We are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids,
like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one
another then is contrary to Nature, and it is acting against one
another to be vexed and turn away.
--_The Meditations_
[Illustration: MARCUS AURELIUS]
Annius Verus was one of the great men of Rome. He had been a soldier,
governor of provinces, judge, senator and consul. Sixty years had passed
over his head and whitened his hair, but the lines of care that were on
his fine face ten years before had now given way to a cherubic double
chin, and his complexion was ruddy as a baby's. The entire atmosphere of
the man was one of gentleness, repose and kindly good-will. Annius Verus
was grateful to the gods, for the years had brought him much good
fortune, and better still, knowledge. "Being old I shall know ... the
last of life for which the first was made!"
Religion isn't a thing outside of a man, taught by priests out of a
book. Religion is in the heart of man, and its chief quality is
resignation and a grateful spirit. Annius Verus was religious in the
best sense, and his life was peaceful and happy.
And surely Annius Verus should have been content--he was a Roman Consul,
rich, powerful, honored by the wisest and best men in Rome, who
considered it a privilege to come and dine at his table. His villa was
on Mount Coelius, a suburb of Rome. The house was surrounded by a big
stone wall enclosing a tract of about ten acres, where grew citron,
orange and fig trees, and giant cedars of Lebanon lifted their branches
to the clouds.
At least it seemed to little Marcus, grandson of the Consul, as if they
reached the clouds. There was a long ladder running up one of these big
cedar trees to a platform or "crow's-nest" nearly a hundred feet from
the ground. No boy was allowed to climb up there until he was twelve
years old, and when Marcus was ten, time got stuck, he thought, and
refused to budge. But this was only little Marcus' idea, for he finally
got to be twelve years old, and then he climbed the long ladder to the
lookout in the tree and looked down on the Eternal City that lay below
in the valley and stretched away over the seven hills. Often the boy
would take a book and climb up there to read; and when the good
grandfather missed him, he knew where to look, and standing under the
tree the old man would call: "Come down, Marcus, come down and kiss your
old grandfather--it is lonesome down here! Come down and read to your
grandfather who loves his little Marcus!"
Such an appeal as this was irresistible, and the boy, slight, slim and
agile, would clamber over the side of the crow's-nest and down the
ladder to the outstretched arms.
The boy's father had died when he was only three months old, and the
grandfather had adopted the child as his heir, and brought Lucilla, the
widowed mother, and her baby to live in his house.
Years before, the Consul's wife had passed away, and Faustina, his
daughter, became the lady of the house. Lucilla and Faustina didn't get
along very well together--no house is big enough for two families, some
man has said. Lucilla was gentle, gracious, spiritual, modest and
refined; Faustina was beautiful and not without intellect, but she was
proud, domineering and fond of admiration. But be it said to the credit
of the good old Consul, he was able to suffuse the whole place with
love, and even if Faustina had a tantrum now and then, it did not last
long.
There were always visitors in the household--soldiers home on furloughs,
governors on vacations, lawyers who came to consult the wise and
judicial Verus.
One visitor of note was a man by the name of Aurelius Antoninus. He was
about forty years old as Marcus first remembered him--tall and straight,
with a full, dark beard, and short, curly hair touched with gray. He was
a quiet, self-contained man, and at first little Marcus was a bit afraid
of him. Aurelius Antoninus had been a soldier, but he showed such a
studious mind, and was so intent on doing the right thing that he was
made an under-secretary, then private secretary to the Emperor, and
finally he had been sent away to govern a rebellious province, and put
down mutiny by wise diplomacy instead of by force of arms.
Aurelius Antoninus was inclined towards the Stoics, although he didn't
talk much about it. He usually ate but two meals a day, worked with the
servants, and wrote this in his diary, "Men are made for each other:
even the inferior for the superior, and these for the sake of one
another."
This philosophy of the Stoics rather appealed to the widow Lucilla,
also, and she read Zeno with Aurelius Antoninus. Verus did not object to
it--he had been a soldier and knew the advantages of doing without
things and of being able to make the things you needed, and of living
simply and being plain and direct in all your acts and speech. But
Faustina laughed at it all--to her it was preposterous that one should
wear plain clothing and no jewelry when he could buy the costliest and
best; and why one should eschew wine and meat and live on brown bread
and fruit and cold water, when he could just as well have spiced and
costly dishes--all this was clear beyond her. Various fetes and banquets
were given by Faustina, to which the young nobles were invited. She was
a beautiful woman and never for a moment forgot it, and by some mistake
or accident she got herself betrothed to three men at the same time. Two
of these fought a duel and one was killed. The third man looked on and
hoped both would be killed, for then he could have the woman. Faustina
got this third man to challenge the survivor, and then by one of those
strange somersaults of fate the unexpected occurred.
Faustina and Aurelius Antoninus were married.
It was a most queer mismating, for the man was plain, sincere and
honorable, and she was almost everything else. Yet she had wit and she
had beauty, and Aurelius had been living in the desert so long he
imagined that all women were gentle and good. The Consul was very glad
to unite his house with so fine and excellent a man as Aurelius; Lucilla
cried for two days and more and little Marcus cried because his mother
did, and neither cried because Faustina had gone away.
But grief is transient.
In a little over a year Antoninus and Faustina came back to Rome, and
brought with them a little girl baby, Faustina Second. Marcus was very
much interested in this baby, and made great plans about how they would
play together when she got older.
Among other visitors at the house of the old Consul often came the
Emperor himself. Hadrian and Verus were Spaniards and had been soldiers
together, and now Hadrian often liked to get away from the cares of
State, and in the evening hide himself from the office-seekers and
flattering parasites, in the quiet villa on Mount Coelius--he liked it
here even better than at his own wonderful gardens at Tivoli. And little
Marcus wasn't afraid of him, either. Marcus would sit on the Emperor's
knee and listen to tales about hunting wild boars and bears, or men as
wild. Then they would play tag or I-spy among the bushes and trees; and
once Marcus dared the Emperor to climb the long ladder to the lookout in
the big cedar. Hadrian accepted the challenge and climbed to the
crow's-nest and cut his initials in the trunk of the tree.
Instead of calling the boy Marcus Verus, the Emperor gave him the name
"Verissimus," which means "the open-eyed truthful one," and this name
stuck to Marcus for life.
Between Antoninus and Marcus there grew up a very close friendship.
Antoninus could scale the ladder up the tall cedar, three rungs at a
time, and come down hand over hand without putting his foot on a rest.
He and Marcus built another crow's-nest thirty feet above the first.
They drew up the lumber by ropes, and Antoninus being sinewy and strong
climbed up first, and with thongs and nails they fixed the boards in
place, and made a rope ladder such as sailors make, that they could pull
up after them so no one could reach them. When the kind old Emperor came
to the villa they showed him what they had done. He said he would not
try to climb up now as he had a touch of rheumatism. But a light was
fixed in the upper lookout, drawn up by a cord, so they could signal to
the Emperor down at the palace.
Then Antoninus taught Marcus to ride horseback and pick up a spear off
the ground, with his horse at a gallop. This was great sport for the
Consul and the Emperor, who looked on, but they did not try it then,
but said they would later on when they were feeling just right.
And beside all this Aurelius Antoninus taught Marcus to read from
Epictetus, and told him how this hunchback slave, Epictetus, who was
owned by a man who had been a slave himself, was one of the sweetest,
gentlest souls who had ever lived. Together they read the Stoic-slave
philosopher and made notes from him. And so impressed was Marcus that,
boy though he was, he adopted the simple robe of the Stoics, slept on a
plank, and made his life and language plain, truthful and direct.
This was all rather amusing to those near him--to all except Antoninus
and the boy's mother. The others said, "Leave him alone and he'll get
over it."
Faustina was still fond of admiration--the simple, studious ways of her
husband were not to her liking. He was twenty years her senior, and she
demanded gaiety as her right. Her delight was to tread the borderline of
folly, and see how close she could come to the brink and not step off.
Julius Caesar's wife was put away on suspicion, but Faustina was worse
than that! She would go down to the city to masquerades, leaving her
little girl at home, and be gone for three days.
When she returned Aurelius Antoninus spoke no word of anger or reproof.
Her father said to her, "Beware! your husband's patience has a limit. If
he divorces you, I shall not blame him; and even if he should kill you,
Roman law will not punish him!"
But long years after, Marcus, in looking back on those days, wrote: "His
patience knew no limit; he treated her as a perverse child, and he once
said to me: 'I pity and love her. I will not put her away--this were
selfish. How can her follies injure me? We are what we are, and no one
can harm us but ourselves. The mistakes of those near us afford us an
opportunity for self-control--we will not imitate their errors, but
rather strive to avoid them. In this way what might be a great
humiliation has its benefits.'"
Let no one imagine, however, that the tolerance of Antoninus was the
soft acquiescence of weakness. After his death Marcus wrote: "Whatsoever
excellent thing he had planned to do, he carried out with a persistency
that nothing could divert. If he punished men, it was by allowing them
to be led by their own folly--his foresight, wisdom and calm
deliberation were beyond those of any man I ever knew."
The studious, direct and manly ways of Marcus were not cast aside when
he put on the toga virilis, as Faustina had predicted. In spite of the
difference in their ages, Antoninus and Marcus mutually sustained each
other.
Little Faustina was much more like her father than her mother, and very
early showed her preference for her father's society. Marcus was her
playmate and taught her to ride a pony astride, just as her father had
taught him. The three would often ride over to the village of Lorium,
twelve miles from Rome, where Antoninus had a summer villa. At Lanuvium,
near at hand, the Emperor spent a part of his time, and he would
occasionally join the party and listen to Marcus recite from Cicero and
Caesar.
When Marcus was sixteen, Hadrian appointed him prefect of festivities in
Rome, to take the place of the regular officer, a man of years, who was
out of the city. So well did Marcus fill the place and make up his
report, that when they again met, the old Emperor kissed his cheek,
calling him, "My brave Verissimus," and said, "If I had a son, I would
want him just like you."
Not long after this the Emperor was taken violently ill. He called his
counselors about his bedside and directed that Aurelius Antoninus should
be his successor, and that, further, Antoninus should adopt Marcus
Verus, so that Marcus should succeed Aurelius Antoninus.
Hadrian loved Marcus for his own sake, and he loved him, too, for the
sake of the grandfather, his old soldier comrade, Annius Verus; and
beside that he was intent on preserving the Spanish strain.
In a short time Hadrian passed away, and Aurelius Antoninus was crowned
Emperor of Rome, and Marcus Verus, aged seventeen, slim, slender and
studious, took the name, Marcus Aurelius.
* * * * *
The new reign did not begin under very favorable auspices. There was a
prejudice against the Spanish blood, and Hadrian had alienated some of
the aristocrats by measures they considered too democratic.
Aurelius Antoninus knew of these prejudices toward his predecessor and
he boldly met them by carrying the ashes of Hadrian to the Senate,
demanding that the dead Emperor should be enrolled among the gods. So
earnest and convincing was his eulogy of the great man gone, that a vote
was taken and the resolution passed without a dissenting voice. This
gives us a slight clew to the genesis of the gods, and also reveals to
us the character of Antoninus. He so impressed the Senate that this
honorable body thought best to waive all matters of difference, and in
pretty compliment they voted to bestow on the new Emperor the degree of
"Pius." Antoninus Pius was a man born to rule--in little things,
lenient, but firm at the right time. Faustina still had her little
social dissipations, but as she was not allowed to mix in affairs of
State, her pink person was not a political factor.
Marcus Aurelius was only seventeen years old: his close studies had
robbed him of a bit of the robust health a youth should have. But
horseback-riding and daily outdoor games finally got him back into good
condition. He was the secretary and companion of the Emperor wherever he
went.
Great responsibilities confronted these two strong men. In point of
intellect and aspiration they were far beyond the people they
governed--so far, indeed, that they were almost isolated. There was a
multitude of slaves and consequently there was a feeling everywhere that
useful work was degrading. The tendency of the slave-owner is always
toward profligacy and conspicuous waste. To do away with slavery was out
of the question--that was a matter of time and education--the ruler can
never afford to get much in advance of his people. The court was
infected with parasites in the way of informers and busybodies who knew
no way to thrive except through intrigue. Superstitions were taught by
hypocritical priests in order to make the people pay tithes; and
attached to the state religion were soothsayers, fortune-tellers,
astrologers, gamblers and many pretenders who waxed fat by ministering
to ignorance and depravity. These were the cheerful parasites mentioned
as "money-changers" a hundred years before, that infested the entrance
to every temple.
Many long consultations did the Emperor and his adopted son have
concerning the best policy to pursue. They could have issued an edict
and swept the wrongs out of existence, but they knew that folly sprouts
from a disordered brain, and so they did not treat a symptom: the
disease was ignorance, the symptom, superstition. For themselves they
kept an esoteric doctrine, and for the many they did what they could.
Twenty-three years of probation lay before Marcus Aurelius--years of
study, work, and patient endeavor. He shared in all the honors of the
Emperor and bore his part of the burden as well. Never did he thirst for
more power--the responsibilities of the situation saddened him--there
was so much to be done and he could do so little. Well does Dean Farrar
call him "a seeker after God."
The office of young Marcus Aurelius at first was that of Questor, which
literally means a messenger, but the word with the Romans meant more--an
emissary or an ambassador. When Marcus was eighteen he read to the
Senate all speeches and messages from the Emperor; and in a few years
more he wrote the messages as well as delivered them. And all the time
his education was being carried along by competent instructors.
One of these teachers, Fronto, has come down to us, his portrait well
etched on history's tablets, because he saved all the letters written
him by Marcus Aurelius; and his grandchildren published them in order to
show the excellence of true scientific teaching. That old Fronto was a
dear old dear, these letters do fully attest. When Marcus went away on a
little journey, even to Lorium, he wrote a letter to Fronto telling
about the trip--the sheep by the wayside, the dogs that herded them, the
shower they saw coming across the Campagna, and incidentally a little
freshman philosophy mixed in, for Fronto had cautioned his pupil always
to write out a great thought when it came, for fear he would never have
another. Marcus was a sprightly letter-writer, and must have been a
quick observer, and Fronto's gentle claims that he made the man are
worthy of consideration. As a literary exercise the daily theme,
prompted by love, can never be improved upon. The way to learn to write
is to write. And Pronto, who resorted to many little tricks in order to
get his pupil to express himself, was a teacher whose name should be
written high. The correspondence-school has many advantages--Fronto
purposely sent his pupil away or absented himself, that the carefully
formulated or written thought might take the place of the free and easy
conversation. In one letter Marcus ends: "The day was perfect but for
one thing--you were not here. But then if you were here, I would not now
have the pleasure of writing to you, so thus is your philosophy proved:
that all good is equalized, and love grows through separation!" This
sounds a bit preachy, but is valuable, as it reveals the man to whom it
is written: the person to whom we write dictates the message.
Fronto's habit of giving a problem to work out was quite as good a
teaching plan as anything we have to offer now. Thus: "An ambassador of
Rome visiting an outlying province attended a gladiatorial contest. And
one of the fighters being indisposed, the ambassador replied to a taunt
by putting on a coat of mail and going into the ring to kill the lion.
Question, was this action commendable? If so, why, and if not, why
not?"
The proposition was one that would appeal at once to a young man, and
thus did Fronto lead his pupils to think and express.
Another teacher that Marcus had was Rusticus, a blunt old farmer turned
pedagog, who has added a word to our language. His pupils were called
Rusticana, and later plain rustics. That Rusticus developed in Marcus a
deal of plain, sturdy commonsense there is no doubt. Rusticus had a way
of stripping a subject of its gloss and verbiage--going straight to the
vital point of every issue. For the wisdom of Marcus' legal opinions
Rusticus deserves more than passing credit.
For the youth who was destined to be the next Emperor of Rome, there was
no dearth of society if he chose to accept it. Managing mammas were on
every corner, and kind kinsmen consented to arrange matters with this
heiress or that. For the frivolities of society Marcus had no use--his
hours were filled with useful work or application to his books. His
father and Fronto we find were both constantly urging him to get out
more in the sunshine and meet more people, and not bother too much about
the books.
How best to curtail over-application, I am told, is a problem that
seldom faces a teacher.
As for society as a matrimonial bazaar, Marcus Aurelius could not see
that it had its use. He was afraid of it--afraid of himself, perhaps. He
loved the little Faustina. They had been comrades together, and played
"keep house" under the olive-trees at Lorium; and had ridden their
ponies over the hills. Once Marcus and Faustina, on a ride across the
country, bought a lamb out of the arms of a shepherd, and kept it until
it grew great curling horns, and made visitors scale the wall or climb
trees. Then three priests led it away to sacrifice, and Marcus and
Faustina fell into each other's arms and rained tears down each other's
backs, and refused to be comforted. What if their father was an Emperor,
and Marcus would be some day! It would not bring back Beppo, with his
innocent lamblike ways, and make him get down on his knees and wag his
tail when they fed him out of a pail! Beppo always got on his knees to
eat, and showed his love and humility before he grew his horns and
reached the age of indiscretion; then he became awfully wicked, and it
took three stout priests to lead him away and sacrifice him to the gods
for his own good!
But gradually the grass grew on Beppo's make-believe grave in the
garden, and Fronto's problems filled the vacuum in their hearts. Fronto
gave his lessons to Marcus, and Marcus gave them to Faustina--thus do we
keep things by giving them away.
But problems greater than pet sheep grown ribald and reckless were to
confront Marcus and Faustina. They had both been betrothed to others,
years before, and this they now resented. They talked of this much, and
then suddenly ceased to talk of it, and each evaded mentioning it, and
pretended they never thought of it. Then they explosively began
again--began as suddenly to talk of it, and always when they met they
mentioned it. Folks called them brother and sister--they were not
brother and sister, only cousins.
Finally the matter was brought to Antoninus, and he pretended that he
had never thought about it; but in fact he had thought of little else
for a long time. And Antoninus said that if they loved each other very
much, and he was sure they did, why, it was the will of the gods that
they should marry, and he never interfered with the will of the gods; so
he kissed them both and cried a few foolish tears, a thing an Emperor
should never do.
So they were married at the country seat at Lorium, out under the
orange-trees as was often the custom, for orange-trees are green the
year 'round, and bear fruit and flowers at the same time, and the
flowers are very sweet, and the fruit is both beautiful and useful--and
these things symbol constancy and fruitfulness and good luck, and that
is why we yet have orange-blossoms at weddings and play the "Lohengrin
March," which is orange-trees expressed in sweet sounds.
Marcus was only twenty, and Faustina could not have been over
sixteen--we do not know her exact age. There are stories to the effect
that the wife of Marcus Aurelius severely tried her husband's temper at
times, but these tales seem to have arisen through a confusion of the
two Faustinas. The elder Faustina was the one who set the merry pace in
frivolity, and once said that any woman with a husband twenty years her
senior must be allowed a lover or two--goodness gracious!
As far as we know, the younger Faustina was a most loyal and loving
wife, the mother of a full dozen children. Coins issued by Marcus
Aurelius stamped with the features of his wife, and the inscription
Concordia, Faustina and Venus Felix, attest the felicity, or "felixity,"
of the marriage.
Their oldest boy, Commodus, was very much like his grandmother,
Faustina, and a man who knows all about the Law of Heredity tells me
that children are much more apt to resemble their grandparents than
their father and mother.
I believe I once said that no house is big enough for two families, but
this truth is like the Greek verb--it has many exceptions. In the same
house with Emperor Antoninus Pius dwelt Lucilla, mother of Marcus, and
Marcus and his wife. And they were all very happy--but life was rather
more peaceful after the death of Faustina, the elder, which occurred a
few years after her husband became Emperor.
She could not endure prosperity.
But her husband mourned her death and made a public speech in eulogy of
her, determined that only the best should be remembered of one who had
been the wife of an Emperor and the mother of his children. As far as
we know, Antoninus never spoke a word concerning his wife except in
praise, not even when she left his house to be gone for months.
It was Ouida, she of the aqua-fortis ink, who said, "A woman married to
a man as good as Antoninus must have been very miserable, for while men
who are thoroughly bad are not lovable, yet a man who is not
occasionally bad is unendurable." And so Ouida's heart went out in
sympathy and condolence to the two Faustinas, who wedded the only two
men mentioned in Roman history who were infinitely wise and good.
In one of his essays, Richard Steele writes this, "No woman ever loved a
man through life with a mighty love if the man did not occasionally
abuse her." I give the remark for what it is worth. However, Montesquieu
somewhere says that the chief objection to heaven is its monotony; so
possibly there may be something in the Ouida-Steele philosophy--but of
this I really can't say, knowing nothing about the subject, myself.
* * * * *
Happy is the man who has no history. The reign of Antoninus Pius was
peaceful and prosperous. No great wars nor revulsions occurred, and the
times made for education and excellence. Antoninus worked to conserve
the good, and that he succeeded, Gibbon says, there is no doubt. He left
the country in better condition than he found it, and he could have
truthfully repeated the words of Pericles, "I have made no person wear
crape."
But there came a day when Antoninus was stricken by the hand of death.
The captain of the guard came to him and asked for the password for the
night. "Equanimity," replied the Emperor, and turning on his side, sank
into sleep, to awake no more. His last word symbols the guiding impulse
of his life. Well does Renan say: "Simple, loving, full of sweet gaiety,
Antoninus was a philosopher without saying so, almost without knowing
it. Marcus was a philosopher, but often consciously, and he became a
philosopher by study and reflection, aided and encouraged by the older
man. You can not consider the one man and leave the other out, and the
early contention that Antoninus was, in fact, the father of Marcus has
at least a poetic and spiritual basis in truth."
There was much in Renan's suggestions. The greatest man is he who works
his philosophy up into life--this is better than to talk about it. We
only discuss that to which we have not attained, and the virtues we
talk most of are those beyond us. The ideal outstrips the actual. But
it is no discredit that a man pictures more than he realizes--such a one
is preparing the way for others. Marcus Antoninus has been a guiding
star--an inspiration--to untold millions.
Marcus Aurelius was forty years old when he became Emperor of Rome. At
the age of forty a man is safe, if ever: character is formed, and what
he will do or become, can be safely presaged.
More than once Rome has repudiated the man in the direct line of
accession to the throne, and before Marcus Aurelius took the reins of
government he asked the Senate to ratify the people's choice, and thus
make it the choice of the gods, and this was done.
As Emperor, we find Marcus endeavored to carry out the policy of his
predecessor. He did not favor expansion, but hoped by peace and
propitiation to cement the empire and thus work for education, harmony
and prosperity.
It is interesting to see how Marcus Aurelius in the year One Hundred
Sixty-four was cudgeling his brains concerning problems about which we
yet argue and grow red in the face. The Emperor was also Chief Justice,
and questions were being constantly brought to him to decide. From him
there was no appeal, and his decisions made the law upon which all
lesser judges based their rulings. And curiously enough we are dealing
most extensively in judge-made law even today.
One vexed question that confronted Marcus was the lessening number of
marriages, with a consequent increase in illegitimate births and a
gradual dwindling of the free population. He seems to have disliked this
word illegitimate, for he says, "All children are beautiful
blessings--sent by the gods." But people who were legally married
objected to this view, and said to recognize children born out of
wedlock as entitled to all the privileges of citizenship is virtually to
do away with legal marriage. As a compromise, Marcus decided to
recognize all people as married who said they were married. This is
exactly our common-law marriage as it exists in various States today.
However, a man could put away his wife at will, and by recording the
fact with the nearest pretor, the act was legalized. It will thus be
seen that if a man could marry at will and put away his wife at will,
there was really no marriage beyond that of nature. To meet the issue,
and prevent fickle and unjust men from taking advantage of women, Marcus
decided that the pretor could refuse to record the desired divorce, if
he saw fit, and demand reasons. We then for the first time get a divorce
trial, and on appeal to Marcus, he decided that if the man were in the
wrong, he must still support the injured wife.
Then, for the first time, we find women asking for a divorce. Now,
nearly three-fourths of all divorces are granted to women; but at first,
that a woman should want marital freedom caused a howl of merriment.
Marcus was the first Roman Emperor to allow women the right of petition,
and the privilege, too, of practising law, for Capitolanus cites various
instances of women coming to ask for justice, and women friends coming
with them to help plead their case, and the Emperor of Rome, leaning his
tired head on his arm, listening for hours with great patience. We also
hear of petitions for damages being presented for failure to keep a
promise to marry--the action being brought against the girl's father.
This would be thought a trifle strange, but an action against a woman
for breach of promise is quite in order yet.
Recently the Honorable Henry Ballard of Vermont won heavy damages
against a coy and dallying heiress who had played pitch and toss with a
good man's heart. The case was carried to the United States Supreme
Court and judgment sustained.
The question of marriage and divorce now in the United States is almost
precisely where it was in Rome in the time of Marcus Aurelius. No two
States have the same marriage-laws, and marriages which are illegal in
one State may be made legal in another. Yet with us, any court of
jurisdiction may declare any marriage illegal, or set any divorce aside.
What makes marriage and what constitutes divorce are matters of opinion
in the mind of the judge. We have gone a bit further than Marcus,
though, in that we allow couples to marry if they wish, yet divorce is
denied if both parties desire it. The fact that they want it is
construed as proof that they should not have it. We meet the issue,
however, by connivance of the lawyers, who are officers of the court,
and a legal fiction is inaugurated by allowing a little bird to tell the
judge what decision will be satisfactory to both sides. And in States or
countries where no divorce is allowed, marriage can be annulled if you
know how--see Ruskin versus Ruskin, Coleridge, J.
Our zealous New Thought friends, who clamor to have marriage made
difficult and divorce easy, forget that the whole question has been
threshed over for three thousand years, and all schemes tried. The
Romans issued marriage-licenses, but before doing so a pretor passed on
the fitness of the candidates for each other. This was so embarrassing
to many coy couples that they just waived formal proceedings and set up
housekeeping. To declare these people lawbreakers, Marcus Aurelius said,
would put half of Rome in limbo, just as, if we should technically
enforce all laws, it would send most members of the Legislature to the
penitentiary. So the Emperor declared de-facto marriage de jure, and for
a short time succeeded in striking out the word illegitimate as applied
to a person, on the ground that, in justice, no act of a parent could be
charged up against and punished in the offspring.
* * * * *
Men who make laws have forever to watch most closely and dance
attendance on Nature. Laws which fly in the face of Nature are gently
waived or conveniently forgotten. Should Chief Justice Fuller issue an
injunction restraining all men from coming within a quarter of a mile of
a woman, on penalty of death, we would all place ourselves in contempt
in an hour; and should the army try to enforce the order, we would
smother Justice Fuller in his wool-sack and hang his effigy on a
sour-apple tree. Law isn't worth the paper it is written on unless it
embodies the will and natural tendencies of the governed. Where poaching
is popular, no law can stop it. Marriage is easy, and divorce difficult,
because this is Nature's plan. The natural law of attraction brings men
and women together, and it is difficult to separate them. Natural things
are easy, and artificial ones difficult. Most couples who desire freedom
only think they do: what they really want is a vacation; but they would
not separate for good if they could. It is hard to part--people who have
lived together grow to need each other. They want some one to quarrel
with.
Caesar Augustus, in his close study of character, introduced a limited
divorce. That is, in case of a family quarrel, he ordered the couple to
live apart for six months as a penalty. Quintilian says that usually
before the expired time the man and woman were surreptitiously living
together again, at which the court quietly winked, and finally this
form of penalty had to be abandoned because it made the courts
ridiculous.
Men and women do not get married because marriage is legal, nor do they
continue living together because divorce is difficult. They marry
because they desire to, and they do not separate because they do not
want to. The task that confronts the legislator is to find out what the
people want to do, and then legalize it.
In Rome, the custom of the parties divorcing themselves was prevalent,
and the courts were called upon to ratify the act, just to give the
matter respectability. Below a certain stratum in society, the formality
of legal marriage and divorce was waived entirely, just as it is
largely, now, among our colored population in the South. During the
French Revolution, the same custom largely obtained in France. And about
the year One Hundred Fifty in Rome there was danger that the people
would overlook the majesty of the law entirely in their domestic
affairs. This condition is what prompted Marcus Aurelius to recognize as
legal the common-law marriage and say if a couple called themselves
husband and wife, they were. And for a time, if they said they were
divorced, they were. But as a mortgage owned by a man on his own
property cancels the debt, and legally there is no mortgage, so if the
people could get married at will and divorce themselves at their
convenience, there really was no legal marriage. Thus the matter was
argued. So Marcus adopted the plan of making marriage easy and divorce
difficult, and this has been the policy in all civilized countries ever
since.
It is very evident, however, that Marcus Aurelius looked forward to a
time when men and women would be wise enough, and just enough, to
arrange their own affairs, without calling on the police to ratify
either their friendships or their misunderstandings. He says: "Love is
beautiful, and that a man and a woman loving each other should live
together is the will of God, but if there comes a time when they can not
live in peace, let them part. To have no relationship is not a disgrace;
to have wrong relations is, for disgrace means lack of grace, discord,
and love is harmony."
Marcus Aurelius tried the plan of probationary marriages; and to offset
this he also introduced the Augustinian plan of probationary
divorces--that is, the interlocutory decree. This scheme has recently
been adopted in several States in America with the avowed intent of
preventing fraud in divorce procedure, but actually the logic of the
situation is the same now as in the time of Marcus Aurelius--it
postpones the final decree so as to prevent the couple from becoming the
victims of their own rashness, and to give them an opportunity to become
reconciled if possible.
So anxious was Marcus Aurelius to decide justly with his people that he
found himself swamped with cases of every sort and description. He tried
to pass upon each case by its merits, regardless of law and precedent.
Then other judges construed his decisions as law, and the lesser courts
cited the upper ones, until Gibbon says, "There grew up such a mass of
judge-made laws that a skilful lawyer could prove anything, and legal
practise swung on the ability to cite similar cases and call attention
to desired decisions."
In America we are now back exactly to the same condition. A lawyer in
New York State requires over fourteen thousand law-books if he would
cover all the ground; and his business is to make it easy for the judge
to dispense justice and not dispense with law. That is to say, before a
judge can decide a case, he must be able to back up his opinion by
precedent. Judges are not elected to deal out justice between man and
man; they are elected to decide on points of law. Law is often a great
disadvantage to a judge--it may hamper justice--and in America there
must surely soon come a day when we will make a bonfire of every
law-book in the land, and electing our judges for life, we will make the
judiciary free. We will then require our lawyers and judges to read, and
pass examinations on Browning's "Ring and the Book," and none other. And
if we would follow the Aurelian suggestion of remitting all direct taxes
to every citizen who had not been plaintiff in a lawsuit for ten years,
we would gradually get something approaching pure justice. The people
must be educated to decide quietly and calmly their own disputes, and
this can be done only by placing an obvious penalty on litigation.
Progress in the future will consist in having less law, and fulfilment
will be reached when we have no law at all--each man governing himself,
and being willing that his neighbor shall do the same. Trouble arises
largely from each man regarding himself as his brother's keeper, and
ceasing to be his friend. Marcus Aurelius, the wise judge, saw that most
litigation is foolish and absurd--both parties are at fault, and both
right. And to bring about the good time when men shall live in peace, he
began earnestly to govern himself. His ideal was a state where men would
need no governing. Hence his "Meditations," a book which Dean Farrar
says is not inferior to the New Testament in its lofty aim and purity of
conception.
Every great book is an evolution: Marcus had been getting ready to write
this immortal volume for nearly half a century. And now in his
fifty-seventh year he found himself in the desert of Asia at the head of
the army, endeavoring to put down an insurrection of various barbaric
tribes. Later, the seat of war was shifted to the north. The enemy
struck and retreated, and danced around him as the Boers fought the
English in South Africa.
But Marcus Aurelius had time to think, and so with no books near and all
memoranda far away, he began to write out his best thoughts. At first he
expressed just for his own satisfaction, but later, as the work
progressed, we see that its value grew upon him, and it was his
intention to put it in systematic form for posterity. And while working
at this task, the exposures of field and camp, and the business of war,
in which he had no heart, worked upon him so adversely that he sickened
and died, aged fifty-nine.
His body was carried back to Rome and placed by the side of that of his
beloved adopted father, Antoninus Pius. And so he sleeps, but the
precious legacy of the "Meditations," written during those last two
years of travel, turmoil and strife, is ours.
A few quotations seem in order:
Remember, on every occasion which leads thee to vexation, to apply
this principle: not that this is a misfortune, but that to bear it
nobly is good fortune.
Things do not touch the soul, for they are eternal, and remain
immovable; but our perturbations come only from the opinion which
is within.... The Universe is transformation; life is opinion.
To the jaundiced, honey tastes bitter; and to those bitten by mad
dogs, water causes fear; and to little children, the ball is a fine
thing. Why then am I angry? Dost thou think that a false opinion
has less power than the bile in the jaundiced, or the poison in him
who is bitten by a mad dog?
How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is
troublesome and unsuitable, and immediately to be in all
tranquillity!
All things come from the universal Ruling Power, either directly or
by way of consequence. And accordingly the lion's gaping jaws, and
that which is poisonous, and every hurtful thing, as a thorn, as
mud, are after-products of the grand and beautiful. Do not
therefore imagine that they are of another kind from that which
thou dost venerate, but form a just opinion of the source of all.
Pass through the rest of life like one who has entrusted to the
gods, with his whole soul, all that he has, making himself neither
the tyrant nor the slave of any man.
Never value anything as profitable to thyself which shall compel
thee to break thy promise, to lose thy self-respect, to hate any
man, to suspect, to curse, to act the hypocrite, to desire anything
which needs walls and curtains.
I am thankful to the gods that I was subjected to a ruler and a
father who was able to take away all pride from me, and to bring me
to the knowledge that it is possible for a man to live in a palace
without wanting either guards or embroidered dresses, or torches
and statues, and such-like show; but that it is in such a man's
power to bring himself very near to the fashion of a private
person, without being, for this reason, either meaner in thought or
more remiss in action, with respect to the things which must be
done for the public interest in a manner that befits a ruler.
What more dost thou want when thou hast done a man a service? Art
thou not content that thou hast done something conformable to thy
nature, and dost thou seek to be paid for it? Just as if the eye
demanded a recompense for seeing, or the feet for walking. As a
horse when he has run, a dog when he has traced the game, a bee
when it has made the honey, so a man, when he has done a good act,
does not call out for others to come and see, but goes on to
another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in
season.
Accustom thyself to attend carefully to what is said by another,
and as much as it is possible, be in the speaker's mind.
Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying
out of it; and of that which is coming into existence, part is
already extinguished. Motions and changes are continually renewing
the world, just as the uninterrupted course of time is always
renewing the infinite duration of ages.
Understand that every man is worth just so much as the things are
worth about which he busies himself.
Wickedness does no harm at all to the universe--it is only harmful
to him who has it in his power to be released from it.
Nothing is more wretched than a man who traverses everything in a
round, and pries into the things beneath the earth, as the poet
says, and seeks by conjecture what is in the minds of his
neighbors, without perceiving that it is sufficient to attend to
the deity within him, and to reverence it sincerely.
The prayers of Marcus Aurelius to the gods are for one thing
only--that their will be done. All else is vain, all else is
rebellion against the universe itself. Our form of worship should
be like this: Everything harmonizes with me which is harmonious to
thee, O Universe. Nothing for me is too early nor too late, which
is in due time for thee. Everything is fruit to me which thy
seasons bring, O Nature: from thee are all things, in thee are all
things, to thee all things return.
In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be
present--I am rising to the work of a human being. Why, then, am I
dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist, and
for which I was brought into the world? Or have I been made for
this, to lie in the bedclothes and keep myself warm? But this is
more pleasant. Dost thou exist, then, to take thy pleasure, and not
for action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the
little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees, working together to
put in order their several parts of the universe? And art thou
unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou not make
haste to do that which is according to thy nature?
Judge every word and deed which are according to Nature to be fit
for thee, and be not diverted by the blame which follows.... But if
a thing is good to be done or said, do not consider it unworthy of
thee.
Since it is possible that thou mayest depart from life this very
moment, regulate every act and thought accordingly.... Death
certainly, and life, honor and dishonor, pain and pleasure, all
these things equally happen to good men and bad, being things which
make us neither better nor worse. Therefore they are neither good
nor evil.
To say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a
stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapor; and life
is a warfare, and a stranger's sojourn, and after fame is oblivion.
What, then, is that which is able to enrich a man? One thing, and
only one--philosophy. But this consists in keeping the guardian
spirit within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to
pains and pleasures, doing nothing without a purpose, nor yet
falsely, and with hypocrisy ... accepting all that happens and all
that is allotted ... and finally waiting for death with a cheerful
mind.
If thou findest in human life anything better than justice, truth,
temperance, fortitude, and, in a word, than thine own soul's
satisfaction in the things which it enables thee to do according to
right reason, and in the condition that is assigned to thee without
thy own choice; if, I say, thou seest anything better than this,
turn to it with all thy soul, and enjoy that which thou hast found
to be the best. But ... if thou findest everything else smaller and
of less value than this, give place to nothing else.... Simply and
freely choose the better, and hold to it.
Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores,
and mountains; and thou too art wont to desire such things very
much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men,
for it is in thy power whenever thou shalt choose to retire into
thyself. For nowhere either with more quiet or more freedom from
trouble does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when
he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is
immediately in perfect tranquillity--which is nothing else than the
good ordering of the mind.
Unhappy am I, because this has happened to me? Not so, but happy am
I though this has happened to me, because I continue free from
pain; neither crushed by the present nor fearing the future.
Be cheerful, and seek no external help, nor the tranquillity which
others give. A man must stand erect, not be kept erect by others.
Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break,
but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.
It is not fit that I should give myself pain, for I have never
intentionally given pain even to another.