordinary state-cult, for then she
would have been taken inside the _pomerium_ with far greater right than
Hercules and Castor were. It was, on the contrary, the building of a
sanctuary of the league outside the _pomerium_, yet inside the civil
wall; not the adoption of Diana as a Roman goddess, but the close
association of the Diana of the Latin league with Rome. It was the
attempt to put Rome religiously as well as politically into the position
which Aricia held; and it was successful. Diana was still the
league-goddess; tradition has it that the league helped to build the
temple; and the dedication day of the temple, August 13, was the same as
that of the temple at Nemi. The Roman temple was outside the _pomerium_
therefore, not because she was a foreign goddess like Minerva, but
because as a league-goddess she must be outside, not inside, the sacred
wall of Rome.
Diana had been introduced for a specific purpose as part of a diplomatic
game, not because Rome felt any real religious need of her; it is hardly
to be expected therefore that her subsequent career in Rome would be of
any great importance. Naturally when once the state had taken the
responsibility of the cult upon itself, that cult was assured as long as
pagan Rome lasted, for the state was always faithful, at least in the
mechanical performance of a ritual act; but popular interest could not
be counted on, especially as many of the things which Diana stood for,
for example her relation to women, were ably represented by Juno. It is
not likely that Diana would ever have been of importance in the religion
of subsequent time, had it not been for another accident which served to
keep alive the interest in Diana, just as the accident of Diana's
connection with the Latin league had aroused that interest in the
beginning. This was the coming of Apollo and his sister Artemis. Apollo
came first, probably during the time of Servius, but Artemis seems to
have come much later, not before B.C. 431. Her identification with Diana
was inevitable, and from that time onward Diana begins a new life with
all the attributes and myths of Artemis, but this new Artemis-Diana was
quite as different a goddess from the old Aventine Diana as the new
Athena-Minerva was from the old Aventine Minerva.
The political interest of the Romans had been aroused, they had found
their life-work, their career was opening before them, and it must not
be supposed that the reflex action of this new political spirit on the
religious world was confined to the building of two league temples, one
to Juppiter Latiaris on the Alban Mount, miles away from Rome, and one
to Diana outside the _pomerium_ over in the woods of the Aventine. This
political interest was no artificial acquisition, but the inevitable
expression of an instinct. It must therefore find its representation
inside the city, in connexion with a deity who was already deep in the
hearts of the people. This deity could be none other than the sky-father
Juppiter, who had stood by them in the old days of their exclusively
farming life, sending them sunshine and rain in due season. Up on the
Capitoline he was worshipped as _Feretrius_, "the striker," in his most
fearful attribute as the god of the lightning. To him the richest spoils
of war (_spolia opima_) were due, and to him the conqueror gave thanks
on his return from battle. It was this Juppiter of the Capitoline who
was chosen to be the divine representative of Rome's political ambition;
and her confidence in the future, and the omen of her inevitable success
lay in the cult-names, the _cognomina_, with which this Juppiter was
henceforth and forever adorned, Juppiter Optimus Maximus. These
adjectives are no mere idle ornament, no purely pleasant phraseology;
they express not merely the excellence of Rome's Juppiter but his
absolute superiority to all other Juppiters, including Juppiter
Latiaris. And so while Rome with one hand was building a temple for the
league on the Alban Mount, merely as a member of the league, with the
other hand she was building a temple in the heart of her city to a god
who was to bring into subjection to himself all other gods who dared to
challenge his supremacy, just as the city which paid him honour was to
overcome all other cities which refused to acknowledge her. From
henceforth Juppiter Optimus Maximus represents all that is most truly
Roman in Rome. It was under his banner that her battles were fought, it
was to him in all time to come that returning generals gave thanks.
Tradition sets the completion of the Capitoline temple in the first year
of the republic, but the idea and the actual beginning of the work
belong to the later kingdom and hence to our present period, and the
contemplation of it forms a fitting close to the development which we
have tried to sketch. And now that this part of our work is over it may
be well to ask ourselves what we have seen, for there have been so many
bypaths which we have of necessity explored, that the main road we have
travelled may not be entirely distinct in our mind. In the period which
corresponds to the later kingdom, and roughly to the sixth century
before Christ, and which we have called "Servian" for convenience, we
have watched a primitive pastoral community, isolated from the world's
life, turning into a small city-state with political interests, the
beginnings of trade and handicraft, and various rival social classes;
and we have seen how along with the coming of these outside interests
there came various new cults connected with them, most of them implying
entirely new deities, and only one or two of them new sides of old
deities. The body of old Roman religion had received its first blows;
what Tacitus (_Hist._ i. 4) says of the downfall of the empire--"Then
was that secret of the empire disclosed, that it was possible for a
ruler to be appointed elsewhere than at Rome"--is true of Roman religion
in this period when it was discovered that the state might take into
itself deities from outside Rome. And yet while the principle itself was
fatal, the practice of it, so far, had been without much harm. Rome's
growth was inevitable, it was quite as inevitable that these new
interests should be represented in the world of the gods; her old gods
did not suffice, hence new ones were introduced. But the actual gods
brought in thus far were harmless; Hercules, Castor, Minerva, Diana
never did Rome any injury in themselves, never injured her national
_morale_, never lowered the tone of earnest sobriety which had been
characteristic of the old regime.
So far it was good, and well had it been for Rome if she could have shut
the gate of her Olympus now. What the old religion had not provided was
now present. Politics, trade, and art were now represented. With these
she was abundantly supplied for all her future career. But that was not
to be, the gate was still open, and the destructive influence of Greece
was soon to send in a host of new deities, who were destined not only to
overwhelm the old Roman gods--which in itself we might forgive--but to
sap away the old Roman virtues, to the maintenance of which the
atmosphere of these old gods was essential. The forerunner of this
influence was in himself innocent enough, it was Apollo, and it is to
his coming and the subsequent developments which set him in distinct
opposition to Juppiter Optimus Maximus that we now turn.
THE COMING OF THE SIBYL
The Rome of the first consuls was a very different Rome from that of the
earlier kings. Not only was the population larger but it was divided
socially into different classes. The simple patriarchal one-class
community had been transformed into the complex structure of a society
which had in it virtually all those elements and interests, except the
more strictly intellectual ones, which go to make up what we call
society in the modern sense. The world of the gods also had increased in
population, and there too there was present a slight social distinction
between the old gods (_Indigetes_) and the new-comers (_Novensides_),
though it is open to question how strongly this distinction was felt.
The new gods thus far were not incommensurable with the old ones. They
formed a tolerably harmonious circle, and there was not felt to be any
need of new priesthoods; the old priests were sufficient to look after
them all. There were a few new names, and a few new temples or altars,
but everything was in the old spirit, and there was no rivalry between
the old and the new. None of the old gods was crowded into the
background by the new-comers. This was on the face of it impossible as
yet, because the new gods all represented new ideas which had not been
provided for under the old scheme. Even Diana, who afterwards usurped
somewhat the functions of Juno, stood at present pre-eminently for the
political idea pure and simple, so far as Rome was concerned. This
period of equipoise did not continue very long, but while it lasted it
was beyond doubt the best and strongest period in the whole history of
Roman religion. There was no violent religious enthusiasm, but then
there was no corresponding depression offsetting it. It was the cold but
conscientious formalism which was best adapted to the Roman character,
because so long as it held sway the excesses of superstition were
avoided.
But this element of superstition was already on the way, it came in
within a few years of the opening of the republic, and it exercised its
insidious influence ever more and more powerfully until it celebrated
its wildest orgies in the time of the Second Punic War. It is in this
period of the first three centuries of the republic, roughly from B.C.
500 to B.C. 200, that this change was produced. Outwardly it resembled a
steady growth in religious feeling and enthusiasm, and it might well
have seemed so to contemporaries. It was a period of many new gods and
many new temples, but this in itself was no harm. It was the principle
behind it which did the damage. It was the essential contradiction to
what true Roman religion and Roman character demanded; and the last half
of the republic paid the price for what the first half had done, in a
decline of faith which has scarcely been exceeded in the world's
history.
It has been customary for writers on the history of Roman morals to
attribute these changes to the coming of Greek influence; and of course
in the main this is correct, but these writers have in general neglected
to analyse this Greek influence more closely, and to distinguish the
various aspects of it in different periods, and to ask and answer the
question why this influence should be so particularly harmful to the
Romans. It is generally spoken of as the influence of Greek literature
and philosophy, but for our present period this is entirely incorrect,
for we all know that Greek literature did not begin to influence Rome
until the time of the Punic wars, and yet the Greek influence of which
we speak here began to exert its effects two hundred and fifty years
before the Punic wars. The real cause of the unnatural stimulation of
religion during these three centuries is nothing more nor less than the
books of the Sibylline oracles. It is therefore a very definite and
interesting problem which we have before us. It is to examine the
workings of these oracles and to explain why they had such an
extraordinary effect on religion and society, that in three centuries
they could entirely change both the form and the content of Roman
religion, and under the guise of increasing its zeal, so sap its
vitality that it required almost two hundred years of human experience
and suffering before true religion was in some sense at least restored
to its own place.