SENECA

If we wish to be just judges of all things, let us first persuade

ourselves of this: that there is not one of us without fault; no

man is found who can acquit himself; and he who calls himself

innocent does so with reference to a witness, and not to his

conscience.

--_Letters of Seneca_

[Illustration: SENECA]

True Americans and patriotic, who live in York State, often refer you to

the life of Red Jacket as proof that "Seneca" is an Iroquois Indian

word. The Indians, however, whom we call the Senecas never called

themselves thus until they took to strong water and became civilized.

Before that they were the Tsonnundawaonas. The Dutch traders, intent on

pelts and pelf, called them the Sinnekaas, meaning the valiant or the

beautiful. Then came that fateful day when the Reverend Peleg Spooner,

the discoverer of the Erie Canal, journeyed to Niagara Falls, and having

influence with the authorities at Washington, gave to towns along the

way these names: Troy, Rome, Ithaca, Syracuse, Ilion, Manlius, Homer,

Corfu, Palmyra, Utica, Delhi, Memphis and Marathon. He really exhausted

Grote's "History of Greece" and Gibbon's "Rome," revealing a most

depressing lack of humor. This classic flavor of the map of New York is

as surprising to English tourists as was the discovery to Hendrik Hudson

when, on sailing up the North River, he found on nearing Albany that the

river bore the same name as himself.

* * * * *

In the eighteenth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles we read of Paul

being brought before Gallio, Proconsul of Achaia. And the accusers,

clutching the bald and bow-legged bachelor by the collar, bawl out to

the Judge, "This fellow persuadeth men to worship God contrary to law!"

And the little man is about to make reply, when Gallio says, with a

touch of impatience: "If indeed it were a matter of wrong or of wicked

villainy, O ye Jews, reason would that I should bear with you: but if

they are questions about words and names and your own law, look to it

yourselves; I am not minded to be a judge of these matters!" And the

account concludes, "And he drove them from the judgment-seat."

That is to say, he gave Saint Paul a "nolle pros." Had Gallio wished to

be severe, he might have put the quietus on Christianity for all time,

for Saint Paul had all there was of it stowed in his valiant head and

heart.

Gallio was the elder brother of Seneca; his right name was Annaeus

Seneca, but he changed it to Junius Gallio, in honor of a patron who had

especially befriended him in youth.

Gallio seems to have been a man of good, sturdy commonsense--he could

distinguish between right living and a mumble of words, man-made rules,

laws such as heresy, blasphemy, Sabbath-breaking and marrying one's

deceased wife's sister. The Moqui Indians believe that if any one is

allowed to have a photograph taken of himself he will dry up in a month

and blow away. Moreover, lists of names are not wanting with memoranda

of times and places. In America there are yet people who hotly argue as

to what mode of baptism is correct; who talk earnestly about the "saved"

and the "lost"; and who will tell you of the "heathen" and those who are

"without the pale." They seem to think that the promise, "Seek and ye

shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you," applies only to the

Caucasian race.

In the earlier translations of Seneca there were printed various letters

that were supposed to have passed between Saint Paul and Seneca. Later

editors have dropped them out for lack of authenticity. But the fact

that Saint Paul met Seneca's brother face to face, as well as the fact

that the brother was willing to discuss right living, but had no time to

waste on the Gemara and theological quibbles, is undisputed.

* * * * *

It was the proud boast of Augustus that he found Rome a place of brick

and left it a city of marble. Commercial prosperity buys the leisure

upon which letters flourish. We flout the businessman, but without him

there would be no poets. Poets write for the people who have time to

read. And out of the surplus that is left after securing food, we buy

books. Augustus built his marble city, and he also made Vergil, Horace,

Ovid and Livy possible.

Augustus reigned forty-four years, and it was in the twenty-seventh year

of his reign that there was born in Bethlehem of Judaea a Babe who was to

revolutionize the calendar. The Dean of Ely subtly puts forth the

suggestive thought that if it had not been for Augustus we might never

have heard of Jesus. It was Augustus who made Jerusalem a Roman

Province; and it was the economic and political policy of Augustus that

evolved the Scribes and Pharisees; and ill-gotten gains made the

hypocrites and publicans possible; then comes Pontius Pilate with his

receding chin.

Jesus was seventeen years old when Augustus died--Augustus never heard

of him, and the Roman's unprophetic mind sent no searchlight into the

future, neither did his eyes behold the Star in the East.

We are all making and shaping history, and how much, none of us knows,

any more than did Augustus.

Julius Caesar had no son to take his place, so he named his nephew,

Augustus, his heir. Augustus was succeeded by Tiberius, his adopted

child. Caligula, successor of Tiberius, was the son of the great Roman

General, Germanicus. Caligula revealed his good sense by drinking life

to its lees in a reign of four years, dying without heirs--Nature

refusing to transmit either infamy or genius. Claudius, an uncle of

Caligula, accepted the vacant place, as it seemed to him there was no

one else could fill it so well. Claudius had the felicity to be married

four times, and left several sons, but Fate had it that he should be

followed by Nero, his stepson, who called himself "Caesar," yet in whose

veins there leaped not a single Caesarean corpuscle.

The guardian and tutor of Nero was Lucius Seneca, the greatest, best and

wisest man of his time, a fact I here state in order to show the vanity

of pedagogics. Harking back once more to Augustus, let it be known that

but for him Seneca would probably have never left his mark upon this

bank and shoal of time. Seneca was a Spaniard, born in Cordova, a Roman

Province, that was made so by Augustus, under whose kindly and placating

influence all citizens of Hispania became Roman citizens--just as, when

California was admitted to the Union, every man in the State was

declared a naturalized citizen of the United States, the act being

performed for political purposes, based on the precedents of Augustus,

and never done before nor since in America.

Seneca was four years old when his father's family moved from Cordova

to Rome; this was three years before the birth of Christ. Years pass,

but the human heart is forever the same. The elder Seneca, Marcus

Seneca, had ambitions--he was a great man in Cordova: he could memorize

a list of two thousand words. These words had no relationship one to

another, and Marcus Seneca could not put words together so as to make

good sense, but his name was "Loisette": he had a scheme of mnemonics

that he imparted for a consideration. He was also a teacher of

elocution, and had compiled a yearbook of the sayings of Horace, which

secured him a knighthood. Augustus paid his colonists pretty

compliments, very much as England gives out brevets to Strathcona and

other worthy Canadians, who raise troops of horse to fight England's

battles in South Africa when duty calls.

Marcus Seneca made haste to move to Rome when Augustus let down the

bars. Rome was the center of the art-world, the home of letters, and all

that made for beauty and excellence. There were three boys and a girl in

the Seneca family.

The elder boy, Annaeus, was to become Gallio, the Roman governor, and

have his name mentioned in the most widely circulated book the world has

ever known; the second boy was Lucius, the subject of this sketch; the

younger boy, Mela, was to become the father of Lucan, the poet.

The sister of Seneca became the wife of the Roman Governor of Egypt. It

was at a time when the scheming rapacity of women was so much in

evidence that the Senate debated whether it should not forbid its

representatives abroad to be accompanied by their wives. France has seen

such times--England and America have glanced that way. Women, like men,

often do not know that the big prizes gravitate where they belong;

instead, they set traps for them, lie in wait and consider prevarication

and duplicity better than truth. When women use their beauty, their wit

and their pink persons in politics, trouble lies low around the corner.

But this sister of Seneca was never seen in public unless it was at her

husband's side; she asked no favors, and presents sent to her personally

by provincials were politely returned. The province praised her, and

perhaps what was better, didn't know her, and begged the Emperor to send

them more of such excellent and virtuous women--from which we infer that

virtue consists in minding one's own business.

In making up a list of great mothers, do not leave out Helvia, mother of

three sons and a daughter who made their mark upon the times. It is no

small thing to be a great mother!

Women of intellect were not much appreciated then, but Seneca dedicated

his "Consolations," his best book, to his mother. The very mintage of

his mind was for her, and again and again he tells of her insight, her

gentle wit, and her appreciation of all that was beautiful and best in

the world of thought. In a letter addressed to her when he was past

forty, he says, "You never stained your face with walnut-juice nor

rouge; you never wore gowns cut conspicuously low; your ornaments were a

loveliness of mind and person that time could not tarnish."

But the father had the knighthood, and he called his family to witness

it at odd times and sundry.

In Rome, Marcus Seneca made head as he never did in Cordova. There he

was only Marcus Micawber: but here his memory feats won him the

distinction that genius deserves. There is a grave question whether a

verbal memory does not go with a very mediocre intellect, but Marcus

said this argument was put out by a man with no memory worth mentioning.

Rome was at her ripest flower--the petals were soon to loosen and

flutter to the ground, but nobody thought so--they never do. Everywhere

the Roman legions were victorious, and commerce sailed the seas in

prosperous ships. Power manifests itself in conspicuous waste, and the

habit grows until conspicuous waste imagines itself power. Conditions in

Rome had evolved our old friend, the Sophist, the man who lived but to

turn an epigram, to soulfully contemplate a lily, to sigh mysteriously,

and cultivate the far-away look. These men were elocutionists who

gesticulated in curves, and let the thought follow the attitude. They

were not content to be themselves, but chased the airy, fairy fabric of

a fancy and called it life.

* * * * *

The pretense and folly of Roman society made the Sophists possible--like

all sects they ministered to a certain cast of mind. Over against the

Sophists there were the Stoics, the purest, noblest and sanest of all

ancient cults, corresponding very closely to our Quakers, before Worth

and Wanamaker threw them a hawse and took them in tow. It is a tide of

feeling produces a sect, not a belief: primitive Christianity was a

revulsion from Phariseeism, and a William Penn and a wan Ann Lee form

the antithesis of an o'ervaulting, fantastic and soulless ritual.

The father of Seneca hung upon the favor of the Sophists: he taught them

mnemonics, rhetoric and elocution, and the fact that he was a courtly

Spaniard was in his favor--we dote on a foreign accent and relish the

thing that comes from afar.

Marcus Seneca was getting rich. He never perceived the absurdity of a

life of make-believe; but his son, Lucius Seneca, heir to his mother's

discerning mind, when nineteen years old forswore the Sophists, and

sided with the unpopular Stoics, much to the chagrin of the father.

Seneca--let us call him so after this--wore the simple white robe of the

Stoics, without ornament or jewelry. He drank no wine, and ate no meat.

Vegetarianism comes in waves, and it is interesting to see that in an

essay on the subject, Seneca plagiarizes every argument put forth by

Colonel Ernest Crosby, even to mentioning a butcher as an "executioner,"

his goods as "dead corpses," and the customers as "cannibals."

This kind of talk did not help the family peace, and the father spoke of

disowning the son, if he did not cease affronting the Best Society.

Soon after, the Emperor Tiberius issued an edict banishing all "strange

sects who fasted on feast-days, and otherwise displeased the gods." This

was a suggestion for the benefit of the Crosbyites. It is with a feeling

of downright disappointment that we find Seneca shortly appearing in an

embroidered robe, and making a speech wherein the moderate use of wine

is recommended, also the flesh of animals for those who think they need

it.

This, doubtless, is the same speech we, too, would have made had we been

there; but we want our hero to be strong, and defy even an Emperor, if

he comes between the man and his right to eat what he wishes and wear

what he listeth, and we blame him for not doing the things we never do.

But Seneca was getting on in the world--he had become a lawyer, and his

Sophist training was proving its worth. Henry Ward Beecher, in reply to

a young man who asked him if he advised the study of elocution, said,

"Elocution is all right, but you will have to forget it all before you

become an orator." Seneca was shedding his elocution, and losing himself

in his work. A successful lawsuit had brought him before the public as a

strong advocate. He was able to think on his feet. His voice was low,

musical and effective, and the word, "dulcis," was applied to him as it

was to his brother, Gallio. Possibly there was something in ol' Marcus

Micawber's pedagogic schemes, after all!

In moderating his Stoic philosophy, Seneca gives us the key to his

character: the man wanted to be gentle and kind; he wished to affront

neither his father nor society; so he compromised--he would please and

placate. Ease and luxury appealed to him, and yet his cool intellect

stood off, and reviewing the proceeding pronounced it base. He succumbed

to the strongest attraction, and attempted the feat of riding two horses

at once.

From his twentieth year, Seneca dallied with the epigram, found solace

in a sentence, and got a sweet, subtle joy by taking a thought captive.

Lucullus tells us of the fine intoxication of oratory, but neither opium

nor oratory imparts a finer thrill than successfully to drive a flock of

clauses, and round up an idea, roping it in careless grace, with what my

lord Hamlet calls words, words, words.

The early Christian Fathers spoke of him as "our Seneca." His writings

abound in the purest philosophy--often seemingly paraphrasing Saint

Paul--and every argument for directness of speech, simplicity, manliness

and moderation is put forth. His writings became the rage in Rome: at

feasts he read his essays on the Ideal Life, just as the disciples of

Tolstoy often travel by the gorge road, and give banquets in honor of

the man who no longer attends one; or princely paid preachers glorify

the Man who said to His apostles, "Take neither scrip nor purse."

Seneca was a combination of Delsarte and Emerson. He was as popular as

Henry Irving, and as wise as Thomas Brackett Reed. His writings were in

demand; when he spoke in public, crowds hung upon his words, and the

families of the great and powerful sent him their sons, hoping he would

impart the secret of success. The world takes a man at the estimate he

puts upon himself. Seneca knew enough to hold himself high. Honors came

his way, and the wealth he acquired is tokened in those five hundred

tables, inlaid with ivory, to which at times he invited his friends to

feast. As a lawyer, he took his pick of cases, and rarely appeared,

except on appeal, before the Emperor. The poise of his manner, the

surety of his argument, the gentle grace of his diction, caused him to

be likened to Julius Caesar.

And this led straight to exile, and finally--death. To mediocrity,

genius is unforgivable.

* * * * *

There are various statements to the effect that Claudius was a mental

defective, a sort of town fool, patronized by the nobles for their sport

and jest. We are also told that he was made Emperor by the Pretorian

Guards, in a spirit of rollicking bravado. Men too much abused must have

some merit, or why should the pack bay so loudly? Possibly it is true

that, in the youth of Claudius, his mother used to declare, when she

wanted a strong comparison, "He is as big a fool as my son, Claudius."

But then the mother of Wellington used exactly the same expression; and

Byron's mother had a way of referring to the son who was to rescue her

from oblivion, and send her name down the corridors of time, as "that

lame brat."

Claudius was a brother of the great Germanicus, and was therefore an

uncle of Caligula. Caligula was the worst ruler that Rome ever had; and

he was a brother of Agrippina, mother of Nero. This precious pair had a

most noble and generous father, and their gentle mother was a fit mate

for the great Germanicus--these things are here inserted for the

edification of folks who take stock in that pleasant fallacy, the Law of

Heredity, and who gleefully chase the genealogical anise-seed trail.

Caligula happily passed out without an heir, and Claudius, next of kin,

put himself in the way of the Pretorian Guard, and was declared Emperor.

He was then fifty years old, a grass-widower--twice over--and on the

lookout for a wife. He was neither wise nor great, nor was he very bad;

he was kind--after dinner--and generous when rightly approached. Canon

Farrar likened Claudius to King James the First, who gave us our English

Bible. His comparison is worth quoting, not alone for the truth it

contains, but because it is an involuntary paraphrase of the faultless

literary style of the Roman rhetors. Says Canon Farrar: "Both were

learned, and both were eminently unwise. Both were authors, and both

were pedants. Both delegated their highest powers to worthless

favorites, and both enriched these favorites with such foolish

liberality that they remained poor themselves. Both of them, though of

naturally good dispositions, were misled by selfishness into acts of

cruelty; and both of them, though laborious in the discharge of duty,

succeeded only in rendering royalty ridiculous. King James kept Sir

Walter Raleigh, the brightest intellect of his time, in prison; and

Claudius sent Seneca, the greatest man in his kingdom, into exile."

New-made kings sweep clean. The impulses of Claudius were right and

just, a truthful statement I here make in pleasant compliment to a

brother author. The man was absent-minded, had much faith in others, and

moved in the line of least resistance. Like most students and authors,

he was decidedly littery. He secured a divorce from one wife because she

cleaned up his room in his absence so that he could never find

anything; and the other wife got a divorce from him because he refused

to go out evenings and scintillate in society--but this was before he

was made Emperor.

God knows, people had their troubles then as now. To take this man who

loved his slippers and easy-chair, and who was happy with a roll of

papyrus, and plunge him into a seething pot of politics, not to mention

matrimony, was refined cruelty.

The matchmakers were busy, and soon Claudius was married to Messalina,

the handsomest summer-girl in Rome.

For a short time he bore up bravely, and was filled with the wish to

benefit and bless. One of his first acts was to recall Julia and

Agrippina from exile, they having been sent away in a fit of jealous

anger by their brother, the infamous Caligula.

Julia was beautiful and intellectual, and she had a high regard for

Seneca.

Agrippina was beautiful and infamous, and pretended that she loved

Claudius.

Both men were undone. Seneca's friendship for Julia, as far as we know,

was of a kind that did honor to both, but they made a too conspicuous

pair of intellects. The fear and jealousy of Claudius was aroused by his

young and beautiful wife, who showed him that Seneca, the courtly, was

plotting for the throne, and in this ambition Julia was a party. A

charge of undue intimacy with Julia, the beloved niece and ward of the

Emperor, was brought against Seneca, and he was exiled to Corsica.

Imagine Edmund Burke sent to Saint Helena, or John Hay to the Dry

Tortugas, and you get the idea.

The sensitive nature of Seneca did not bear up under exile as we would

have wished. Unlike Victor Hugo at Guernsey, he was alone, and

surrounded by savages. Yet even Victor Hugo lifted up his voice in

bitter complaint. Seneca failed to anticipate that, in spite of the

barrenness of Corsica, it would some day produce a man who would jostle

his Roman Caesar for first place on history's page.

At Corsica, Seneca produced some of his loftiest and best literature.

Exile and imprisonment are such favorable conditions for letters, having

done so much for authorship, that the wonder is the expedient has fallen

into practical disuse. Banishment gave Seneca an opportunity to put into

execution some of the ideas he had so long expressed concerning the

simple life, and certain it is that the experience was not without its

benefits, and at times the grim humor of it all came to him.

Read the history of Greek ostracism, and one can almost imagine that it

was devised by the man's friends--a sort of heroic treatment prescribed

by a great spiritual physician. Personality repels as well as attracts:

the people grow tired of hearing Aristides called the Just--he is

exiled. For a few days there is a glad relief; then his friends begin to

chant his praises--he is missed. People tell of all the noble, generous

things he would do if he were only here.

If he were only here!

Petitions are circulated for his return.

The law's delay ensues, and this but increases desire. Hate for the man

has turned to pity, and pity turns to love, as starch turns to gluten.

The man comes back, and is greeted with boughs and bays, with love and

laurel. His homecoming is that of a conquering hero. If the Supreme

Court were to issue an injunction requiring all husbands to separate

themselves by at least a hundred miles from their wives, for several

months in every year, it would cut down divorces ninety-five per cent,

add greatly to domestic peace, render race-suicide impossible, and

generally liberate millions of love vibrations that would otherwise lie

dormant.

* * * * *

As an example of female depravity, Valeria Messalina was sister in crime

to Jezebel, Bernice, Drusilla, Salome and Herodias.

Damned by a dower of beauty, with men at her feet whenever she so

ordered, her ambition knew no limit. This type of dictatorial womanhood

starts out by making conquests of individual men, but the conquests of

pretty women are rarely genuine. Women hold no monopoly on duplicity,

and there is a deep vein of hypocrisy in men that prompts their playing

a part, and letting the woman use them. When the time is ripe, they toss

her away as they do any other plaything, as Omar suggests the potter

tosses the luckless pots to hell.

When Julia and Agrippina were recalled, the act was done without

consulting Messalina; and we can imagine her rage when these two women,

as beautiful as herself, came back without her permission. Messalina had

never found favor in the eyes of Seneca--he treated her with patronizing

patience, as though she were a spoilt child.

Now that Julia was back, Messalina hatched the plot that struck them

both. Messalina insisted that the wealth of Seneca should be

confiscated. Claudius at this rebelled.

History is replete with instances of great men ruled by their barbers

and coachmen. Claudius left the affairs of state to Narcissus, his

private secretary; Polybius, his literary helper; and Pallas, his

accountant. These men were all of lowly birth, and had all risen in the

ranks from menial positions, and one of them at least had been sold as a

slave, and afterward purchased his freedom. Then there was Felix, the

ex-slave, another protege of Claudius, who trembled when Paul of Tarsus

told him a little wholesome truth. These men were all immensely rich,

and once, when Claudius complained of poverty, a bystander said, "You

should go into partnership with a couple of your freedmen, and then your

finances would be all right." The fact that Narcissus, Pallas and

Polybius constituted the real government is nothing against them, any

more than it is to the discredit of certain Irish refugees that they

manage the municipal machinery of New York City--it merely proves the

impotence of the men who have allowed the power to slip from their

grasp, and ride as passengers when they should be at the throttle.

Messalina managed her husband by alternate cajolings and threats. He was

proud of her saucy beauty, and it was pleasing to an old man's vanity to

think that other people thought she loved him. She bore him two sons--by

name, Brittanicus and Germanicus. A local wit of the day said, "It was

kind of Messalina to present her husband with these boys, otherwise he

would never have had any claim on them."

But the lines were tightening around Messalina, and she herself was

drawing the cords. She had put favorites in high places, banished

enemies, and ordered the execution of certain people she did not like.

Narcissus and Pallas gave her her own way, because they knew Claudius

must find her out for himself. They let her believe that she was the

real power behind the throne. Her ambitions grew--she herself would be

ruler--she gave it out that Claudius was insane. Finally she decided

that the time was right for a "coup de grace." Claudius was absent from

Rome, and Messalina wedded at high noon with young Silius, her lover.

She was led to believe that the army would back her up, and proclaim her

son, Brittanicus, Emperor, in which case, she herself and Silius would

be the actual rulers. The wedding festivities were at their height, when

the cry went up that Claudius had returned, and was approaching to

demand vengeance. Narcissus, the wily, took up the shout, and

panic-stricken, Messalina fled for safety in one way and Silius in

another.

Narcissus followed the woman, adding to her drunken fright by telling

her that Claudius was close behind, and suggested that she kill herself

before the wronged man should appear. A dagger was handed her, and she

stabbed herself ineffectually in hysteric haste. The kind secretary

then, with one plunge of his sword, completed the work so well begun.

A truthful account of Messalina's death was told to Claudius while he

was at dinner. He finished the meal without saying a word, gave a

present to the messenger, and went about his business, asking no

questions, and never again mentioned the matter.

The fact is worthy of note that the name of Messalina is never once

mentioned by Seneca. He pitied her vileness and villainy so much he

could not hate her. He saw, with prophetic vision, what her end would

be; and when her passing occurred, he was too great and lofty in spirit

to manifest satisfaction.

* * * * *

Scarcely had the funeral of Messalina occurred, when there was a pretty

scramble among the eligible to see who should solace the stricken

widower. Among other matrimonial candidates was Agrippina, a beautiful

widow, twenty-nine in June, rich in her own right, and with only a small

encumbrance in the way of a ten-year-old boy, Nero by name.

Agrippina was a niece of Claudius, and such marriages were considered

unnatural; but Agrippina had subtly shown that, the deceased Emperor

being her brother, she already had a sort of claim on the throne, and

her marriage with Claudius would strengthen the State. Then she

marshaled her charms past Claudius, in a phalanx and back, and so they

were married. There was much pomp and ceremony at the wedding, and the

high priest pronounced the magic words--I trust I use the right

expression.

Very soon after her marriage, Agrippina recalled Seneca from exile. It

was the infamous Messalina who had disgraced him and sent him away, and

for Agrippina, the sister of Julia, to bring him back, was regarded as a

certificate of innocence, and a great diplomatic move for Agrippina.

When Seneca returned, the whole city went out to meet him. It is not at

all likely that Seneca had a suspicion of the true character of

Agrippina, any more than Claudius--which sort of tends to show the

futility of philosophy.

How could Seneca read her true character when it had not really been

formed? No one knows what he will do until he gets a good chance. It is

unkind condition that keeps most of us where we belong.

And even while the honeymoon--or should we say the harvest-moon?--was at

full, Seneca was made the legal guardian and tutor of Nero, the son of

the Empress, and became a member of the royal household. This was done

in gratitude, and to make amends, if possible, for the wrong of

banishment inflicted upon the man by scandalously linking his name with

that of the sister of the woman who was now First Lady of the Land.

Seneca was then forty-nine years of age. He had fifteen years of life

yet before him, and was to gain much valuable experience, and get an

insight into a side of existence he had not yet known.

Agrippina was born in Cologne, which was called, in her honor, Colonia

Agrippina, and now has been shortened to its present form. Whenever you

buy cologne, remember where the word came from.

Agrippina, from her very girlhood, had a thirst for adventure, and her

aim was high. When fourteen, she married Domitius, a Roman noble, thirty

years her senior. He was as worthless a rogue as ever wore out his

physical capacity for sin in middle life, and filled his dying days with

crimes that were only mental. He knew himself so well that when Nero was

born he declared that the issue of such a marriage could only breed a

being who would ruin the State--a monster with his father's vices and

his mother's insatiable ambition.

Agrippina was woman enough to hate this man with an utter detestation;

but he was rich, and so she endured him for ten years, and then assisted

Nature in making him food for worms.

The intensity of Agrippina's nature might have been used for happy ends

if the stream of her life had not been so early dammed and polluted. She

loved her child with a clutching, feverish affection, and declared that

he would some day rule Rome. This was not really such a far-away dream,

when we remember that her brother was then Emperor and childless. Her

thought was more for her child than for herself, and her expectation was

that he would succeed Caligula. The persistency with which she told this

ambition for her boy is both beautiful and pathetic. Every mother sees

her own life projected in her child, and within certain bounds this is

right and well.

Glimpses of kindness and right intent are shown when Agrippina recalled

Seneca, and when she became the mother of the motherless children of

Claudius. She publicly adopted these children, and for a time gave them

every attention and advantage that was bestowed upon her own son. Gibbon

says for one woman to mother another woman's children is a diplomatic

card often played, but Gibbon sometimes quibbles.

Gradually the fierce desire of Agrippina's heart began to manifest

itself. She plotted and arranged that Nero should marry Octavia, the

daughter of Claudius. Octavia was seven years older than Nero, but the

sooner the marriage could be brought about, the better--it would give

her a double hold on the throne. To this end suitors for the hand of

Octavia were disgraced by false charges, and sent off into exile, and

the same fate came to at least three young women who stood in the way.

But the one real obstacle was Claudius himself--he was sixty, and might

be so absurd as to live to be eighty. Locusta, a famous professional

chemist, was employed, and the deed was done by Agrippina serving the

deadly dish herself. The servants carried Claudius off to bed, thinking

he was merely drunk, but he was to wake no more.

Burrus, the blunt and honest old soldier, Captain of the Pretorian

Guard, sided with Agrippina; Brittanicus, the son of Claudius, was kept

out of the way, and Nero was proclaimed Emperor.

Here Seneca seems to have shown his good influence, and sent home a

desire in the heart of Agrippina to serve her people with moderation and

justice. She had attained her ends: her son, a youth of fifteen, was

Emperor, and his guardian, the great and gentle Seneca, the man of her

own choosing, was the actual ruler. She was the sister of one Emperor,

wife of another, and now mother of a third--surely this was glory enough

to satisfy one woman's ambition!

Then there came to Rome the famed Quinquennium Neronis, when, for five

years, peace and plenty smiled. It is a trite saying that men who can

not manage their own finances can look after those of a nation, but

Seneca was a businessman who proved his ability to manage his own

private affairs and also succeeded in managing the exchequer of a

kingdom. During his reign, gladiatorial contests were relieved of their

savage brutality, work was given to many, education became popular, and

people said, "The Age of Augustus has returned."

But the greatest men are not the greatest teachers. Seneca's policy with

his pupil, Nero, was one of concession.

A close study of the youth of Nero reveals the same traits that outcrop

in one-half the students at Harvard--traits ill-becoming to grown-up

men, but not at all alarming in youth. Nero was self-willed and

occasionally had tantrums--but a tantrum is only a little whirl-wind of

misdirected energy. A tantrum is life plus--it is better far than

stagnation, and usually works up into useful life, and sometimes into

great art. We have some verses written by Nero in his seventeenth year

that show a good Class B sophomoric touch. He danced, played in the

theatricals, raced horses, fought dogs, twanged the harp, and exploited

various other musical instruments. He wasn't nearly so bad as

Alcibiades, but his mother lavished on him her maudlin love, and allowed

the fallacy to grow in his mind concerning the divinity that doth hedge

a king. In fact, when he asked his mother about his real father, she hid

the truth that his father was a rogue--perhaps to shield herself, for it

is only a very great person who can tell the truth--and led him to

believe his paternal parent was a god, and his birth miraculous. Now,

let such an idea get into the head of the average freshman and what will

be the result? A woman can tell a full-grown man that he is the greatest

thing that ever happened, and it does no special harm, for the man knows

better than to go out on the street and proclaim it; but you tell a boy

of eighteen such pleasing fallacies, and then have fawning courtiers

back them up, and at the same time give the youth free access to the

strong box, and it surely would be a miracle if he is not doubly damned,

and quickly, too. Agrippina would not allow the blunt old Burrus to

discipline her boy, and Seneca's plan was one of concession--he loved

peace. He hated to thwart the boy, because he knew that it would arouse

the ire of the mother, whose love had run away with her commonsense.

Love is beautiful--soft, yielding, gentle love--but the common law of

England upholds wife-beating as being justifiable and desirable on

certain occasions.

The real trouble was, the dam was out for Agrippina and Nero--there was

no restraint for either. There was no one to teach them that the liberty

of one man ends where the right of another begins. No more frightful

condition for any man or woman can ever occur than this: to take away

all responsibility.

When Socrates put the chesty Alcibiades three points down, and jumped on

his stomach with his knees, the youth had a month in bed, and after he

got around again he possessed a most wholesome regard for his teacher.

If Burrus and Seneca had applied Brockway methods to Agrippina and her

saucy son, as they easily might, it would have made Rome howl with

delight, and saved the State as well as the individuals.

Julius Caesar, like Lincoln, let everybody do as they wished, up to a

certain point. But all realized that somewhere behind that dulcet voice

and the gentle manner was a heart of flint and nerves of steel. No woman

ever made Julius Caesar dance to syncopated time, nor did a youth of

eighteen ever successfully order him to take part in amateur theatricals

on penalty. Julius Caesar and Seneca were both scholars, both were

gentlemen and gentle men: their mental attitude was much the same, but

one had a will of adamant, and the other moved in the line of least

resistance.

* * * * *

Gradually, Nero evolved a petulance and impatience toward his mother and

his tutor, all of which was quite a natural consequence of his

education. Every endeavor to restrain him was met with imprecations and

curses. About then would have been a good time to apply heroic

treatment, instead of halting fear and worshipful acquiescence.

The raw stock for making a Nero is in every school, and given the

conditions, a tyrant-culture would be easy to evolve. The endeavor to

make Nero wed Octavia caused a revulsion to occur in his heart toward

her and her brother Brittanicus. He feared that these two might combine

and wrest from him the throne.

Locusta, the specialist, was again sent for and Brittanicus was gathered

to his fathers.

Soon after, Nero fell into a deep infatuation for Poppae Sabina, wife of

Otho, the most beautiful woman in Rome. Sabina refused to accept his

advances so long as he was tied to his mother's apron-strings--I use the

exact phrase of Tacitus, so I trust no exceptions will be taken to the

expression. Nero came to believe that the tagging, nagging, mushy love

of his mother was standing in the way of his advancement. He had come to

know that Agrippina had caused the death of Claudius, and when she

accused him of poisoning Brittanicus, he said, "I learned the trick from

my dear mother!" and honors were even.

He knew the crafty quality of his mother's mind and grew to fear her.

And fear and hate are one. To secure Sabina he must sacrifice Agrippina.

He would be free.

To poison her would not do--she was an expert in preventives.

So Nero, regardless of expense, bargained with Anicetus, admiral of the

fleet, to construct a ship so that, when certain bolts were withdrawn,

the craft would sink and tell no tale. This was a bit of daring deviltry

never before devised, and by turn, Nero chuckled in glee and had cold

sweats of fear as he congratulated himself on his astuteness.

The boat was built and Agrippina was enticed on board. The night of the

excursion was calm, but the conspirators, fearing the chance might never

come again, let go the canopy, loaded with lead, which was over the

queen. It fell with a crash; and at the same time the bolts were

withdrawn and the waters rushed in. Several of the servants in

attendance were killed by the fall of the awning, but Agrippina and

Aceronia, a lady of quality, escaped from the debris only slightly hurt.

Aceronia, believing the ship was about to sink, called for help, saying,

"I am Agrippina." She erred slightly in her diplomacy, for she was at

once struck on the head with an oar and killed. This gave Agrippina a

clew to the situation and she was silent. By a strange perversity, the

royal scuttling patent would not work and the boat stubbornly refused to

sink.

Agrippina got safely ashore and sent word to her son that there had been

a terrible accident, but she was safe--the intent of her letter being to

let him know that she understood the matter perfectly, and while she

could not admire the job, it was so bungling, yet she would forgive him

if he would not try it again.

In wild consternation, Nero sent for Burrus and Seneca. This was their

first knowledge of the affair. They refused to act in either way, but

Burrus intimated that Anicetus was the guilty party and should be held

responsible.

"For not completing the task?" said Nero.

"Yes," said the blunt old soldier, and retired.

Anicetus was notified that the blame of the whole conspiracy was on him.

A big crime, well carried out, is its own excuse for being; but failure,

like unto genius, is unforgivable.

Anicetus was in disgrace, but only temporarily, for he towed the

obstinate, telltale galley into deep water and sank her at dead of

night. Then with a few faithful followers he surrounded the villa where

Agrippina was resting, scattered her guard and confronted her with drawn

sword.

Years before, a soothsayer had told her that her son would be Emperor

and that he would kill her. Her answer was, "Let them slay me, if he but

reign."

Now she saw that death was nigh. She did not try to escape, nor did she

plead for mercy, but cried, "Plunge your sword through my womb, for it

bore Nero."

And Anicetus, with one blow, struck her dead.

Nero returned to Naples to mourn his loss. From there he sent forth a

lengthy message to the Senate, recounting the accidental shipwreck, and

telling how Agrippina had plotted against his life, recounting her

crimes in deprecatory, sophistical phrase. The document wound up by

telling how she had tried to secure the throne for a paramour, and the

truth coming to some o'erzealous friends of the State, they had arisen

and taken her life. In Rome there was a strong feeling that Nero should

not be allowed to return, but this message of explanation and promise,

written by Seneca, downed the opposition.

The Senate accepted the report, and Nero, at twenty-two, found himself

master of the world.

Yet what booted it when he was not master of himself!

From this time on, the career of Seneca was one of contumely, suffering

and disgrace. This was to endure for six years, when kindly death was

then to set him free.

The mutual, guilty knowledge of a great crime breeds loathing and

contempt. History contains many such instances where the subject had

knowledge of the sovereign's sins, and the sovereign found no rest until

the man who knew was beneath the sod.

Seneca knew Nero as only his Maker knew him.

After the first spasm of exultation in being allowed to return to Rome,

a jealous dread of Seneca came over the guilty monarch.

Seneca hoped against hope that, now that Nero's wild oats were sown and

the crop destroyed, all would be well. The past should be buried and

remembrance of it sunk deep in oblivion.

But Nero feared Seneca might expose his worthlessness and the

philosopher himself take the reins. In this Nero did not know his man:

Seneca's love was literary--political power to him was transient and not

worth while.

It became known that the apology to the Senate was the work of Seneca,

and Nero, who wanted the world to think that all his speeches and

addresses were his own, got it firmly fixed in his head he would not be

happy until Seneca was out of the way. Sabina said he was no longer a

boy, and should not be tagged and dictated to by his old teacher.

Seneca, seeing what was coming, offered to give his entire property to

the State and retire. Nero would not have it so--he feared Seneca would

retire only to come back with an army. A cordon of spies was put around

Seneca's house--he was practically a prisoner. Attempts were made to

poison him, but he ate only fruit, and bread made by his wife, Paulina,

and drank no water except from running streams.

Finally a charge of conspiracy was fastened upon him, and Nero ordered

him to die by his own hand. His wife was determined to go with him, and

one stroke severed the veins of both.

The beautiful Sabina realized her hopes--she divorced her husband, and

married the Emperor of Rome. She died from a sudden kick given her by

the booted foot of her liege.

Three years after the death of Seneca, Nero passed hence by the same

route, killing himself to escape the fury of the Pretorian Guard. And so

ended the Julian line, none of whom, except the first, was a Julian.

* * * * *

From the death of Augustus on to the time of Nero there was for Rome a

steady tide of disintegration. The Emperor was the head of the Church,

and he usually encouraged the idea that he was something different from

common men--that his mission was from On High and that he should be

worshiped. Gibbon, making a free translation from Seneca, says,

"Religion was regarded by the common people as true, by the philosophers

as false, and by the rulers as useful." And Saint Augustine, using the

same smoothly polished style, says, in reference to a Roman Senator, "He

worshiped what he blamed, he did what he refuted, he adored that with

which he found fault." The sentence is Seneca's, and when he wrote it he

doubtless had himself in mind, for in spite of his Stoic philosophy the

life of luxury lured him, and although he sang the praises of poverty he

charged a goodly sum for so doing, and the nobles who listened to him

doubtless found a vicarious atonement by applauding him as he played to

the gallery gods of their self-esteem, like rich ladies who go

a-slumming mix in with the poor on an equality, and then hasten home to

dress for dinner.

* * * * *

Seneca was one of the purest and loftiest intellects the world has ever

known. Canon Farrar calls him "A Seeker after God," and has printed

parallel passages from Saint Paul and Seneca which, for many, seem to

show that the men were in communication with each other. Every ethical

maxim of Christianity was expressed by this "noble pagan," and his

influence was always directed toward that which he thought was right.

His mistakes were all in the line of infirmities of the will. Voltaire

calls him, "The father of all those who wear shovel hats," and in

another place refers to him as an "amateur ascetic," but in this the

author of the Philosophical Dictionary pays Seneca the indirect

compliment of regarding him as a Christian. Renan says, "Seneca shines

out like a great white star through a rift of clouds on a night of

darkness." The wonder is not that Seneca at times lapsed from his high

estate and manifested his Sophist training, but that to the day of his

death he saw the truth with unblinking eyes and held the Ideal firmly in

his heart.