exception of some field laborers, and of nurses in times of depression
and distress, when some free women went out for hire. To these cases
we may add the cook, who was not an inmate of the house before the
Macedonian time, but was hired for the day when wanted for a dinner
party. All the rest were slaves, and were very numerous in every
respectable household. The principal sorts of servants were as follows:
There was a general steward, a butler who had charge of the store-room
and cellar, a marketing slave, a porter, baking and cooking slaves for
preparing the daily meals, an attendant upon the master in his walks,
and this was an indispensable servant, a nurse, an escort for the
children, and a lady’s maid. In richer houses there was also a groom
or mule-boy. This list shows a sub-division of labor more like the
habits of our East-Indian families than those of ordinary households
in England. I have spoken above of the purchasing and value of these
slaves. If faithful, they were often made free, especially by the will
of their master on his death-bed, but they did not become citizens.
They remained in the position of resident aliens under the patronage of
their former master or his representatives.
In proportion as the free population of Greece diminished the freeing
of slaves became more and more common, until it actually appears to
have been the leading feature in the life of the small towns. Thousands
of inscriptions recording this setting free of individual slaves are
still found, and on so many various stones, even tombstones, that it
almost appears as if material for recording had failed them by reason
of the quantity of these documents. The same increase of liberation was
a leading feature in the Roman empire, but there the freedman obtained
the right and position of a citizen, which was not the case in Greece.
The most enlightened moralists of both countries exhorted benevolence
toward slaves, and the frequent freeing of them as the duty of humane
masters, but none of these writers ever dreamt of the total abolishing
of slavery, which they all held to be an institution ordained by
nature. This seems also the view of the early Christian writers, who
nowhere condemn the principle of slavery as such.
THE DOMESTIC ANIMALS.—These were first the horses and mules, which do
not seem to have been treated with any great familiarity, but were
carefully groomed, and after exercise were allowed to roll in sand
before being brought in—a treatment still common in southern Italy,
where the old Greek fashion of driving four-in-hand abreast also
prevails. The two center horses were yoked to the pole, the others were
fastened by loose traces, and called _paraseiroi_ (outriggers). The
commonest and most valued domestic animal was the dog, which maintains
a very important place in Greek society up to the present day. There
were various kinds of breeds for hunting, chosen both for nose and for
speed; there were watch-dogs; and also ornamental kinds, such as little
lap-dogs, which are represented in the sad scenes of leave-taking on
the tombs. Many anecdotes are told of their faithfulness, and we hear
of at least one case where a handsome dog, which belonged to Alcibiades
cost about 70_l._ Cats were also common, so common as to be charged
with the breaking of household ware by guilty servants, and they are
often described as wandering along the roofs of houses. Sundry birds
were kept in cages, and for ornament, such as pheasants and peacocks;
the quail was used for combats corresponding to English cock fights.
CUSTOMS OF BURIAL.—I will conclude our consideration of the Greek
household by describing the customs when death laid its hand upon one
of the inmates.
At the moment of the death struggle the face was veiled, that no man
might see it; then it was uncovered for a moment to close his eyes
and mouth. The body was then washed by female relatives, scented
with unguents, dressed in white and with a garland, and placed upon
a couch adorned with branches, and with an unguent bottle beside it.
This laying out was done in the entrance hall of the house and the
feet were turned to the door. Outside was a cypress branch and water
for sprinkling those who came out, as the dead defiled the house and
its inmates. The laying out was limited to one day, during which both
male and female relatives, together with hired mourners, stood round
the bier, and uttered laments in refrain very like the _Irish cry_ of
our day. This almost universal custom in Asia was discountenanced and
restricted by Greek law-givers, especially the tearing of the hair and
laceration of the face which accompanied it. Burial took place in the
morning dawn, before the sun could shine upon the corpse; in later days
a small coin was placed in his mouth to pay his passage in the nether
world—a custom which still survives in some parts of Greece. In the
funeral procession the male relatives went before, the female followed
after, and in Athens and other places where women lived secluded, only
aged women and near relatives were allowed to attend, as young men
took this opportunity of seeing the ladies, who were at other times
invisible. When the dead was laid in the tomb, he was called by name
aloud, and farewell was bidden him. There was afterward a funeral
feast, and offerings at the tomb, but the time of mourning and of
wearing black or gray garments was short; in Sparta twelve days, at
Athens a month; at Ceos, exceptionally, a mother mourned her growing
son for a whole year. Praising speeches were not delivered over private
persons as at Rome, but only in the case of a public funeral, such as
that of the bones of the dead who had fallen in battle, and were burned
on the battle field. These ashes were brought home in urns, and treated
as the corpses of the dead would have been at home. The burning of the
dead, though known early, and often practiced in war and travel, was
decidedly the exception. To cast earth upon the dead was of the last
importance, and even when the body could not be found an empty grave
received the due honors.
SEPULCHRAL MONUMENTS.—In the oldest times the dead were buried in their
own ground, and close beside the house they had occupied. Afterward
the burying of the dead within the walls of cities was forbidden
except in the case of great public benefactors, who were worshipped
as heroes and had a shrine set over them. The rest were buried in the
fairest and most populous suburb, generally along both sides of the
high road, as at Athens and at Syracuse, where their tombs and the
inscriptions occupied the attention of everyone that passed by. The
oldest and rudest monuments placed over the tomb were great mounds of
earth, then these mounds came to be surrounded by a circle of great
stones; afterward chambers were cut underground in the earth or rock,
and family vaults established. Handsome monuments in marble, richly
painted and covered with sculpture, were set up over the spot. These
monuments sometimes attained a size almost as great as a temple. The
scenes sculptured on the marble were from the life and occupation of
the deceased, more often parting scenes, where they were represented
taking leave of their family and friends, nor do we possess any more
beautiful and touching remains of Greek life than some of these tombs.
In the chamber of the dead many little presents, terra-cotta figures,
trinkets and vases were placed, nay, in early times favorite animals,
and even slaves or captives were sacrificed in order to be with him;
for the Greeks believed that though the parting with the dead was for
ever, he still continued to exist, and to interest himself in human
affairs and in pursuits like those of living men. The crowded suburbs
where the tombs were placed were generally ornamented with trees and
flowers, and were a favorite resort of the citizens. The dead bodies
of executed criminals were either given back to their relatives or,
in extreme cases, cast into a special place, generally some natural
ravine or valley hidden from view and ordinary thoroughfare. Here the
executioner dwelt, who was generally a public slave. This place was
called _barathrum_ at Athens, and _Ceadas_ at Sparta.
A GLINT OF MOONLIGHT.
By I. L. COSHAM.
It was the time when Lenten lilies bloom,
And buds are new upon the blackthorn tree;
And I, alone in weariness and gloom,
Gazed far across the sea.
Alone I watched the cheerless daylight wane,
And heard the ocean-murmurs swell and rise;
Sharp on the window smote the gusty rain,
And darker grew the skies.
Old love-tones mocked me in the moaning tide,
And phantom faces rose upon the dark;
The ocean rolled beneath me, black and wide,
Without one beacon-spark.
I had no hope—I had no comfort left,
My soul went out in wailing to the night;
When lo, that sable sky was swiftly cleft
By one pure shaft of light!
A glint of moonlight, silver-bright and clear,
Shone on a tossing bark amid the foam;
And struggling sailors, worn with toil and fear,
Beheld the shores of home.
The summer brought me back the love of old,
My autumn days were rich with corn and wine;
Ah me, what joy the moonlight beam foretold,
In that dark hour of mine!
But when the golden lilies are in bloom
My heart looks backward, and I pause to pray
That others, watching lonely in the gloom,
May see that silver ray.
SUNDAY READINGS.
SELECTED BY THE REV. J. H. VINCENT, D. D.
[_December 3._]
HAVING, DOING, AND BEING.
By JAMES MARTINEAU.
Some men are eminent for what they _possess_; some for what they
_achieve_; others for what they _are_. _Having, doing, and being_,
constitute the three great distinctions of mankind, and the three great
functions of their life. And though they are necessarily all blended,
more or less, in each individual, it is seldom difficult to say which
of them is prominent in the impression left upon us by our fellow man.
In every society, and especially in a country like our own, there are
those who derive their chief characteristic from what they _have_;
who are always spoken of in terms of revenue; and of whom you would
not be likely to think much, but for the large account that stands on
the world’s ledger in their name. In themselves, detached from their
favorite sphere, you would notice nothing wise or winning. At home,
possibly, a dry and withered heart; among associates a selfish and
mistrustful talk; in the council, a style of low ignoble sentiments;
at church, a formal, perhaps an irreverent, dullness betray a barren
nature, and offer you only points of repulsion, so far as humanities
are concerned; and you are amazed to think that you are looking on
the idols of the exchange. Their greatness comes out in the affairs
of bargain and sale, to which their faculties seem fairly apprenticed
for life. If they speak of the past, it is in memory of its losses and
its gains; if of the future, it is to anticipate its incomings and
investments. The whole chronology of their life is divided according
to the stages of their fortunes, and the progress of their dignities.
Their children are interesting to them principally as their heirs; and
the making of their will fulfils their main conception of being ready
for their death. And so completely do they paint the grand idea of
their life on the imagination of all who know them, that when they die,
the mammon-image can not be removed, and it is the fate of the money,
not of the man, of which we are most apt to think. Having put vast
prizes in the funds, but only unprofitable blanks in the admiration
and the hearts of us, they leave behind nothing but their _property_;
or, as is expressively termed, their “_effects_,”—the thing which they
caused, the main result of their having been alive. How plain is it
that we regard them merely as _instruments of acquisition_; centers of
attraction for the drifting of capital; that they are important only
as indications of commodities; and that their human personality hangs
as a mere label upon a mass of treasure! Every one must have met with
a few instances in which this character is realized, and with many in
which, notwithstanding the relief of some redeeming and delightful
features, it is at least approached. In proportion as this aim, of
possession, is taken to be paramount in life, length of days must, no
doubt, be deemed indispensable to the human destination. The longer a
man lies out at interest, the greater must be the accumulation. If he
is unexpectedly recalled, every end which he suggested is disappointed;
the only thing he seemed fit for can not go on; he is a power lost from
this sphere, and incapacity thrust upon the other; missed from the
markets here, thrown away among sainted spirits there. For himself, and
for both worlds, the event seems deplorable enough; and it is difficult
to make anything but confusion out of it. An imagination tacitly filled
with this conception of life as a stage prepared for enjoyment and
possession, must look on a term that is unfulfilled, as on a broken
tool, dropping in failure to the earth.
Of those who have thus lived to accumulate and enjoy, _history_ is
for the most part silent, having in truth nothing to say. Not doing
the work, or joining in the worship of life, but only feasting at its
table, they break up and drive off into oblivion as soon as the lights
are out and the wine is spilt. Belonging entirely to the present, they
never appear in the past; but sink with the weight of wealth in the
dark gulf;—unless perchance some Crœsus the rich is fortunate enough
to fall into association with Solon the wise. There are no historical
materials in simple animal existence, nor is the mere sentient being of
a man, considered as the successful study of comfort, and receptacle of
happiness.
History is constructed by a second or nobler class, those who prove
themselves to be here, not that they may have, but that they may _do_;
to whom life is a glorious hour; and who are so seen not to work that
they may rest, but only to rest that they may work. No sooner do they
look around them with the open eye of reason and faith, upon the great
field of the world, than they perceive that it must be for them a
battle-field; and they break up the tents of ease, and advance to the
dangers of lonely enterprise and the conflict with splendid wrong.
Strong in the persuasion that this is a God’s world, and that his will
must rule it by royal right, they serve in the severe campaign of
justice; asking only for the wages of life, and scorning the prizes
of spoil and praise. Wherever you find such, whether in the field,
in the senate, or in private life, you see the genuine type of the
heroic character,—the clear mind, the noble heart, indomitable will,
pledged all to some arduous and unselfish task; and whether it be the
achievement, with Cobden, of freedom of pacific commerce between land
and land; or, with Clarkson, of freedom of person between man and man;
or, with Cromwell, of freedom of worship between earth and heaven;
the essential feature is in all instances the same; the man holds
himself as the mere instrument of some social work; commits himself
in full allegiance to it; and spends himself wholly in it. They “have
a baptism to be baptized with; and how are they straitened, till it
be accomplished!” During the glorious conflict of such lives it is
impossible not to look on with breathless interest. Once possessed of
their great design, we watch its development with eager eye and beating
heart. And if, early in the day, they are struck down, we clasp our
hands in sudden anguish, and a cry goes up that the field is lost. And
though this despair is a momentary loss of the true faith; though God
never fails to rally the forces of every good cause that has mustered
for battle on the earth; yet, no doubt, the victory in such a case is
deferred; the plan is broken off; the painful sense of a suspended
work, that might have been finished, remains upon survivors’ hearts. On
behalf of the noble actors themselves, indeed, we have no embarrassment
of faith; there is that within them which may well find a home in more
worlds than one, and meet a welcome wherever Almighty Justice reigns.
We are not ashamed, as with the man of mere possession, to follow them
into the higher transitions of their being, and knock for them at
the gate of better spheres. But there appears something untimely and
deplorable in the providence of the world they quit. The fruit has not
been permitted to ripen ere it dropped. The great function of their
life required time for its fulfilment; and time has been denied. Their
beneficent action was wholly through the energies of their living will;
and these energies are laid for us in unseasonable sleep. And thus,
while we are ashamed at the grave of the epicurean, we weep over the
departure of the hero.
But there is a life higher than either of these. The _saintly_ is
beyond the heroic mind. To _get_ good, is animal; to _do_ good, is
human; to _be_ good is divine. The true use of a man’s possessions
is to help his work; and the best end of all his work, is to show us
what he is. The noblest workers of our world bequeath us nothing so
great as the image of themselves. Their task, be it ever so glorious,
is historical and transient; the majesty of their spirit is essential
and eternal. When the external conditions which supplied the matter
of their work have wholly decayed from the surface of the earth, and
become absorbed in its substance, the perennial root of their life
remains, bearing a blossom ever fair, and a foliage ever green. And
while to some, God gives it to show themselves through their work, to
others he assigns it to show themselves without even the opportunity
of work. He sends them transparent into this world; and leaves us
nothing to gather and infer. Goodness, beauty, truth, acquired by
others, are original to them, hiding behind the eye, thinking on the
brow, and making music in the voice. The angels appointed to guard the
issues of the pure life seem rather to have taken their station at its
fountains, and to pour into it a sanctity at first. Such beings live
imply _to express themselves_; stand between heaven and earth, and
meditate for our dull hearts. With fewer outward objects than others,
or at least with a less limited practical mission devoting them to
a fixed task, their life is a soliloquy of love and aspiration; the
soul not being with them, the servant of action, but action rather the
needful articulation of the soul. Not, of course, that they are, in the
slightest degree, exempt from the stern and positive obligations of
duty, or licensed, any more than others, to dream existence away. If
once they fall into this snare, and cease to work, the lineaments of
beauty and goodness are exchanged for those of shame and grief. Usually
they do not _less_, but rather _more_, than others; only under somewhat
sorrowful conditions, having spirits prepared for what is more than
human, and being obliged to move within limits that are only human. The
worth of such a life depends little on its _quantity_; it is an affair
of _quality_ alone. These highest ends of existence have but slight
relation to time. Years can not mellow the love already ripe, or purify
the perceptions already clear, or lift the aspiration that already
enters heaven.
GROWING.
By F. R. HAVERGAL.
Unto him that hath, thou givest
Ever “more abundantly.”
Lord, I live because thou livest,
Therefore give more life to me;
Therefore speed me in the race;
Therefore let me grow in grace.
Deepen all thy work, O Master,
Strengthen every downward root,
Only do thou ripen faster,
More and more, thy pleasant fruit.
Purge me, prune me, self abase,
Only let me grow in grace.
Jesus, grace for grace outpouring,
Show me ever greater things;
Raise me higher, sunward soaring,
Mounting as on eagle wings.
By the brightness of thy face,
Jesus, let me grow in grace.
Let me grow by sun and shower,
Every moment water me;
Make me really hour by hour
More and more conformed to thee,
That thy loving eye may trace,
Day by day, my growth in grace.
Let me, then, be always growing,
Never, never standing still;
Listening, learning, better knowing
Thee and thy most bless’d will.
Till I reach thy holy place,
Daily let me grow in grace.
[_December 10._]
THE GOODNESS OF A GOOD MAN.
By ALEXANDER McLAREN, D. D.
“He was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost and of
faith.”—Acts xi: 24.
You remember how once a young man came to Jesus, with much beautiful
youthful purity in his life and youthful enthusiasm in his heart, and
in his eager way, prefaced his question with a lightly-uttered “Good
Master.” Christ answered by trying to make him feel how much more the
word meant than he had ever seen. “Why callest thou me good?” said
he, not thereby rejecting the term for himself, but setting the youth
to ponder its deep meaning. And whenever we have learned to feel
“how awful goodness is,” we shall be ready to listen to Jesus saying
further: “None is good but one, that is God.” By that saying he neither
means to deny his own goodness nor that of men who will take up their
cross and follow him, but only to remind the light-hearted inquirer,
who was so ready with his conventional bestowment of the epithet, and
so eager to know what he was to do for eternal life, that there was one
source—and only one—-of goodness, and, therefore, that the only way to
be good was to have our emptiness replenished by his fullness.
A good man, then, is a man who draws his goodness from God, the
source of all goodness. He himself is the type of all perfection, the
home of all things fair. Whatsoever things are lovely and whatsoever
things are venerable—all that we call virtue, all to which hearts and
consciences ascribe praise—dwell in God as in their native home. In
the abyss of his being the streams of goodness, which part into many
heads to fertilize the wilderness and sweeten the salt marshes of human
nature, rest undivided. He is the reality of which all our conceptions
of goodness are but the fragmentary representations, the substance
of which they are but shadows. Not only so, but as all life is an
effluence from him with whom alone is the fountain of life, and as it
is his light in which we see light, so all the goodness which is in
men is from above, and cometh down from the Father of Light. All light
and heat are from the sun, and all goodness is of God. All virtues are
radiations from him. “They are but broken lights of thee.” He alone is
good of himself and by himself. Drawing his being from none, he owes
his character to none, to no outward helps or occasions his actions,
to no importation his beauty. Receiving from none, he gives to all,
and every deed of fair goodness that man has ever done, at the last
analysis, has been to the doer no less than to the beholders or the
hearers the gift of God.
He would not be good unless he delighted in bestowing himself. Goodness
is communicative, and all love has its chiefest delight in giving
away itself. As the sun “rejoices to run his race,” and as it is the
very nature and property of light to radiate, and of gases to diffuse
themselves, so he can not be stayed nor sealed up, but rejoices to
impart. And, certainly, there can be nothing in God which he so much
delights to bestow as his goodness, since it is that in which most
chiefly do we bear his image, and by which we are most closely knit
to him. His highest purpose concerning us all is “that we should be
partakers of his holiness.” Happiness, wisdom, life itself, all in some
measure and fashion, offshoots from his own, he delights to give; but
these are but means to an end, and thus moral likeness to himself is
his aim in all his other gifts. God had rather have us good than great,
and makes us sometimes glad and sometimes heavy that by both we may be
made to desire, and so be able to receive, more resemblance to himself
in holiness. This is the meaning of life. This is the dearest desire of
our Father for us. This is the gift which he—the infinite love—is ever
longing to bestow on us.