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Title: The History of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
Volume 1
Author: Edward Gibbon
Commentator: H. H. Milman
Release Date: April, 1997 [EBook #890]
[Most recently updated: March 28, 2020]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE ***
Produced by David Reed, Dale R. Fredrickson and David Widger
HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE
Edward Gibbon, Esq.
With notes by the Rev. H. H. Milman
Volume 1
1782 (Written), 1845 (Revised)
CONTENTS
Introduction Preface By The Editor Preface Of The Author Preface To
The First Volume
Chapter I: The Extent Of The Empire In The Age Of The Antoninies.—Part
I. Part II. Part III.
Introduction—The Extent And Military Force Of The Empire In The Age Of
The Antonines.
Chapter II: The Internal Prosperity In The Age Of The Antonines.—Part
I. Part II. Part III. Part IV.
Of The Union And Internal Prosperity Of The Roman Empire, In The Age Of
The Antonines.
Chapter III: The Constitution In The Age Of The Antonines.—Part I.
Part II.
Of The Constitution Of The Roman Empire, In The Age Of The Antonines.
Chapter IV: The Cruelty, Follies And Murder Of Commodus.—Part I.
Part II.
The Cruelty, Follies, And Murder Of Commodus. Election Of Pertinax—His
Attempts To Reform The State—His Assassination By The Prætorian Guards.
Chapter V: Sale Of The Empire To Didius Julianus.—Part I. Part II.
Public Sale Of The Empire To Didius Julianus By The Prætorian
Guards—Clodius Albinus In Britain, Pescennius Niger In Syria, And
Septimius Severus In Pannonia, Declare Against The Murderers Of
Pertinax—Civil Wars And Victory Of Severus Over His Three
Rivals—Relaxation Of Discipline—New Maxims Of Government.
Chapter VI: Death Of Severus, Tyranny Of Caracalla, Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV.
The Death Of Severus.—Tyranny Of Caracalla.—Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Follies Of Elagabalus.—Virtues Of Alexander
Severus.—Licentiousness Of The Army.—General State Of The Roman
Finances.
Chapter VII: Tyranny Of Maximin, Rebellion, Civil Wars, Death Of
Maximin.—Part I. Part II. Part III.
The Elevation And Tyranny Of Maximin.—Rebellion In Africa And Italy,
Under The Authority Of The Senate.—Civil Wars And Seditions.—Violent
Deaths Of Maximin And His Son, Of Maximus And Balbinus, And Of The
Three Gordians.—Usurpation And Secular Games Of Philip.
Chapter VIII: State Of Persia And Restoration Of The Monarchy.—Part I.
Part II.
Of The State Of Persia After The Restoration Of The Monarchy By
Artaxerxes.
Chapter IX: State Of Germany Until The Barbarians.—Part I. Part II.
Part III.
The State Of Germany Till The Invasion Of The Barbarians In The Time Of
The Emperor Decius.
Chapter X: Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian And
Gallienus.—Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV.
The Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian, And Gallienus.—The
General Irruption Of The Barbarians.—The Thirty Tyrants.
Chapter XI: Reign Of Claudius, Defeat Of The Goths.—Part I. Part II.
Part III.
Reign Of Claudius.—Defeat Of The Goths.—Victories, Triumph, And Death
Of Aurelian.
Chapter XII: Reigns Of Tacitus, Probus, Carus And His Sons.—Part I.
Part II. Part III.
Conduct Of The Army And Senate After The Death Of Aurelian.— Reigns Of
Tacitus, Probus, Carus, And His Sons.
Chapter XIII: Reign Of Diocletian And This Three Associates.—Part I.
Part II. Part III. Part IV.
The Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates, Maximian, Galerius,
And Constantius.—General Reestablishment Of Order And Tranquillity.—The
Persian War, Victory, And Triumph.— The New Form Of
Administration.—Abdication And Retirement Of Diocletian And Maximian.
Chapter XIV: Six Emperors At The Same Time, Reunion Of The
Empire.—Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV.
Troubles After The Abdication Of Diocletian.—Death Of
Constantius.—Elevation Of Constantine And Maxentius. Six Emperors At
The Same Time.—Death Of Maximian And Galerius. —Victories Of
Constantine Over Maxentius And Licinus.— Reunion Of The Empire Under
The Authority Of Constantine.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part I. Part II.
Part III. Part IV. Part V. Part VI. Part VII. Part VIII.
Part IX.
The Progress Of The Christian Religion, And The Sentiments, Manners,
Numbers, And Condition Of The Primitive Christians.
Introduction
Preface By The Editor.
The great work of Gibbon is indispensable to the student of
history. The literature of Europe offers no substitute for “The
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” It has obtained undisputed
possession, as rightful occupant, of the vast period which it
comprehends. However some subjects, which it embraces, may have
undergone more complete investigation, on the general view of the
whole period, this history is the sole undisputed authority to
which all defer, and from which few appeal to the original
writers, or to more modern compilers. The inherent interest of
the subject, the inexhaustible labor employed upon it; the
immense condensation of matter; the luminous arrangement; the
general accuracy; the style, which, however monotonous from its
uniform stateliness, and sometimes wearisome from its elaborate
art, is throughout vigorous, animated, often picturesque, always
commands attention, always conveys its meaning with emphatic
energy, describes with singular breadth and fidelity, and
generalizes with unrivalled felicity of expression; all these
high qualifications have secured, and seem likely to secure, its
permanent place in historic literature.
This vast design of Gibbon, the magnificent whole into which he
has cast the decay and ruin of the ancient civilization, the
formation and birth of the new order of things, will of itself,
independent of the laborious execution of his immense plan,
render “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” an
unapproachable subject to the future historian:* in the eloquent
language of his recent French editor, M. Guizot:—
“The gradual decline of the most extraordinary dominion which has
ever invaded and oppressed the world; the fall of that immense
empire, erected on the ruins of so many kingdoms, republics, and
states both barbarous and civilized; and forming in its turn, by
its dismemberment, a multitude of states, republics, and
kingdoms; the annihilation of the religion of Greece and Rome;
the birth and the progress of the two new religions which have
shared the most beautiful regions of the earth; the decrepitude
of the ancient world, the spectacle of its expiring glory and
degenerate manners; the infancy of the modern world, the picture
of its first progress, of the new direction given to the mind and
character of man—such a subject must necessarily fix the
attention and excite the interest of men, who cannot behold with
indifference those memorable epochs, during which, in the fine
language of Corneille—
‘Un grand destin commence, un grand destin s’achève.’”
This extent and harmony of design is unquestionably that which
distinguishes the work of Gibbon from all other great historical
compositions. He has first bridged the abyss between ancient and
modern times, and connected together the two great worlds of
history. The great advantage which the classical historians
possess over those of modern times is in unity of plan, of course
greatly facilitated by the narrower sphere to which their
researches were confined. Except Herodotus, the great historians
of Greece—we exclude the more modern compilers, like Diodorus
Siculus—limited themselves to a single period, or at least to the
contracted sphere of Grecian affairs. As far as the _Barbarians_
trespassed within the Grecian boundary, or were necessarily
mingled up with Grecian politics, they were admitted into the
pale of Grecian history; but to Thucydides and to Xenophon,
excepting in the Persian inroad of the latter, Greece was the
world. Natural unity confined their narrative almost to
chronological order, the episodes were of rare occurrence and
extremely brief. To the Roman historians the course was equally
clear and defined. Rome was their centre of unity; and the
uniformity with which the circle of the Roman dominion spread
around, the regularity with which their civil polity expanded,
forced, as it were, upon the Roman historian that plan which
Polybius announces as the subject of his history, the means and
the manner by which the whole world became subject to the Roman
sway. How different the complicated politics of the European
kingdoms! Every national history, to be complete, must, in a
certain sense, be the history of Europe; there is no knowing to
how remote a quarter it may be necessary to trace our most
domestic events; from a country, how apparently disconnected, may
originate the impulse which gives its direction to the whole
course of affairs.
In imitation of his classical models, Gibbon places _Rome_ as the
cardinal point from which his inquiries diverge, and to which
they bear constant reference; yet how immeasurable the space over
which those inquiries range! how complicated, how confused, how
apparently inextricable the causes which tend to the decline of
the Roman empire! how countless the nations which swarm forth, in
mingling and indistinct hordes, constantly changing the
geographical limits—incessantly confounding the natural
boundaries! At first sight, the whole period, the whole state of
the world, seems to offer no more secure footing to an historical
adventurer than the chaos of Milton—to be in a state of
irreclaimable disorder, best described in the language of the
poet:—
“A dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension, where
length, breadth, and height, And time, and place, are lost: where
eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy,
amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.”
We feel that the unity and harmony of narrative, which shall
comprehend this period of social disorganization, must be
ascribed entirely to the skill and luminous disposition of the
historian. It is in this sublime Gothic architecture of his work,
in which the boundless range, the infinite variety, the, at first
sight, incongruous gorgeousness of the separate parts,
nevertheless are all subordinate to one main and predominant
idea, that Gibbon is unrivalled. We cannot but admire the manner
in which he masses his materials, and arranges his facts in
successive groups, not according to chronological order, but to
their moral or political connection; the distinctness with which
he marks his periods of gradually increasing decay; and the skill
with which, though advancing on separate parallels of history, he
shows the common tendency of the slower or more rapid religious
or civil innovations. However these principles of composition may
demand more than ordinary attention on the part of the reader,
they can alone impress upon the memory the real course, and the
relative importance of the events. Whoever would justly
appreciate the superiority of Gibbon’s lucid arrangement, should
attempt to make his way through the regular but wearisome annals
of Tillemont, or even the less ponderous volumes of Le Beau. Both
these writers adhere, almost entirely, to chronological order;
the consequence is, that we are twenty times called upon to break
off, and resume the thread of six or eight wars in different
parts of the empire; to suspend the operations of a military
expedition for a court intrigue; to hurry away from a siege to a
council; and the same page places us in the middle of a campaign
against the barbarians, and in the depths of the Monophysite
controversy. In Gibbon it is not always easy to bear in mind the
exact dates but the course of events is ever clear and distinct;
like a skilful general, though his troops advance from the most
remote and opposite quarters, they are constantly bearing down
and concentrating themselves on one point—that which is still
occupied by the name, and by the waning power of Rome. Whether he
traces the progress of hostile religions, or leads from the
shores of the Baltic, or the verge of the Chinese empire, the
successive hosts of barbarians—though one wave has hardly burst
and discharged itself, before another swells up and
approaches—all is made to flow in the same direction, and the
impression which each makes upon the tottering fabric of the
Roman greatness, connects their distant movements, and measures
the relative importance assigned to them in the panoramic
history. The more peaceful and didactic episodes on the
development of the Roman law, or even on the details of
ecclesiastical history, interpose themselves as resting-places or
divisions between the periods of barbaric invasion. In short,
though distracted first by the two capitals, and afterwards by
the formal partition of the empire, the extraordinary felicity of
arrangement maintains an order and a regular progression. As our
horizon expands to reveal to us the gathering tempests which are
forming far beyond the boundaries of the civilized world—as we
follow their successive approach to the trembling frontier—the
compressed and receding line is still distinctly visible; though
gradually dismembered and the broken fragments assuming the form
of regular states and kingdoms, the real relation of those
kingdoms to the empire is maintained and defined; and even when
the Roman dominion has shrunk into little more than the province
of Thrace—when the name of Rome, confined, in Italy, to the walls
of the city—yet it is still the memory, the shade of the Roman
greatness, which extends over the wide sphere into which the
historian expands his later narrative; the whole blends into the
unity, and is manifestly essential to the double catastrophe of
his tragic drama.
But the amplitude, the magnificence, or the harmony of design,
are, though imposing, yet unworthy claims on our admiration,
unless the details are filled up with correctness and accuracy.
No writer has been more severely tried on this point than Gibbon.
He has undergone the triple scrutiny of theological zeal
quickened by just resentment, of literary emulation, and of that
mean and invidious vanity which delights in detecting errors in
writers of established fame. On the result of the trial, we may
be permitted to summon competent witnesses before we deliver our
own judgment.
M. Guizot, in his preface, after stating that in France and
Germany, as well as in England, in the most enlightened countries
of Europe, Gibbon is constantly cited as an authority, thus
proceeds:—
“I have had occasion, during my labors, to consult the writings
of philosophers, who have treated on the finances of the Roman
empire; of scholars, who have investigated the chronology; of
theologians, who have searched the depths of ecclesiastical
history; of writers on law, who have studied with care the Roman
jurisprudence; of Orientalists, who have occupied themselves with
the Arabians and the Koran; of modern historians, who have
entered upon extensive researches touching the crusades and their
influence; each of these writers has remarked and pointed out, in
the ‘History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,’ some
negligences, some false or imperfect views, some omissions, which
it is impossible not to suppose voluntary; they have rectified
some facts, combated with advantage some assertions; but in
general they have taken the researches and the ideas of Gibbon,
as points of departure, or as proofs of the researches or of the
new opinions which they have advanced.”
M. Guizot goes on to state his own impressions on reading
Gibbon’s history, and no authority will have greater weight with
those to whom the extent and accuracy of his historical
researches are known:—
“After a first rapid perusal, which allowed me to feel nothing
but the interest of a narrative, always animated, and,
notwithstanding its extent and the variety of objects which it
makes to pass before the view, always perspicuous, I entered upon
a minute examination of the details of which it was composed; and
the opinion which I then formed was, I confess, singularly
severe. I discovered, in certain chapters, errors which appeared
to me sufficiently important and numerous to make me believe that
they had been written with extreme negligence; in others, I was
struck with a certain tinge of partiality and prejudice, which
imparted to the exposition of the facts that want of truth and
justice, which the English express by their happy term
_misrepresentation_. Some imperfect (_tronquées_) quotations;
some passages, omitted unintentionally or designedly cast a
suspicion on the honesty (_bonne foi_) of the author; and his
violation of the first law of history—increased to my eye by the
prolonged attention with which I occupied myself with every
phrase, every note, every reflection—caused me to form upon the
whole work, a judgment far too rigorous. After having finished my
labors, I allowed some time to elapse before I reviewed the
whole. A second attentive and regular perusal of the entire work,
of the notes of the author, and of those which I had thought it
right to subjoin, showed me how much I had exaggerated the
importance of the reproaches which Gibbon really deserved; I was
struck with the same errors, the same partiality on certain
subjects; but I had been far from doing adequate justice to the
immensity of his researches, the variety of his knowledge, and
above all, to that truly philosophical discrimination (_justesse
d’esprit_) which judges the past as it would judge the present;
which does not permit itself to be blinded by the clouds which
time gathers around the dead, and which prevent us from seeing
that, under the toga, as under the modern dress, in the senate as
in our councils, men were what they still are, and that events
took place eighteen centuries ago, as they take place in our
days. I then felt that his book, in spite of its faults, will
always be a noble work—and that we may correct his errors and
combat his prejudices, without ceasing to admit that few men have
combined, if we are not to say in so high a degree, at least in a
manner so complete, and so well regulated, the necessary
qualifications for a writer of history.”
The present editor has followed the track of Gibbon through many
parts of his work; he has read his authorities with constant
reference to his pages, and must pronounce his deliberate
judgment, in terms of the highest admiration as to his general
accuracy. Many of his seeming errors are almost inevitable from
the close condensation of his matter. From the immense range of
his history, it was sometimes necessary to compress into a single
sentence, a whole vague and diffuse page of a Byzantine
chronicler. Perhaps something of importance may have thus
escaped, and his expressions may not quite contain the whole
substance of the passage from which they are taken. His limits,
at times, compel him to sketch; where that is the case, it is not
fair to expect the full details of the finished picture. At times
he can only deal with important results; and in his account of a
war, it sometimes requires great attention to discover that the
events which seem to be comprehended in a single campaign, occupy
several years. But this admirable skill in selecting and giving
prominence to the points which are of real weight and
importance—this distribution of light and shade—though perhaps it
may occasionally betray him into vague and imperfect statements,
is one of the highest excellencies of Gibbon’s historic manner.
It is the more striking, when we pass from the works of his chief
authorities, where, after laboring through long, minute, and
wearisome descriptions of the accessary and subordinate
circumstances, a single unmarked and undistinguished sentence,
which we may overlook from the inattention of fatigue, contains
the great moral and political result.
Gibbon’s method of arrangement, though on the whole most
favorable to the clear comprehension of the events, leads
likewise to apparent inaccuracy. That which we expect to find in
one part is reserved for another. The estimate which we are to
form, depends on the accurate balance of statements in remote
parts of the work; and we have sometimes to correct and modify
opinions, formed from one chapter by those of another. Yet, on
the other hand, it is astonishing how rarely we detect
contradiction; the mind of the author has already harmonized the
whole result to truth and probability; the general impression is
almost invariably the same. The quotations of Gibbon have
likewise been called in question;—I have, _in general_, been more
inclined to admire their exactitude, than to complain of their
indistinctness, or incompleteness. Where they are imperfect, it
is commonly from the study of brevity, and rather from the desire
of compressing the substance of his notes into pointed and
emphatic sentences, than from dishonesty, or uncandid suppression
of truth.
These observations apply more particularly to the accuracy and
fidelity of the historian as to his facts; his inferences, of
course, are more liable to exception. It is almost impossible to
trace the line between unfairness and unfaithfulness; between
intentional misrepresentation and undesigned false coloring. The
relative magnitude and importance of events must, in some
respect, depend upon the mind before which they are presented;
the estimate of character, on the habits and feelings of the
reader. Christians, like M. Guizot and ourselves, will see some
things, and some persons, in a different light from the historian
of the Decline and Fall. We may deplore the bias of his mind; we
may ourselves be on our guard against the danger of being misled,
and be anxious to warn less wary readers against the same perils;
but we must not confound this secret and unconscious departure
from truth, with the deliberate violation of that veracity which
is the only title of an historian to our confidence. Gibbon, it
may be fearlessly asserted, is rarely chargeable even with the
suppression of any material fact, which bears upon individual
character; he may, with apparently invidious hostility, enhance
the errors and crimes, and disparage the virtues of certain
persons; yet, in general, he leaves us the materials for forming
a fairer judgment; and if he is not exempt from his own
prejudices, perhaps we might write _passions_, yet it must be
candidly acknowledged, that his philosophical bigotry is not more
unjust than the theological partialities of those ecclesiastical
writers who were before in undisputed possession of this province
of history.
We are thus naturally led to that great misrepresentation which
pervades his history—his false estimate of the nature and
influence of Christianity.
But on this subject some preliminary caution is necessary, lest
that should be expected from a new edition, which it is
impossible that it should completely accomplish. We must first be
prepared with the only sound preservative against the false
impression likely to be produced by the perusal of Gibbon; and we
must see clearly the real cause of that false impression. The
former of these cautions will be briefly suggested in its proper
place, but it may be as well to state it, here, somewhat more at
length. The art of Gibbon, or at least the unfair impression
produced by his two memorable chapters, consists in his
confounding together, in one indistinguishable mass, the _origin_
and _apostolic_ propagation of the new religion, with its _later_
progress. No argument for the divine authority of Christianity
has been urged with greater force, or traced with higher
eloquence, than that deduced from its primary development,
explicable on no other hypothesis than a heavenly origin, and
from its rapid extension through great part of the Roman empire.
But this argument—one, when confined within reasonable limits, of
unanswerable force—becomes more feeble and disputable in
proportion as it recedes from the birthplace, as it were, of the
religion. The further Christianity advanced, the more causes
purely human were enlisted in its favor; nor can it be doubted
that those developed with such artful exclusiveness by Gibbon did
concur most essentially to its establishment. It is in the
Christian dispensation, as in the material world. In both it is
as the great First Cause, that the Deity is most undeniably
manifest. When once launched in regular motion upon the bosom of
space, and endowed with all their properties and relations of
weight and mutual attraction, the heavenly bodies appear to
pursue their courses according to secondary laws, which account
for all their sublime regularity. So Christianity proclaims its
Divine Author chiefly in its first origin and development. When
it had once received its impulse from above—when it had once been
infused into the minds of its first teachers—when it had gained
full possession of the reason and affections of the favored
few—it _might be_—and to the Protestant, the rational Christian,
it is impossible to define _when_ it really _was_—left to make
its way by its native force, under the ordinary secret agencies
of all-ruling Providence. The main question, the _divine origin
of the religion_, was dexterously eluded, or speciously conceded
by Gibbon; his plan enabled him to commence his account, in most
parts, _below the apostolic times_; and it was only by the
strength of the dark coloring with which he brought out the
failings and the follies of the succeeding ages, that a shadow of
doubt and suspicion was thrown back upon the primitive period of
Christianity.
“The theologian,” says Gibbon, “may indulge the pleasing task of
describing religion as she descended from heaven, arrayed in her
native purity; a more melancholy duty is imposed upon the
historian:—he must discover the inevitable mixture of error and
corruption which she contracted in a long residence upon earth
among a weak and degenerate race of beings.” Divest this passage
of the latent sarcasm betrayed by the subsequent tone of the
whole disquisition, and it might commence a Christian history
written in the most Christian spirit of candor. But as the
historian, by seeming to respect, yet by dexterously confounding
the limits of the sacred land, contrived to insinuate that it was
an Utopia which had no existence but in the imagination of the
theologian—as he _suggested_ rather than affirmed that the days
of Christian purity were a kind of poetic golden age;—so the
theologian, by venturing too far into the domain of the
historian, has been perpetually obliged to contest points on
which he had little chance of victory—to deny facts established
on unshaken evidence—and thence, to retire, if not with the shame
of defeat, yet with but doubtful and imperfect success.
Paley, with his intuitive sagacity, saw through the difficulty of
answering Gibbon by the ordinary arts of controversy; his
emphatic sentence, “Who can refute a sneer?” contains as much
truth as point. But full and pregnant as this phrase is, it is
not quite the whole truth; it is the tone in which the progress
of Christianity is traced, in _comparison_ with the rest of the
splendid and prodigally ornamented work, which is the radical
defect in the “Decline and Fall.” Christianity alone receives no
embellishment from the magic of Gibbon’s language; his
imagination is dead to its moral dignity; it is kept down by a
general zone of jealous disparagement, or neutralized by a
painfully elaborate exposition of its darker and degenerate
periods. There are occasions, indeed, when its pure and exalted
humanity, when its manifestly beneficial influence, can compel
even him, as it were, to fairness, and kindle his unguarded
eloquence to its usual fervor; but, in general, he soon relapses
into a frigid apathy; _affects_ an ostentatiously severe
impartiality; notes all the faults of Christians in every age
with bitter and almost malignant sarcasm; reluctantly, and with
exception and reservation, admits their claim to admiration. This
inextricable bias appears even to influence his manner of
composition. While all the other assailants of the Roman empire,
whether warlike or religious, the Goth, the Hun, the Arab, the
Tartar, Alaric and Attila, Mahomet, and Zengis, and Tamerlane,
are each introduced upon the scene almost with dramatic
animation—their progress related in a full, complete, and
unbroken narrative—the triumph of Christianity alone takes the
form of a cold and critical disquisition. The successes of
barbarous energy and brute force call forth all the consummate
skill of composition; while the moral triumphs of Christian
benevolence—the tranquil heroism of endurance, the blameless
purity, the contempt of guilty fame and of honors destructive to
the human race, which, had they assumed the proud name of
philosophy, would have been blazoned in his brightest words,
because they own religion as their principle—sink into narrow
asceticism. The _glories_ of Christianity, in short, touch on no
chord in the heart of the writer; his imagination remains
unkindled; his words, though they maintain their stately and
measured march, have become cool, argumentative, and inanimate.
Who would obscure one hue of that gorgeous coloring in which
Gibbon has invested the dying forms of Paganism, or darken one
paragraph in his splendid view of the rise and progress of
Mahometanism? But who would not have wished that the same equal
justice had been done to Christianity; that its real character
and deeply penetrating influence had been traced with the same
philosophical sagacity, and represented with more sober, as would
become its quiet course, and perhaps less picturesque, but still
with lively and attractive, descriptiveness? He might have thrown
aside, with the same scorn, the mass of ecclesiastical fiction
which envelops the early history of the church, stripped off the
legendary romance, and brought out the facts in their primitive
nakedness and simplicity—if he had but allowed those facts the
benefit of the glowing eloquence which he denied to them alone.
He might have annihilated the whole fabric of post-apostolic
miracles, if he had left uninjured by sarcastic insinuation those
of the New Testament; he might have cashiered, with Dodwell, the
whole host of martyrs, which owe their existence to the prodigal
invention of later days, had he but bestowed fair room, and dwelt
with his ordinary energy on the sufferings of the genuine
witnesses to the truth of Christianity, the Polycarps, or the
martyrs of Vienne.
And indeed, if, after all, the view of the early progress of
Christianity be melancholy and humiliating we must beware lest we
charge the whole of this on the infidelity of the historian. It
is idle, it is disingenuous, to deny or to dissemble the early
depravations of Christianity, its gradual but rapid departure
from its primitive simplicity and purity, still more, from its
spirit of universal love. It may be no unsalutary lesson to the
Christian world, that this silent, this unavoidable, perhaps, yet
fatal change shall have been drawn by an impartial, or even an
hostile hand. The Christianity of every age may take warning,
lest by its own narrow views, its want of wisdom, and its want of
charity, it give the same advantage to the future unfriendly
historian, and disparage the cause of true religion.
The design of the present edition is partly corrective, partly
supplementary: corrective, by notes, which point out (it is
hoped, in a perfectly candid and dispassionate spirit with no
desire but to establish the truth) such inaccuracies or
misstatements as may have been detected, particularly with regard
to Christianity; and which thus, with the previous caution, may
counteract to a considerable extent the unfair and unfavorable
impression created against rational religion: supplementary, by
adding such additional information as the editor’s reading may
have been able to furnish, from original documents or books, not
accessible at the time when Gibbon wrote.
The work originated in the editor’s habit of noting on the margin
of his copy of Gibbon references to such authors as had
discovered errors, or thrown new light on the subjects treated by
Gibbon. These had grown to some extent, and seemed to him likely
to be of use to others. The annotations of M. Guizot also
appeared to him worthy of being better known to the English
public than they were likely to be, as appended to the French
translation.
The chief works from which the editor has derived his materials
are, I. The French translation, with notes by M. Guizot; 2d
edition, Paris, 1828. The editor has translated almost all the
notes of M. Guizot. Where he has not altogether agreed with him,
his respect for the learning and judgment of that writer has, in
general, induced him to retain the statement from which he has
ventured to differ, with the grounds on which he formed his own
opinion. In the notes on Christianity, he has retained all those
of M. Guizot, with his own, from the conviction, that on such a
subject, to many, the authority of a French statesman, a
Protestant, and a rational and sincere Christian, would appear
more independent and unbiassed, and therefore be more commanding,
than that of an English clergyman.
The editor has not scrupled to transfer the notes of M. Guizot to
the present work. The well-known zeal for knowledge, displayed in
all the writings of that distinguished historian, has led to the
natural inference, that he would not be displeased at the attempt
to make them of use to the English readers of Gibbon. The notes
of M. Guizot are signed with the letter G.
II. The German translation, with the notes of Wenck.
Unfortunately this learned translator died, after having
completed only the first volume; the rest of the work was
executed by a very inferior hand.
The notes of Wenck are extremely valuable; many of them have been
adopted by M. Guizot; they are distinguished by the letter W.*
III. The new edition of Le Beau’s “Histoire du Bas Empire, with
notes by M. St. Martin, and M. Brosset.” That distinguished
Armenian scholar, M. St. Martin (now, unhappily, deceased) had
added much information from Oriental writers, particularly from
those of Armenia, as well as from more general sources. Many of
his observations have been found as applicable to the work of
Gibbon as to that of Le Beau.
IV. The editor has consulted the various answers made to Gibbon
on the first appearance of his work; he must confess, with little
profit. They were, in general, hastily compiled by inferior and
now forgotten writers, with the exception of Bishop Watson, whose
able apology is rather a general argument, than an examination of
misstatements. The name of Milner stands higher with a certain
class of readers, but will not carry much weight with the severe
investigator of history.
V. Some few classical works and fragments have come to light,
since the appearance of Gibbon’s History, and have been noticed
in their respective places; and much use has been made, in the
latter volumes particularly, of the increase to our stores of
Oriental literature. The editor cannot, indeed, pretend to have
followed his author, in these gleanings, over the whole vast
field of his inquiries; he may have overlooked or may not have
been able to command some works, which might have thrown still
further light on these subjects; but he trusts that what he has
adduced will be of use to the student of historic truth.
The editor would further observe, that with regard to some other
objectionable passages, which do not involve misstatement or
inaccuracy, he has intentionally abstained from directing
particular attention towards them by any special protest.
The editor’s notes are marked M.
A considerable part of the quotations (some of which in the later
editions had fallen into great confusion) have been verified, and
have been corrected by the latest and best editions of the
authors.
June, 1845.
In this new edition, the text and the notes have been carefully
revised, the latter by the editor.
Some additional notes have been subjoined, distinguished by the
signature M. 1845.
Preface Of The Author.
It is not my intention to detain the reader by expatiating on the
variety or the importance of the subject, which I have undertaken
to treat; since the merit of the choice would serve to render the
weakness of the execution still more apparent, and still less
excusable. But as I have presumed to lay before the public a
first volume only of the History of the Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire, it will, perhaps, be expected that I should
explain, in a few words, the nature and limits of my general
plan.
The memorable series of revolutions, which in the course of about
thirteen centuries gradually undermined, and at length destroyed,
the solid fabric of human greatness, may, with some propriety, be
divided into the three following periods:
I. The first of these periods may be traced from the age of
Trajan and the Antonines, when the Roman monarchy, having
attained its full strength and maturity, began to verge towards
its decline; and will extend to the subversion of the Western
Empire, by the barbarians of Germany and Scythia, the rude
ancestors of the most polished nations of modern Europe. This
extraordinary revolution, which subjected Rome to the power of a
Gothic conqueror, was completed about the beginning of the sixth
century.
II. The second period of the Decline and Fall of Rome may be
supposed to commence with the reign of Justinian, who, by his
laws, as well as by his victories, restored a transient splendor
to the Eastern Empire. It will comprehend the invasion of Italy
by the Lombards; the conquest of the Asiatic and African
provinces by the Arabs, who embraced the religion of Mahomet; the
revolt of the Roman people against the feeble princes of
Constantinople; and the elevation of Charlemagne, who, in the
year eight hundred, established the second, or German Empire of
the West.
III. The last and longest of these periods includes about six
centuries and a half; from the revival of the Western Empire,
till the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, and the
extinction of a degenerate race of princes, who continued to
assume the titles of Cæsar and Augustus, after their dominions
were contracted to the limits of a single city; in which the
language, as well as manners, of the ancient Romans, had been
long since forgotten. The writer who should undertake to relate
the events of this period, would find himself obliged to enter
into the general history of the Crusades, as far as they
contributed to the ruin of the Greek Empire; and he would
scarcely be able to restrain his curiosity from making some
inquiry into the state of the city of Rome, during the darkness
and confusion of the middle ages.
As I have ventured, perhaps too hastily, to commit to the press a
work which in every sense of the word, deserves the epithet of
imperfect. I consider myself as contracting an engagement to
finish, most probably in a second volume, the first of these
memorable periods; and to deliver to the Public the complete
History of the Decline and Fall of Rome, from the age of the
Antonines to the subversion of the Western Empire. With regard to
the subsequent periods, though I may entertain some hopes, I dare
not presume to give any assurances. The execution of the
extensive plan which I have described, would connect the ancient
and modern history of the world; but it would require many years
of health, of leisure, and of perseverance.
BENTINCK STREET, _February_ 1, 1776.
P. S. The entire History, which is now published, of the Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire in the West, abundantly discharges
my engagements with the Public. Perhaps their favorable opinion
may encourage me to prosecute a work, which, however laborious it
may seem, is the most agreeable occupation of my leisure hours.
BENTINCK STREET, _March_ 1, 1781.
An Author easily persuades himself that the public opinion is
still favorable to his labors; and I have now embraced the
serious resolution of proceeding to the last period of my
original design, and of the Roman Empire, the taking of
Constantinople by the Turks, in the year one thousand four
hundred and fifty-three. The most patient Reader, who computes
that three ponderous volumes have been already employed on the
events of four centuries, may, perhaps, be alarmed at the long
prospect of nine hundred years. But it is not my intention to
expatiate with the same minuteness on the whole series of the
Byzantine history. At our entrance into this period, the reign of
Justinian, and the conquests of the Mahometans, will deserve and
detain our attention, and the last age of Constantinople (the
Crusades and the Turks) is connected with the revolutions of
Modern Europe. From the seventh to the eleventh century, the
obscure interval will be supplied by a concise narrative of such
facts as may still appear either interesting or important.
BENTINCK STREET, _March_ 1, 1782.
Preface To The First Volume.
Diligence and accuracy are the only merits which an historical
writer may ascribe to himself; if any merit, indeed, can be
assumed from the performance of an indispensable duty. I may
therefore be allowed to say, that I have carefully examined all
the original materials that could illustrate the subject which I
had undertaken to treat. Should I ever complete the extensive
design which has been sketched out in the Preface, I might
perhaps conclude it with a critical account of the authors
consulted during the progress of the whole work; and however such
an attempt might incur the censure of ostentation, I am persuaded
that it would be susceptible of entertainment, as well as
information.
At present I shall content myself with a single observation. The
biographers, who, under the reigns of Diocletian and Constantine,
composed, or rather compiled, the lives of the Emperors, from
Hadrian to the sons of Carus, are usually mentioned under the
names of Ælius Spartianus, Julius Capitolinus, Ælius Lampridius,
Vulcatius Gallicanus, Trebellius Pollio and Flavius Vopiscus. But
there is so much perplexity in the titles of the MSS., and so
many disputes have arisen among the critics (see Fabricius,
Biblioth. Latin. l. iii. c. 6) concerning their number, their
names, and their respective property, that for the most part I
have quoted them without distinction, under the general and
well-known title of the _Augustan History._
Preface To The Fourth Volume Of The Original Quarto Edition.
I now discharge my promise, and complete my design, of writing
the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, both in
the West and the East. The whole period extends from the age of
Trajan and the Antonines, to the taking of Constantinople by
Mahomet the Second; and includes a review of the Crusades, and
the state of Rome during the middle ages. Since the publication
of the first volume, twelve years have elapsed; twelve years,
according to my wish, “of health, of leisure, and of
perseverance.” I may now congratulate my deliverance from a long
and laborious service, and my satisfaction will be pure and
perfect, if the public favor should be extended to the conclusion
of my work.
It was my first intention to have collected, under one view, the
numerous authors, of every age and language, from whom I have
derived the materials of this history; and I am still convinced
that the apparent ostentation would be more than compensated by
real use. If I have renounced this idea, if I have declined an
undertaking which had obtained the approbation of a
master-artist,* my excuse may be found in the extreme difficulty
of assigning a proper measure to such a catalogue. A naked list
of names and editions would not be satisfactory either to myself
or my readers: the characters of the principal Authors of the
Roman and Byzantine History have been occasionally connected with
the events which they describe; a more copious and critical
inquiry might indeed deserve, but it would demand, an elaborate
volume, which might swell by degrees into a general library of
historical writers. For the present, I shall content myself with
renewing my serious protestation, that I have always endeavored
to draw from the fountain-head; that my curiosity, as well as a
sense of duty, has always urged me to study the originals; and
that, if they have sometimes eluded my search, I have carefully
marked the secondary evidence, on whose faith a passage or a fact
were reduced to depend.
I shall soon revisit the banks of the Lake of Lausanne, a country
which I have known and loved from my early youth. Under a mild
government, amidst a beauteous landscape, in a life of leisure
and independence, and among a people of easy and elegant manners,
I have enjoyed, and may again hope to enjoy, the varied pleasures
of retirement and society. But I shall ever glory in the name and
character of an Englishman: I am proud of my birth in a free and
enlightened country; and the approbation of that country is the
best and most honorable reward of my labors. Were I ambitious of
any other Patron than the Public, I would inscribe this work to a
Statesman, who, in a long, a stormy, and at length an unfortunate
administration, had many political opponents, almost without a
personal enemy; who has retained, in his fall from power, many
faithful and disinterested friends; and who, under the pressure
of severe infirmity, enjoys the lively vigor of his mind, and the
felicity of his incomparable temper. Lord North will permit me to
express the feelings of friendship in the language of truth: but
even truth and friendship should be silent, if he still dispensed
the favors of the crown.
In a remote solitude, vanity may still whisper in my ear, that my
readers, perhaps, may inquire whether, in the conclusion of the
present work, I am now taking an everlasting farewell. They shall
hear all that I know myself, and all that I could reveal to the
most intimate friend. The motives of action or silence are now
equally balanced; nor can I pronounce, in my most secret
thoughts, on which side the scale will preponderate. I cannot
dissemble that six quartos must have tried, and may have
exhausted, the indulgence of the Public; that, in the repetition
of similar attempts, a successful Author has much more to lose
than he can hope to gain; that I am now descending into the vale
of years; and that the most respectable of my countrymen, the men
whom I aspire to imitate, have resigned the pen of history about
the same period of their lives. Yet I consider that the annals of
ancient and modern times may afford many rich and interesting
subjects; that I am still possessed of health and leisure; that
by the practice of writing, some skill and facility must be
acquired; and that, in the ardent pursuit of truth and knowledge,
I am not conscious of decay. To an active mind, indolence is more
painful than labor; and the first months of my liberty will be
occupied and amused in the excursions of curiosity and taste. By
such temptations, I have been sometimes seduced from the rigid
duty even of a pleasing and voluntary task: but my time will now
be my own; and in the use or abuse of independence, I shall no
longer fear my own reproaches or those of my friends. I am fairly
entitled to a year of jubilee: next summer and the following
winter will rapidly pass away; and experience only can determine
whether I shall still prefer the freedom and variety of study to
the design and composition of a regular work, which animates,
while it confines, the daily application of the Author. Caprice
and accident may influence my choice; but the dexterity of
self-love will contrive to applaud either active industry or
philosophic repose.
_Downing_ Street_, May 1, 1788._
P. S. I shall embrace this opportunity of introducing two
_verbal_ remarks, which have not conveniently offered themselves
to my notice. 1. As often as I use the definitions of _beyond_
the Alps, the Rhine, the Danube, &c., I generally suppose myself
at Rome, and afterwards at Constantinople; without observing
whether this relative geography may agree with the local, but
variable, situation of the reader, or the historian. 2. In proper
names of foreign, and especially of Oriental origin, it should be
always our aim to express, in our English version, a faithful
copy of the original. But this rule, which is founded on a just
regard to uniformity and truth, must often be relaxed; and the
exceptions will be limited or enlarged by the custom of the
language and the taste of the interpreter. Our alphabets may be
often defective; a harsh sound, an uncouth spelling, might offend
the ear or the eye of our countrymen; and some words, notoriously
corrupt, are fixed, and, as it were, naturalized in the vulgar
tongue. The prophet _Mohammed_ can no longer be stripped of the
famous, though improper, appellation of Mahomet: the well-known
cities of Aleppo, Damascus, and Cairo, would almost be lost in
the strange descriptions of _Haleb_, _Demashk_, and _Al Cahira_:
the titles and offices of the Ottoman empire are fashioned by the
practice of three hundred years; and we are pleased to blend the
three Chinese monosyllables, _Con-fû-tzee_, in the respectable
name of Confucius, or even to adopt the Portuguese corruption of
Mandarin. But I would vary the use of Zoroaster and _Zerdusht_,
as I drew my information from Greece or Persia: since our
connection with India, the genuine _Timour_ is restored to the
throne of Tamerlane: our most correct writers have retrenched the
_Al_, the superfluous article, from the Koran; and we escape an
ambiguous termination, by adopting _Moslem_ instead of Musulman,
in the plural number. In these, and in a thousand examples, the
shades of distinction are often minute; and I can feel, where I
cannot explain, the motives of my choice.
Chapter I: The Extent Of The Empire In The Age Of The
Antoninies.—Part I.
Introduction—The Extent And Military Force Of The Empire In The Age Of
The Antonines.
In the second century of the Christian Æra, the empire of Rome
comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most
civilized portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive
monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valor.
The gentle but powerful influence of laws and manners had
gradually cemented the union of the provinces. Their peaceful
inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and
luxury. The image of a free constitution was preserved with
decent reverence: the Roman senate appeared to possess the
sovereign authority, and devolved on the emperors all the
executive powers of government. During a happy period of more
than fourscore years, the public administration was conducted by
the virtue and abilities of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two
Antonines. It is the design of this, and of the two succeeding
chapters, to describe the prosperous condition of their empire;
and afterwards, from the death of Marcus Antoninus, to deduce the
most important circumstances of its decline and fall; a
revolution which will ever be remembered, and is still felt by
the nations of the earth.
The principal conquests of the Romans were achieved under the
republic; and the emperors, for the most part, were satisfied
with preserving those dominions which had been acquired by the
policy of the senate, the active emulations of the consuls, and
the martial enthusiasm of the people. The seven first centuries
were filled with a rapid succession of triumphs; but it was
reserved for Augustus to relinquish the ambitious design of
subduing the whole earth, and to introduce a spirit of moderation
into the public councils. Inclined to peace by his temper and
situation, it was easy for him to discover that Rome, in her
present exalted situation, had much less to hope than to fear
from the chance of arms; and that, in the prosecution of remote
wars, the undertaking became every day more difficult, the event
more doubtful, and the possession more precarious, and less
beneficial. The experience of Augustus added weight to these
salutary reflections, and effectually convinced him that, by the
prudent vigor of his counsels, it would be easy to secure every
concession which the safety or the dignity of Rome might require
from the most formidable barbarians. Instead of exposing his
person and his legions to the arrows of the Parthians, he
obtained, by an honorable treaty, the restitution of the
standards and prisoners which had been taken in the defeat of
Crassus.
His generals, in the early part of his reign, attempted the
reduction of Ethiopia and Arabia Felix. They marched near a
thousand miles to the south of the tropic; but the heat of the
climate soon repelled the invaders, and protected the un-warlike
natives of those sequestered regions. The northern countries of
Europe scarcely deserved the expense and labor of conquest. The
forests and morasses of Germany were filled with a hardy race of
barbarians, who despised life when it was separated from freedom;
and though, on the first attack, they seemed to yield to the
weight of the Roman power, they soon, by a signal act of despair,
regained their independence, and reminded Augustus of the
vicissitude of fortune. On the death of that emperor, his
testament was publicly read in the senate. He bequeathed, as a
valuable legacy to his successors, the advice of confining the
empire within those limits which nature seemed to have placed as
its permanent bulwarks and boundaries: on the west, the Atlantic
Ocean; the Rhine and Danube on the north; the Euphrates on the
east; and towards the south, the sandy deserts of Arabia and
Africa.
Happily for the repose of mankind, the moderate system
recommended by the wisdom of Augustus, was adopted by the fears
and vices of his immediate successors. Engaged in the pursuit of
pleasure, or in the exercise of tyranny, the first Cæsars seldom
showed themselves to the armies, or to the provinces; nor were
they disposed to suffer, that those triumphs which _their_
indolence neglected, should be usurped by the conduct and valor
of their lieutenants. The military fame of a subject was
considered as an insolent invasion of the Imperial prerogative;
and it became the duty, as well as interest, of every Roman
general, to guard the frontiers intrusted to his care, without
aspiring to conquests which might have proved no less fatal to
himself than to the vanquished barbarians.
The only accession which the Roman empire received, during the
first century of the Christian Æra, was the province of Britain.
In this single instance, the successors of Cæsar and Augustus
were persuaded to follow the example of the former, rather than
the precept of the latter. The proximity of its situation to the
coast of Gaul seemed to invite their arms; the pleasing though
doubtful intelligence of a pearl fishery attracted their avarice;
and as Britain was viewed in the light of a distinct and
insulated world, the conquest scarcely formed any exception to
the general system of continental measures. After a war of about
forty years, undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the
most dissolute, and terminated by the most timid of all the
emperors, the far greater part of the island submitted to the
Roman yoke. The various tribes of Britain possessed valor without
conduct, and the love of freedom without the spirit of union.
They took up arms with savage fierceness; they laid them down, or
turned them against each other, with wild inconsistency; and
while they fought singly, they were successively subdued. Neither
the fortitude of Caractacus, nor the despair of Boadicea, nor the
fanaticism of the Druids, could avert the slavery of their
country, or resist the steady progress of the Imperial generals,
who maintained the national glory, when the throne was disgraced
by the weakest, or the most vicious of mankind. At the very time
when Domitian, confined to his palace, felt the terrors which he
inspired, his legions, under the command of the virtuous
Agricola, defeated the collected force of the Caledonians, at the
foot of the Grampian Hills; and his fleets, venturing to explore
an unknown and dangerous navigation, displayed the Roman arms
round every part of the island. The conquest of Britain was
considered as already achieved; and it was the design of Agricola
to complete and insure his success, by the easy reduction of
Ireland, for which, in his opinion, one legion and a few
auxiliaries were sufficient. The western isle might be improved
into a valuable possession, and the Britons would wear their
chains with the less reluctance, if the prospect and example of
freedom were on every side removed from before their eyes.
But the superior merit of Agricola soon occasioned his removal
from the government of Britain; and forever disappointed this
rational, though extensive scheme of conquest. Before his
departure, the prudent general had provided for security as well
as for dominion. He had observed, that the island is almost
divided into two unequal parts by the opposite gulfs, or, as they
are now called, the Friths of Scotland. Across the narrow
interval of about forty miles, he had drawn a line of military
stations, which was afterwards fortified, in the reign of
Antoninus Pius, by a turf rampart, erected on foundations of
stone. This wall of Antoninus, at a small distance beyond the
modern cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow, was fixed as the limit of
the Roman province. The native Caledonians preserved, in the
northern extremity of the island, their wild independence, for
which they were not less indebted to their poverty than to their
valor. Their incursions were frequently repelled and chastised;
but their country was never subdued. The masters of the fairest
and most wealthy climates of the globe turned with contempt from
gloomy hills, assailed by the winter tempest, from lakes
concealed in a blue mist, and from cold and lonely heaths, over
which the deer of the forest were chased by a troop of naked
barbarians.
Such was the state of the Roman frontiers, and such the maxims of
Imperial policy, from the death of Augustus to the accession of
Trajan. That virtuous and active prince had received the
education of a soldier, and possessed the talents of a general.
The peaceful system of his predecessors was interrupted by scenes
of war and conquest; and the legions, after a long interval,
beheld a military emperor at their head. The first exploits of
Trajan were against the Dacians, the most warlike of men, who
dwelt beyond the Danube, and who, during the reign of Domitian,
had insulted, with impunity, the Majesty of Rome. To the strength
and fierceness of barbarians they added a contempt for life,
which was derived from a warm persuasion of the immortality and
transmigration of the soul. Decebalus, the Dacian king, approved
himself a rival not unworthy of Trajan; nor did he despair of his
own and the public fortune, till, by the confession of his
enemies, he had exhausted every resource both of valor and
policy. This memorable war, with a very short suspension of
hostilities, lasted five years; and as the emperor could exert,
without control, the whole force of the state, it was terminated
by an absolute submission of the barbarians. The new province of
Dacia, which formed a second exception to the precept of
Augustus, was about thirteen hundred miles in circumference. Its
natural boundaries were the Niester, the Teyss or Tibiscus, the
Lower Danube, and the Euxine Sea. The vestiges of a military road
may still be traced from the banks of the Danube to the
neighborhood of Bender, a place famous in modern history, and the
actual frontier of the Turkish and Russian empires.
Trajan was ambitious of fame; and as long as mankind shall
continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than
on their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be
the vice of the most exalted characters. The praises of
Alexander, transmitted by a succession of poets and historians,
had kindled a dangerous emulation in the mind of Trajan. Like
him, the Roman emperor undertook an expedition against the
nations of the East; but he lamented with a sigh, that his
advanced age scarcely left him any hopes of equalling the renown
of the son of Philip. Yet the success of Trajan, however
transient, was rapid and specious. The degenerate Parthians,
broken by intestine discord, fled before his arms. He descended
the River Tigris in triumph, from the mountains of Armenia to the
Persian Gulf. He enjoyed the honor of being the first, as he was
the last, of the Roman generals, who ever navigated that remote
sea. His fleets ravaged the coast of Arabia; and Trajan vainly
flattered himself that he was approaching towards the confines of
India. Every day the astonished senate received the intelligence
of new names and new nations, that acknowledged his sway. They
were informed that the kings of Bosphorus, Colchos, Iberia,
Albania, Osrhoene, and even the Parthian monarch himself, had
accepted their diadems from the hands of the emperor; that the
independent tribes of the Median and Carduchian hills had
implored his protection; and that the rich countries of Armenia,
Mesopotamia, and Assyria, were reduced into the state of
provinces. But the death of Trajan soon clouded the splendid
prospect; and it was justly to be dreaded, that so many distant
nations would throw off the unaccustomed yoke, when they were no
longer restrained by the powerful hand which had imposed it.
Chapter I: The Extent Of The Empire In The Age Of The
Antoninies.—Part II.
It was an ancient tradition, that when the Capitol was founded by
one of the Roman kings, the god Terminus (who presided over
boundaries, and was represented, according to the fashion of that
age, by a large stone) alone, among all the inferior deities,
refused to yield his place to Jupiter himself. A favorable
inference was drawn from his obstinacy, which was interpreted by
the augurs as a sure presage that the boundaries of the Roman
power would never recede. During many ages, the prediction, as it
is usual, contributed to its own accomplishment. But though
Terminus had resisted the Majesty of Jupiter, he submitted to the
authority of the emperor Hadrian. The resignation of all the
eastern conquests of Trajan was the first measure of his reign.
He restored to the Parthians the election of an independent
sovereign; withdrew the Roman garrisons from the provinces of
Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Assyria; and, in compliance with the
precept of Augustus, once more established the Euphrates as the
frontier of the empire. Censure, which arraigns the public
actions and the private motives of princes, has ascribed to envy,
a conduct which might be attributed to the prudence and
moderation of Hadrian. The various character of that emperor,
capable, by turns, of the meanest and the most generous
sentiments, may afford some color to the suspicion. It was,
however, scarcely in his power to place the superiority of his
predecessor in a more conspicuous light, than by thus confessing
himself unequal to the task of defending the conquests of Trajan.
The martial and ambitious spirit of Trajan formed a very singular
contrast with the moderation of his successor. The restless
activity of Hadrian was not less remarkable when compared with
the gentle repose of Antoninus Pius. The life of the former was
almost a perpetual journey; and as he possessed the various
talents of the soldier, the statesman, and the scholar, he
gratified his curiosity in the discharge of his duty. Careless of
the difference of seasons and of climates, he marched on foot,
and bare-headed, over the snows of Caledonia, and the sultry
plains of the Upper Egypt; nor was there a province of the empire
which, in the course of his reign, was not honored with the
presence of the monarch. But the tranquil life of Antoninus Pius
was spent in the bosom of Italy, and, during the twenty-three
years that he directed the public administration, the longest
journeys of that amiable prince extended no farther than from his
palace in Rome to the retirement of his Lanuvian villa.
Notwithstanding this difference in their personal conduct, the
general system of Augustus was equally adopted and uniformly
pursued by Hadrian and by the two Antonines. They persisted in
the design of maintaining the dignity of the empire, without
attempting to enlarge its limits. By every honorable expedient
they invited the friendship of the barbarians; and endeavored to
convince mankind that the Roman power, raised above the
temptation of conquest, was actuated only by the love of order
and justice. During a long period of forty-three years, their
virtuous labors were crowned with success; and if we except a few
slight hostilities, that served to exercise the legions of the
frontier, the reigns of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius offer the fair
prospect of universal peace. The Roman name was revered among the
most remote nations of the earth. The fiercest barbarians
frequently submitted their differences to the arbitration of the
emperor; and we are informed by a contemporary historian that he
had seen ambassadors who were refused the honor which they came
to solicit of being admitted into the rank of subjects.
The terror of the Roman arms added weight and dignity to the
moderation of the emperors. They preserved peace by a constant
preparation for war; and while justice regulated their conduct,
they announced to the nations on their confines, that they were
as little disposed to endure, as to offer an injury. The military
strength, which it had been sufficient for Hadrian and the elder
Antoninus to display, was exerted against the Parthians and the
Germans by the emperor Marcus. The hostilities of the barbarians
provoked the resentment of that philosophic monarch, and, in the
prosecution of a just defence, Marcus and his generals obtained
many signal victories, both on the Euphrates and on the Danube.
The military establishment of the Roman empire, which thus
assured either its tranquillity or success, will now become the
proper and important object of our attention.
In the purer ages of the commonwealth, the use of arms was
reserved for those ranks of citizens who had a country to love, a
property to defend, and some share in enacting those laws, which
it was their interest as well as duty to maintain. But in
proportion as the public freedom was lost in extent of conquest,
war was gradually improved into an art, and degraded into a
trade. The legions themselves, even at the time when they were
recruited in the most distant provinces, were supposed to consist
of Roman citizens. That distinction was generally considered,
either as a legal qualification or as a proper recompense for the
soldier; but a more serious regard was paid to the essential
merit of age, strength, and military stature. In all levies, a
just preference was given to the climates of the North over those
of the South: the race of men born to the exercise of arms was
sought for in the country rather than in cities; and it was very
reasonably presumed, that the hardy occupations of smiths,
carpenters, and huntsmen, would supply more vigor and resolution
than the sedentary trades which are employed in the service of
luxury. After every qualification of property had been laid
aside, the armies of the Roman emperors were still commanded, for
the most part, by officers of liberal birth and education; but
the common soldiers, like the mercenary troops of modern Europe,
were drawn from the meanest, and very frequently from the most
profligate, of mankind.
That public virtue, which among the ancients was denominated
patriotism, is derived from a strong sense of our own interest in
the preservation and prosperity of the free government of which
we are members. Such a sentiment, which had rendered the legions
of the republic almost invincible, could make but a very feeble
impression on the mercenary servants of a despotic prince; and it
became necessary to supply that defect by other motives, of a
different, but not less forcible nature—honor and religion. The
peasant, or mechanic, imbibed the useful prejudice that he was
advanced to the more dignified profession of arms, in which his
rank and reputation would depend on his own valor; and that,
although the prowess of a private soldier must often escape the
notice of fame, his own behavior might sometimes confer glory or
disgrace on the company, the legion, or even the army, to whose
honors he was associated. On his first entrance into the service,
an oath was administered to him with every circumstance of
solemnity. He promised never to desert his standard, to submit
his own will to the commands of his leaders, and to sacrifice his
life for the safety of the emperor and the empire. The attachment
of the Roman troops to their standards was inspired by the united
influence of religion and of honor. The golden eagle, which
glittered in the front of the legion, was the object of their
fondest devotion; nor was it esteemed less impious than it was
ignominious, to abandon that sacred ensign in the hour of danger.
These motives, which derived their strength from the imagination,
were enforced by fears and hopes of a more substantial kind.
Regular pay, occasional donatives, and a stated recompense, after
the appointed time of service, alleviated the hardships of the
military life, whilst, on the other hand, it was impossible for
cowardice or disobedience to escape the severest punishment. The
centurions were authorized to chastise with blows, the generals
had a right to punish with death; and it was an inflexible maxim
of Roman discipline, that a good soldier should dread his
officers far more than the enemy. From such laudable arts did the
valor of the Imperial troops receive a degree of firmness and
docility unattainable by the impetuous and irregular passions of
barbarians.
And yet so sensible were the Romans of the imperfection of valor
without skill and practice, that, in their language, the name of
an army was borrowed from the word which signified exercise.
Military exercises were the important and unremitted object of
their discipline. The recruits and young soldiers were constantly
trained, both in the morning and in the evening, nor was age or
knowledge allowed to excuse the veterans from the daily
repetition of what they had completely learnt. Large sheds were
erected in the winter-quarters of the troops, that their useful
labors might not receive any interruption from the most
tempestuous weather; and it was carefully observed, that the arms
destined to this imitation of war, should be of double the weight
which was required in real action. It is not the purpose of this
work to enter into any minute description of the Roman exercises.
We shall only remark, that they comprehended whatever could add
strength to the body, activity to the limbs, or grace to the
motions. The soldiers were diligently instructed to march, to
run, to leap, to swim, to carry heavy burdens, to handle every
species of arms that was used either for offence or for defence,
either in distant engagement or in a closer onset; to form a
variety of evolutions; and to move to the sound of flutes in the
Pyrrhic or martial dance. In the midst of peace, the Roman troops
familiarized themselves with the practice of war; and it is
prettily remarked by an ancient historian who had fought against
them, that the effusion of blood was the only circumstance which
distinguished a field of battle from a field of exercise.* It was
the policy of the ablest generals, and even of the emperors
themselves, to encourage these military studies by their presence
and example; and we are informed that Hadrian, as well as Trajan,
frequently condescended to instruct the unexperienced soldiers,
to reward the diligent, and sometimes to dispute with them the
prize of superior strength or dexterity. Under the reigns of
those princes, the science of tactics was cultivated with
success; and as long as the empire retained any vigor, their
military instructions were respected as the most perfect model of
Roman discipline.
Nine centuries of war had gradually introduced into the service
many alterations and improvements. The legions, as they are
described by Polybius, in the time of the Punic wars, differed
very materially from those which achieved the victories of Cæsar,
or defended the monarchy of Hadrian and the Antonines. The
constitution of the Imperial legion may be described in a few
words. The heavy-armed infantry, which composed its principal
strength, was divided into ten cohorts, and fifty-five companies,
under the orders of a correspondent number of tribunes and
centurions. The first cohort, which always claimed the post of
honor and the custody of the eagle, was formed of eleven hundred
and five soldiers, the most approved for valor and fidelity. The
remaining nine cohorts consisted each of five hundred and
fifty-five; and the whole body of legionary infantry amounted to
six thousand one hundred men. Their arms were uniform, and
admirably adapted to the nature of their service: an open helmet,
with a lofty crest; a breastplate, or coat of mail; greaves on
their legs, and an ample buckler on their left arm. The buckler
was of an oblong and concave figure, four feet in length, and two
and a half in breadth, framed of a light wood, covered with a
bull’s hide, and strongly guarded with plates of brass. Besides a
lighter spear, the legionary soldier grasped in his right hand
the formidable _pilum_, a ponderous javelin, whose utmost length
was about six feet, and which was terminated by a massy
triangular point of steel of eighteen inches. This instrument was
indeed much inferior to our modern fire-arms; since it was
exhausted by a single discharge, at the distance of only ten or
twelve paces. Yet when it was launched by a firm and skilful
hand, there was not any cavalry that durst venture within its
reach, nor any shield or corselet that could sustain the
impetuosity of its weight. As soon as the Roman had darted his
_pilum_, he drew his sword, and rushed forwards to close with the
enemy. His sword was a short well-tempered Spanish blade, that
carried a double edge, and was alike suited to the purpose of
striking or of pushing; but the soldier was always instructed to
prefer the latter use of his weapon, as his own body remained
less exposed, whilst he inflicted a more dangerous wound on his
adversary. The legion was usually drawn up eight deep; and the
regular distance of three feet was left between the files as well
as ranks. A body of troops, habituated to preserve this open
order, in a long front and a rapid charge, found themselves
prepared to execute every disposition which the circumstances of
war, or the skill of their leader, might suggest. The soldier
possessed a free space for his arms and motions, and sufficient
intervals were allowed, through which seasonable reinforcements
might be introduced to the relief of the exhausted combatants.
The tactics of the Greeks and Macedonians were formed on very
different principles. The strength of the phalanx depended on
sixteen ranks of long pikes, wedged together in the closest
array. But it was soon discovered by reflection, as well as by
the event, that the strength of the phalanx was unable to contend
with the activity of the legion.
The cavalry, without which the force of the legion would have
remained imperfect, was divided into ten troops or squadrons; the
first, as the companion of the first cohort, consisted of a
hundred and thirty-two men; whilst each of the other nine
amounted only to sixty-six. The entire establishment formed a
regiment, if we may use the modern expression, of seven hundred
and twenty-six horse, naturally connected with its respective
legion, but occasionally separated to act in the line, and to
compose a part of the wings of the army. The cavalry of the
emperors was no longer composed, like that of the ancient
republic, of the noblest youths of Rome and Italy, who, by
performing their military service on horseback, prepared
themselves for the offices of senator and consul; and solicited,
by deeds of valor, the future suffrages of their countrymen.
Since the alteration of manners and government, the most wealthy
of the equestrian order were engaged in the administration of
justice, and of the revenue; and whenever they embraced the
profession of arms, they were immediately intrusted with a troop
of horse, or a cohort of foot. Trajan and Hadrian formed their
cavalry from the same provinces, and the same class of their
subjects, which recruited the ranks of the legion. The horses
were bred, for the most part, in Spain or Cappadocia. The Roman
troopers despised the complete armor with which the cavalry of
the East was encumbered. _Their_ more useful arms consisted in a
helmet, an oblong shield, light boots, and a coat of mail. A
javelin, and a long broad sword, were their principal weapons of
offence. The use of lances and of iron maces they seem to have
borrowed from the barbarians.
The safety and honor of the empire was principally intrusted to
the legions, but the policy of Rome condescended to adopt every
useful instrument of war. Considerable levies were regularly made
among the provincials, who had not yet deserved the honorable
distinction of Romans. Many dependent princes and communities,
dispersed round the frontiers, were permitted, for a while, to
hold their freedom and security by the tenure of military
service. Even select troops of hostile barbarians were frequently
compelled or persuaded to consume their dangerous valor in remote
climates, and for the benefit of the state. All these were
included under the general name of auxiliaries; and howsoever
they might vary according to the difference of times and
circumstances, their numbers were seldom much inferior to those
of the legions themselves. Among the auxiliaries, the bravest and
most faithful bands were placed under the command of præfects and
centurions, and severely trained in the arts of Roman discipline;
but the far greater part retained those arms, to which the nature
of their country, or their early habits of life, more peculiarly
adapted them. By this institution, each legion, to whom a certain
proportion of auxiliaries was allotted, contained within itself
every species of lighter troops, and of missile weapons; and was
capable of encountering every nation, with the advantages of its
respective arms and discipline. Nor was the legion destitute of
what, in modern language, would be styled a train of artillery.
It consisted in ten military engines of the largest, and
fifty-five of a smaller size; but all of which, either in an
oblique or horizontal manner, discharged stones and darts with
irresistible violence.
Chapter I: The Extent Of The Empire In The Age Of The
Antoninies.—Part III.
The camp of a Roman legion presented the appearance of a
fortified city. As soon as the space was marked out, the pioneers
carefully levelled the ground, and removed every impediment that
might interrupt its perfect regularity. Its form was an exact
quadrangle; and we may calculate, that a square of about seven
hundred yards was sufficient for the encampment of twenty
thousand Romans; though a similar number of our own troops would
expose to the enemy a front of more than treble that extent. In
the midst of the camp, the prætorium, or general’s quarters, rose
above the others; the cavalry, the infantry, and the auxiliaries
occupied their respective stations; the streets were broad and
perfectly straight, and a vacant space of two hundred feet was
left on all sides between the tents and the rampart. The rampart
itself was usually twelve feet high, armed with a line of strong
and intricate palisades, and defended by a ditch of twelve feet
in depth as well as in breadth. This important labor was
performed by the hands of the legionaries themselves; to whom the
use of the spade and the pickaxe was no less familiar than that
of the sword or _pilum_. Active valor may often be the present of
nature; but such patient diligence can be the fruit only of habit
and discipline.
Whenever the trumpet gave the signal of departure, the camp was
almost instantly broke up, and the troops fell into their ranks
without delay or confusion. Besides their arms, which the
legionaries scarcely considered as an encumbrance, they were
laden with their kitchen furniture, the instruments of
fortification, and the provision of many days. Under this weight,
which would oppress the delicacy of a modern soldier, they were
trained by a regular step to advance, in about six hours, near
twenty miles. On the appearance of an enemy, they threw aside
their baggage, and by easy and rapid evolutions converted the
column of march into an order of battle. The slingers and archers
skirmished in the front; the auxiliaries formed the first line,
and were seconded or sustained by the strength of the legions;
the cavalry covered the flanks, and the military engines were
placed in the rear.
Such were the arts of war, by which the Roman emperors defended
their extensive conquests, and preserved a military spirit, at a
time when every other virtue was oppressed by luxury and
despotism. If, in the consideration of their armies, we pass from
their discipline to their numbers, we shall not find it easy to
define them with any tolerable accuracy. We may compute, however,
that the legion, which was itself a body of six thousand eight
hundred and thirty-one Romans, might, with its attendant
auxiliaries, amount to about twelve thousand five hundred men.
The peace establishment of Hadrian and his successors was
composed of no less than thirty of these formidable brigades; and
most probably formed a standing force of three hundred and
seventy-five thousand men. Instead of being confined within the
walls of fortified cities, which the Romans considered as the
refuge of weakness or pusillanimity, the legions were encamped on
the banks of the great rivers, and along the frontiers of the
barbarians. As their stations, for the most part, remained fixed
and permanent, we may venture to describe the distribution of the
troops. Three legions were sufficient for Britain. The principal
strength lay upon the Rhine and Danube, and consisted of sixteen
legions, in the following proportions: two in the Lower, and
three in the Upper Germany; one in Rhætia, one in Noricum, four
in Pannonia, three in Mæsia, and two in Dacia. The defence of the
Euphrates was intrusted to eight legions, six of whom were
planted in Syria, and the other two in Cappadocia. With regard to
Egypt, Africa, and Spain, as they were far removed from any
important scene of war, a single legion maintained the domestic
tranquillity of each of those great provinces. Even Italy was not
left destitute of a military force. Above twenty thousand chosen
soldiers, distinguished by the titles of City Cohorts and
Prætorian Guards, watched over the safety of the monarch and the
capital. As the authors of almost every revolution that
distracted the empire, the Prætorians will, very soon, and very
loudly, demand our attention; but, in their arms and
institutions, we cannot find any circumstance which discriminated
them from the legions, unless it were a more splendid appearance,
and a less rigid discipline.
The navy maintained by the emperors might seem inadequate to
their greatness; but it was fully sufficient for every useful
purpose of government. The ambition of the Romans was confined to
the land; nor was that warlike people ever actuated by the
enterprising spirit which had prompted the navigators of Tyre, of
Carthage, and even of Marseilles, to enlarge the bounds of the
world, and to explore the most remote coasts of the ocean. To the
Romans the ocean remained an object of terror rather than of
curiosity; the whole extent of the Mediterranean, after the
destruction of Carthage, and the extirpation of the pirates, was
included within their provinces. The policy of the emperors was
directed only to preserve the peaceful dominion of that sea, and
to protect the commerce of their subjects. With these moderate
views, Augustus stationed two permanent fleets in the most
convenient ports of Italy, the one at Ravenna, on the Adriatic,
the other at Misenum, in the Bay of Naples. Experience seems at
length to have convinced the ancients, that as soon as their
galleys exceeded two, or at the most three ranks of oars, they
were suited rather for vain pomp than for real service. Augustus
himself, in the victory of Actium, had seen the superiority of
his own light frigates (they were called Liburnians) over the
lofty but unwieldy castles of his rival. Of these Liburnians he
composed the two fleets of Ravenna and Misenum, destined to
command, the one the eastern, the other the western division of
the Mediterranean; and to each of the squadrons he attached a
body of several thousand marines. Besides these two ports, which
may be considered as the principal seats of the Roman navy, a
very considerable force was stationed at Frejus, on the coast of
Provence, and the Euxine was guarded by forty ships, and three
thousand soldiers. To all these we add the fleet which preserved
the communication between Gaul and Britain, and a great number of
vessels constantly maintained on the Rhine and Danube, to harass
the country, or to intercept the passage of the barbarians. If we
review this general state of the Imperial forces; of the cavalry
as well as infantry; of the legions, the auxiliaries, the guards,
and the navy; the most liberal computation will not allow us to
fix the entire establishment by sea and by land at more than four
hundred and fifty thousand men: a military power, which, however
formidable it may seem, was equalled by a monarch of the last
century, whose kingdom was confined within a single province of
the Roman empire.
We have attempted to explain the spirit which moderated, and the
strength which supported, the power of Hadrian and the Antonines.
We shall now endeavor, with clearness and precision, to describe
the provinces once united under their sway, but, at present,
divided into so many independent and hostile states.
Spain, the western extremity of the empire, of Europe, and of the
ancient world, has, in every age, invariably preserved the same
natural limits; the Pyrenæan Mountains, the Mediterranean, and
the Atlantic Ocean. That great peninsula, at present so unequally
divided between two sovereigns, was distributed by Augustus into
three provinces, Lusitania, Bætica, and Tarraconensis. The
kingdom of Portugal now fills the place of the warlike country of
the Lusitanians; and the loss sustained by the former on the side
of the East, is compensated by an accession of territory towards
the North. The confines of Grenada and Andalusia correspond with
those of ancient Bætica. The remainder of Spain, Gallicia, and
the Asturias, Biscay, and Navarre, Leon, and the two Castiles,
Murcia, Valencia, Catalonia, and Arragon, all contributed to form
the third and most considerable of the Roman governments, which,
from the name of its capital, was styled the province of
Tarragona. Of the native barbarians, the Celtiberians were the
most powerful, as the Cantabrians and Asturians proved the most
obstinate. Confident in the strength of their mountains, they
were the last who submitted to the arms of Rome, and the first
who threw off the yoke of the Arabs.
Ancient Gaul, as it contained the whole country between the
Pyrenees, the Alps, the Rhine, and the Ocean, was of greater
extent than modern France. To the dominions of that powerful
monarchy, with its recent acquisitions of Alsace and Lorraine, we
must add the duchy of Savoy, the cantons of Switzerland, the four
electorates of the Rhine, and the territories of Liege,
Luxemburgh, Hainault, Flanders, and Brabant. When Augustus gave
laws to the conquests of his father, he introduced a division of
Gaul, equally adapted to the progress of the legions, to the
course of the rivers, and to the principal national distinctions,
which had comprehended above a hundred independent states. The
sea-coast of the Mediterranean, Languedoc, Provence, and
Dauphiné, received their provincial appellation from the colony
of Narbonne. The government of Aquitaine was extended from the
Pyrenees to the Loire. The country between the Loire and the
Seine was styled the Celtic Gaul, and soon borrowed a new
denomination from the celebrated colony of Lugdunum, or Lyons.
The Belgic lay beyond the Seine, and in more ancient times had
been bounded only by the Rhine; but a little before the age of
Cæsar, the Germans, abusing their superiority of valor, had
occupied a considerable portion of the Belgic territory. The
Roman conquerors very eagerly embraced so flattering a
circumstance, and the Gallic frontier of the Rhine, from Basil to
Leyden, received the pompous names of the Upper and the Lower
Germany. Such, under the reign of the Antonines, were the six
provinces of Gaul; the Narbonnese, Aquitaine, the Celtic, or
Lyonnese, the Belgic, and the two Germanies.
We have already had occasion to mention the conquest of Britain,
and to fix the boundary of the Roman Province in this island. It
comprehended all England, Wales, and the Lowlands of Scotland, as
far as the Friths of Dumbarton and Edinburgh. Before Britain lost
her freedom, the country was irregularly divided between thirty
tribes of barbarians, of whom the most considerable were the
Belgæ in the West, the Brigantes in the North, the Silures in
South Wales, and the Iceni in Norfolk and Suffolk. As far as we
can either trace or credit the resemblance of manners and
language, Spain, Gaul, and Britain were peopled by the same hardy
race of savages. Before they yielded to the Roman arms, they
often disputed the field, and often renewed the contest. After
their submission, they constituted the western division of the
European provinces, which extended from the columns of Hercules
to the wall of Antoninus, and from the mouth of the Tagus to the
sources of the Rhine and Danube.
Before the Roman conquest, the country which is now called
Lombardy, was not considered as a part of Italy. It had been
occupied by a powerful colony of Gauls, who, settling themselves
along the banks of the Po, from Piedmont to Romagna, carried
their arms and diffused their name from the Alps to the Apennine.
The Ligurians dwelt on the rocky coast which now forms the
republic of Genoa. Venice was yet unborn; but the territories of
that state, which lie to the east of the Adige, were inhabited by
the Venetians. The middle part of the peninsula, that now
composes the duchy of Tuscany and the ecclesiastical state, was
the ancient seat of the Etruscans and Umbrians; to the former of
whom Italy was indebted for the first rudiments of civilized
life. The Tyber rolled at the foot of the seven hills of Rome,
and the country of the Sabines, the Latins, and the Volsci, from
that river to the frontiers of Naples, was the theatre of her
infant victories. On that celebrated ground the first consuls
deserved triumphs, their successors adorned villas, and their
posterity have erected convents. Capua and Campania possessed the
immediate territory of Naples; the rest of the kingdom was
inhabited by many warlike nations, the Marsi, the Samnites, the
Apulians, and the Lucanians; and the sea-coasts had been covered
by the flourishing colonies of the Greeks. We may remark, that
when Augustus divided Italy into eleven regions, the little
province of Istria was annexed to that seat of Roman sovereignty.
The European provinces of Rome were protected by the course of
the Rhine and the Danube. The latter of those mighty streams,
which rises at the distance of only thirty miles from the former,
flows above thirteen hundred miles, for the most part to the
south-east, collects the tribute of sixty navigable rivers, and
is, at length, through six mouths, received into the Euxine,
which appears scarcely equal to such an accession of waters. The
provinces of the Danube soon acquired the general appellation of
Illyricum, or the Illyrian frontier, and were esteemed the most
warlike of the empire; but they deserve to be more particularly
considered under the names of Rhætia, Noricum, Pannonia,
Dalmatia, Dacia, Mæsia, Thrace, Macedonia, and Greece.
The province of Rhætia, which soon extinguished the name of the
Vindelicians, extended from the summit of the Alps to the banks
of the Danube; from its source, as far as its conflux with the
Inn. The greatest part of the flat country is subject to the
elector of Bavaria; the city of Augsburg is protected by the
constitution of the German empire; the Grisons are safe in their
mountains, and the country of Tirol is ranked among the numerous
provinces of the house of Austria.
The wide extent of territory which is included between the Inn,
the Danube, and the Save,—Austria, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola,
the Lower Hungary, and Sclavonia,—was known to the ancients under
the names of Noricum and Pannonia. In their original state of
independence, their fierce inhabitants were intimately connected.
Under the Roman government they were frequently united, and they
still remain the patrimony of a single family. They now contain
the residence of a German prince, who styles himself Emperor of
the Romans, and form the centre, as well as strength, of the
Austrian power. It may not be improper to observe, that if we
except Bohemia, Moravia, the northern skirts of Austria, and a
part of Hungary between the Teyss and the Danube, all the other
dominions of the House of Austria were comprised within the
limits of the Roman Empire.
Dalmatia, to which the name of Illyricum more properly belonged,
was a long, but narrow tract, between the Save and the Adriatic.
The best part of the sea-coast, which still retains its ancient
appellation, is a province of the Venetian state, and the seat of
the little republic of Ragusa. The inland parts have assumed the
Sclavonian names of Croatia and Bosnia; the former obeys an
Austrian governor, the latter a Turkish pacha; but the whole
country is still infested by tribes of barbarians, whose savage
independence irregularly marks the doubtful limit of the
Christian and Mahometan power.
After the Danube had received the waters of the Teyss and the
Save, it acquired, at least among the Greeks, the name of Ister.
It formerly divided Mæsia and Dacia, the latter of which, as we
have already seen, was a conquest of Trajan, and the only
province beyond the river. If we inquire into the present state
of those countries, we shall find that, on the left hand of the
Danube, Temeswar and Transylvania have been annexed, after many
revolutions, to the crown of Hungary; whilst the principalities
of Moldavia and Wallachia acknowledge the supremacy of the
Ottoman Porte. On the right hand of the Danube, Mæsia, which,
during the middle ages, was broken into the barbarian kingdoms of
Servia and Bulgaria, is again united in Turkish slavery.
The appellation of Roumelia, which is still bestowed by the Turks
on the extensive countries of Thrace, Macedonia, and Greece,
preserves the memory of their ancient state under the Roman
empire. In the time of the Antonines, the martial regions of
Thrace, from the mountains of Hæmus and Rhodope, to the Bosphorus
and the Hellespont, had assumed the form of a province.
Notwithstanding the change of masters and of religion, the new
city of Rome, founded by Constantine on the banks of the
Bosphorus, has ever since remained the capital of a great
monarchy. The kingdom of Macedonia, which, under the reign of
Alexander, gave laws to Asia, derived more solid advantages from
the policy of the two Philips; and with its dependencies of
Epirus and Thessaly, extended from the Ægean to the Ionian Sea.
When we reflect on the fame of Thebes and Argos, of Sparta and
Athens, we can scarcely persuade ourselves, that so many immortal
republics of ancient Greece were lost in a single province of the
Roman empire, which, from the superior influence of the Achæan
league, was usually denominated the province of Achaia.
Such was the state of Europe under the Roman emperors. The
provinces of Asia, without excepting the transient conquests of
Trajan, are all comprehended within the limits of the Turkish
power. But, instead of following the arbitrary divisions of
despotism and ignorance, it will be safer for us, as well as more
agreeable, to observe the indelible characters of nature. The
name of Asia Minor is attributed with some propriety to the
peninsula, which, confined betwixt the Euxine and the
Mediterranean, advances from the Euphrates towards Europe. The
most extensive and flourishing district, westward of Mount Taurus
and the River Halys, was dignified by the Romans with the
exclusive title of Asia. The jurisdiction of that province
extended over the ancient monarchies of Troy, Lydia, and Phrygia,
the maritime countries of the Pamphylians, Lycians, and Carians,
and the Grecian colonies of Ionia, which equalled in arts, though
not in arms, the glory of their parent. The kingdoms of Bithynia
and Pontus possessed the northern side of the peninsula from
Constantinople to Trebizond. On the opposite side, the province
of Cilicia was terminated by the mountains of Syria: the inland
country, separated from the Roman Asia by the River Halys, and
from Armenia by the Euphrates, had once formed the independent
kingdom of Cappadocia. In this place we may observe, that the
northern shores of the Euxine, beyond Trebizond in Asia, and
beyond the Danube in Europe, acknowledged the sovereignty of the
emperors, and received at their hands either tributary princes or
Roman garrisons. Budzak, Crim Tartary, Circassia, and Mingrelia,
are the modern appellations of those savage countries.
Under the successors of Alexander, Syria was the seat of the
Seleucidæ, who reigned over Upper Asia, till the successful
revolt of the Parthians confined their dominions between the
Euphrates and the Mediterranean. When Syria became subject to the
Romans, it formed the eastern frontier of their empire: nor did
that province, in its utmost latitude, know any other bounds than
the mountains of Cappadocia to the north, and towards the south,
the confines of Egypt, and the Red Sea. Phœnicia and Palestine
were sometimes annexed to, and sometimes separated from, the
jurisdiction of Syria. The former of these was a narrow and rocky
coast; the latter was a territory scarcely superior to Wales,
either in fertility or extent. * Yet Phœnicia and Palestine will
forever live in the memory of mankind; since America, as well as
Europe, has received letters from the one, and religion from the
other. A sandy desert, alike destitute of wood and water, skirts
along the doubtful confine of Syria, from the Euphrates to the
Red Sea. The wandering life of the Arabs was inseparably
connected with their independence; and wherever, on some spots
less barren than the rest, they ventured to for many settled
habitations, they soon became subjects to the Roman empire.
The geographers of antiquity have frequently hesitated to what
portion of the globe they should ascribe Egypt. By its situation
that celebrated kingdom is included within the immense peninsula
of Africa; but it is accessible only on the side of Asia, whose
revolutions, in almost every period of history, Egypt has humbly
obeyed. A Roman præfect was seated on the splendid throne of the
Ptolemies; and the iron sceptre of the Mamelukes is now in the
hands of a Turkish pacha. The Nile flows down the country, above
five hundred miles from the tropic of Cancer to the
Mediterranean, and marks on either side the extent of fertility
by the measure of its inundations. Cyrene, situate towards the
west, and along the sea-coast, was first a Greek colony,
afterwards a province of Egypt, and is now lost in the desert of
Barca. *
From Cyrene to the ocean, the coast of Africa extends above
fifteen hundred miles; yet so closely is it pressed between the
Mediterranean and the Sahara, or sandy desert, that its breadth
seldom exceeds fourscore or a hundred miles. The eastern division
was considered by the Romans as the more peculiar and proper
province of Africa. Till the arrival of the Phœnician colonies,
that fertile country was inhabited by the Libyans, the most
savage of mankind. Under the immediate jurisdiction of Carthage,
it became the centre of commerce and empire; but the republic of
Carthage is now degenerated into the feeble and disorderly states
of Tripoli and Tunis. The military government of Algiers
oppresses the wide extent of Numidia, as it was once united under
Massinissa and Jugurtha; but in the time of Augustus, the limits
of Numidia were contracted; and, at least, two thirds of the
country acquiesced in the name of Mauritania, with the epithet of
Cæsariensis. The genuine Mauritania, or country of the Moors,
which, from the ancient city of Tingi, or Tangier, was
distinguished by the appellation of Tingitana, is represented by
the modern kingdom of Fez. Salle, on the Ocean, so infamous at
present for its piratical depredations, was noticed by the
Romans, as the extreme object of their power, and almost of their
geography. A city of their foundation may still be discovered
near Mequinez, the residence of the barbarian whom we condescend
to style the Emperor of Morocco; but it does not appear, that his
more southern dominions, Morocco itself, and Segelmessa, were
ever comprehended within the Roman province. The western parts of
Africa are intersected by the branches of Mount Atlas, a name so
idly celebrated by the fancy of poets; but which is now diffused
over the immense ocean that rolls between the ancient and the new
continent.
Having now finished the circuit of the Roman empire, we may
observe, that Africa is divided from Spain by a narrow strait of
about twelve miles, through which the Atlantic flows into the
Mediterranean. The columns of Hercules, so famous among the
ancients, were two mountains which seemed to have been torn
asunder by some convulsion of the elements; and at the foot of
the European mountain, the fortress of Gibraltar is now seated.
The whole extent of the Mediterranean Sea, its coasts and its
islands, were comprised within the Roman dominion. Of the larger
islands, the two Baleares, which derive their name of Majorca and
Minorca from their respective size, are subject at present, the
former to Spain, the latter to Great Britain. * It is easier to
deplore the fate, than to describe the actual condition, of
Corsica. Two Italian sovereigns assume a regal title from
Sardinia and Sicily. Crete, or Candia, with Cyprus, and most of
the smaller islands of Greece and Asia, have been subdued by the
Turkish arms, whilst the little rock of Malta defies their power,
and has emerged, under the government of its military Order, into
fame and opulence.
This long enumeration of provinces, whose broken fragments have
formed so many powerful kingdoms, might almost induce us to
forgive the vanity or ignorance of the ancients. Dazzled with the
extensive sway, the irresistible strength, and the real or
affected moderation of the emperors, they permitted themselves to
despise, and sometimes to forget, the outlying countries which
had been left in the enjoyment of a barbarous independence; and
they gradually usurped the license of confounding the Roman
monarchy with the globe of the earth. But the temper, as well as
knowledge, of a modern historian, require a more sober and
accurate language. He may impress a juster image of the greatness
of Rome, by observing that the empire was above two thousand
miles in breadth, from the wall of Antoninus and the northern
limits of Dacia, to Mount Atlas and the tropic of Cancer; that it
extended in length more than three thousand miles from the
Western Ocean to the Euphrates; that it was situated in the
finest part of the Temperate Zone, between the twenty-fourth and
fifty-sixth degrees of northern latitude; and that it was
supposed to contain above sixteen hundred thousand square miles,
for the most part of fertile and well-cultivated land.
Chapter II: The Internal Prosperity In The Age Of The
Antonines.—Part I.
Of The Union And Internal Prosperity Of The Roman Empire, In The Age Of
The Antonines.
It is not alone by the rapidity, or extent of conquest, that we
should estimate the greatness of Rome. The sovereign of the
Russian deserts commands a larger portion of the globe. In the
seventh summer after his passage of the Hellespont, Alexander
erected the Macedonian trophies on the banks of the Hyphasis.
Within less than a century, the irresistible Zingis, and the
Mogul princes of his race, spread their cruel devastations and
transient empire from the Sea of China, to the confines of Egypt
and Germany. But the firm edifice of Roman power was raised and
preserved by the wisdom of ages. The obedient provinces of Trajan
and the Antonines were united by laws, and adorned by arts. They
might occasionally suffer from the partial abuse of delegated
authority; but the general principle of government was wise,
simple, and beneficent. They enjoyed the religion of their
ancestors, whilst in civil honors and advantages they were
exalted, by just degrees, to an equality with their conquerors.
I. The policy of the emperors and the senate, as far as it
concerned religion, was happily seconded by the reflections of
the enlightened, and by the habits of the superstitious, part of
their subjects. The various modes of worship, which prevailed in
the Roman world, were all considered by the people, as equally
true; by the philosopher, as equally false; and by the
magistrate, as equally useful. And thus toleration produced not
only mutual indulgence, but even religious concord.
The superstition of the people was not imbittered by any mixture
of theological rancor; nor was it confined by the chains of any
speculative system. The devout polytheist, though fondly attached
to his national rites, admitted with implicit faith the different
religions of the earth. Fear, gratitude, and curiosity, a dream
or an omen, a singular disorder, or a distant journey,
perpetually disposed him to multiply the articles of his belief,
and to enlarge the list of his protectors. The thin texture of
the Pagan mythology was interwoven with various but not
discordant materials. As soon as it was allowed that sages and
heroes, who had lived or who had died for the benefit of their
country, were exalted to a state of power and immortality, it was
universally confessed, that they deserved, if not the adoration,
at least the reverence, of all mankind. The deities of a thousand
groves and a thousand streams possessed, in peace, their local
and respective influence; nor could the Romans who deprecated the
wrath of the Tiber, deride the Egyptian who presented his
offering to the beneficent genius of the Nile. The visible powers
of nature, the planets, and the elements were the same throughout
the universe. The invisible governors of the moral world were
inevitably cast in a similar mould of fiction and allegory. Every
virtue, and even vice, acquired its divine representative; every
art and profession its patron, whose attributes, in the most
distant ages and countries, were uniformly derived from the
character of their peculiar votaries. A republic of gods of such
opposite tempers and interests required, in every system, the
moderating hand of a supreme magistrate, who, by the progress of
knowledge and flattery, was gradually invested with the sublime
perfections of an Eternal Parent, and an Omnipotent Monarch. Such
was the mild spirit of antiquity, that the nations were less
attentive to the difference, than to the resemblance, of their
religious worship. The Greek, the Roman, and the Barbarian, as
they met before their respective altars, easily persuaded
themselves, that under various names, and with various
ceremonies, they adored the same deities. The elegant mythology
of Homer gave a beautiful, and almost a regular form, to the
polytheism of the ancient world.
The philosophers of Greece deduced their morals from the nature
of man, rather than from that of God. They meditated, however, on
the Divine Nature, as a very curious and important speculation;
and in the profound inquiry, they displayed the strength and
weakness of the human understanding. Of the four most celebrated
schools, the Stoics and the Platonists endeavored to reconcile
the jaring interests of reason and piety. They have left us the
most sublime proofs of the existence and perfections of the first
cause; but, as it was impossible for them to conceive the
creation of matter, the workman in the Stoic philosophy was not
sufficiently distinguished from the work; whilst, on the
contrary, the spiritual God of Plato and his disciples resembled
an idea, rather than a substance. The opinions of the Academics
and Epicureans were of a less religious cast; but whilst the
modest science of the former induced them to doubt, the positive
ignorance of the latter urged them to deny, the providence of a
Supreme Ruler. The spirit of inquiry, prompted by emulation, and
supported by freedom, had divided the public teachers of
philosophy into a variety of contending sects; but the ingenious
youth, who, from every part, resorted to Athens, and the other
seats of learning in the Roman empire, were alike instructed in
every school to reject and to despise the religion of the
multitude. How, indeed, was it possible that a philosopher should
accept, as divine truths, the idle tales of the poets, and the
incoherent traditions of antiquity; or that he should adore, as
gods, those imperfect beings whom he must have despised, as men?
Against such unworthy adversaries, Cicero condescended to employ
the arms of reason and eloquence; but the satire of Lucian was a
much more adequate, as well as more efficacious, weapon. We may
be well assured, that a writer, conversant with the world, would
never have ventured to expose the gods of his country to public
ridicule, had they not already been the objects of secret
contempt among the polished and enlightened orders of society.
Notwithstanding the fashionable irreligion which prevailed in the
age of the Antonines, both the interest of the priests and the
credulity of the people were sufficiently respected. In their
writings and conversation, the philosophers of antiquity asserted
the independent dignity of reason; but they resigned their
actions to the commands of law and of custom. Viewing, with a
smile of pity and indulgence, the various errors of the vulgar,
they diligently practised the ceremonies of their fathers,
devoutly frequented the temples of the gods; and sometimes
condescending to act a part on the theatre of superstition, they
concealed the sentiments of an atheist under the sacerdotal
robes. Reasoners of such a temper were scarcely inclined to
wrangle about their respective modes of faith, or of worship. It
was indifferent to them what shape the folly of the multitude
might choose to assume; and they approached with the same inward
contempt, and the same external reverence, the altars of the
Libyan, the Olympian, or the Capitoline Jupiter.
It is not easy to conceive from what motives a spirit of
persecution could introduce itself into the Roman councils. The
magistrates could not be actuated by a blind, though honest
bigotry, since the magistrates were themselves philosophers; and
the schools of Athens had given laws to the senate. They could
not be impelled by ambition or avarice, as the temporal and
ecclesiastical powers were united in the same hands. The pontiffs
were chosen among the most illustrious of the senators; and the
office of Supreme Pontiff was constantly exercised by the
emperors themselves. They knew and valued the advantages of
religion, as it is connected with civil government. They
encouraged the public festivals which humanize the manners of the
people. They managed the arts of divination as a convenient
instrument of policy; and they respected, as the firmest bond of
society, the useful persuasion, that, either in this or in a
future life, the crime of perjury is most assuredly punished by
the avenging gods. But whilst they acknowledged the general
advantages of religion, they were convinced that the various
modes of worship contributed alike to the same salutary purposes;
and that, in every country, the form of superstition, which had
received the sanction of time and experience, was the best
adapted to the climate, and to its inhabitants. Avarice and taste
very frequently despoiled the vanquished nations of the elegant
statues of their gods, and the rich ornaments of their temples;
but, in the exercise of the religion which they derived from
their ancestors, they uniformly experienced the indulgence, and
even protection, of the Roman conquerors. The province of Gaul
seems, and indeed only seems, an exception to this universal
toleration. Under the specious pretext of abolishing human
sacrifices, the emperors Tiberius and Claudius suppressed the
dangerous power of the Druids: but the priests themselves, their
gods and their altars, subsisted in peaceful obscurity till the
final destruction of Paganism.
Rome, the capital of a great monarchy, was incessantly filled
with subjects and strangers from every part of the world, who all
introduced and enjoyed the favorite superstitions of their native
country. Every city in the empire was justified in maintaining
the purity of its ancient ceremonies; and the Roman senate, using
the common privilege, sometimes interposed, to check this
inundation of foreign rites. * The Egyptian superstition, of all
the most contemptible and abject, was frequently prohibited: the
temples of Serapis and Isis demolished, and their worshippers
banished from Rome and Italy. But the zeal of fanaticism
prevailed over the cold and feeble efforts of policy. The exiles
returned, the proselytes multiplied, the temples were restored
with increasing splendor, and Isis and Serapis at length assumed
their place among the Roman Deities. Nor was this indulgence a
departure from the old maxims of government. In the purest ages
of the commonwealth, Cybele and Æsculapius had been invited by
solemn embassies; and it was customary to tempt the protectors of
besieged cities, by the promise of more distinguished honors than
they possessed in their native country. Rome gradually became the
common temple of her subjects; and the freedom of the city was
bestowed on all the gods of mankind.
II. The narrow policy of preserving, without any foreign mixture,
the pure blood of the ancient citizens, had checked the fortune,
and hastened the ruin, of Athens and Sparta. The aspiring genius
of Rome sacrificed vanity to ambition, and deemed it more
prudent, as well as honorable, to adopt virtue and merit for her
own wheresoever they were found, among slaves or strangers,
enemies or barbarians. During the most flourishing æra of the
Athenian commonwealth, the number of citizens gradually decreased
from about thirty to twenty-one thousand. If, on the contrary, we
study the growth of the Roman republic, we may discover, that,
notwithstanding the incessant demands of wars and colonies, the
citizens, who, in the first census of Servius Tullius, amounted
to no more than eighty-three thousand, were multiplied, before
the commencement of the social war, to the number of four hundred
and sixty-three thousand men, able to bear arms in the service of
their country. When the allies of Rome claimed an equal share of
honors and privileges, the senate indeed preferred the chance of
arms to an ignominious concession. The Samnites and the Lucanians
paid the severe penalty of their rashness; but the rest of the
Italian states, as they successively returned to their duty, were
admitted into the bosom of the republic, and soon contributed to
the ruin of public freedom. Under a democratical government, the
citizens exercise the powers of sovereignty; and those powers
will be first abused, and afterwards lost, if they are committed
to an unwieldy multitude. But when the popular assemblies had
been suppressed by the administration of the emperors, the
conquerors were distinguished from the vanquished nations, only
as the first and most honorable order of subjects; and their
increase, however rapid, was no longer exposed to the same
dangers. Yet the wisest princes, who adopted the maxims of
Augustus, guarded with the strictest care the dignity of the
Roman name, and diffused the freedom of the city with a prudent
liberality.
Chapter II: The Internal Prosperity In The Age Of The
Antonines.—Part II.
Till the privileges of Romans had been progressively extended to
all the inhabitants of the empire, an important distinction was
preserved between Italy and the provinces. The former was
esteemed the centre of public unity, and the firm basis of the
constitution. Italy claimed the birth, or at least the residence,
of the emperors and the senate. The estates of the Italians were
exempt from taxes, their persons from the arbitrary jurisdiction
of governors. Their municipal corporations, formed after the
perfect model of the capital, * were intrusted, under the
immediate eye of the supreme power, with the execution of the
laws. From the foot of the Alps to the extremity of Calabria, all
the natives of Italy were born citizens of Rome. Their partial
distinctions were obliterated, and they insensibly coalesced into
one great nation, united by language, manners, and civil
institutions, and equal to the weight of a powerful empire. The
republic gloried in her generous policy, and was frequently
rewarded by the merit and services of her adopted sons. Had she
always confined the distinction of Romans to the ancient families
within the walls of the city, that immortal name would have been
deprived of some of its noblest ornaments. Virgil was a native of
Mantua; Horace was inclined to doubt whether he should call
himself an Apulian or a Lucanian; it was in Padua that an
historian was found worthy to record the majestic series of Roman
victories. The patriot family of the Catos emerged from Tusculum;
and the little town of Arpinum claimed the double honor of
producing Marius and Cicero, the former of whom deserved, after
Romulus and Camillus, to be styled the Third Founder of Rome; and
the latter, after saving his country from the designs of
Catiline, enabled her to contend with Athens for the palm of
eloquence.
The provinces of the empire (as they have been described in the
preceding chapter) were destitute of any public force, or
constitutional freedom. In Etruria, in Greece, and in Gaul, it
was the first care of the senate to dissolve those dangerous
confederacies, which taught mankind that, as the Roman arms
prevailed by division, they might be resisted by union. Those
princes, whom the ostentation of gratitude or generosity
permitted for a while to hold a precarious sceptre, were
dismissed from their thrones, as soon as they had performed their
appointed task of fashioning to the yoke the vanquished nations.
The free states and cities which had embraced the cause of Rome
were rewarded with a nominal alliance, and insensibly sunk into
real servitude. The public authority was everywhere exercised by
the ministers of the senate and of the emperors, and that
authority was absolute, and without control. But the same
salutary maxims of government, which had secured the peace and
obedience of Italy were extended to the most distant conquests. A
nation of Romans was gradually formed in the provinces, by the
double expedient of introducing colonies, and of admitting the
most faithful and deserving of the provincials to the freedom of
Rome.
“Wheresoever the Roman conquers, he inhabits,” is a very just
observation of Seneca, confirmed by history and experience. The
natives of Italy, allured by pleasure or by interest, hastened to
enjoy the advantages of victory; and we may remark, that, about
forty years after the reduction of Asia, eighty thousand Romans
were massacred in one day, by the cruel orders of Mithridates.
These voluntary exiles were engaged, for the most part, in the
occupations of commerce, agriculture, and the farm of the
revenue. But after the legions were rendered permanent by the
emperors, the provinces were peopled by a race of soldiers; and
the veterans, whether they received the reward of their service
in land or in money, usually settled with their families in the
country, where they had honorably spent their youth. Throughout
the empire, but more particularly in the western parts, the most
fertile districts, and the most convenient situations, were
reserved for the establishment of colonies; some of which were of
a civil, and others of a military nature. In their manners and
internal policy, the colonies formed a perfect representation of
their great parent; and they were soon endeared to the natives by
the ties of friendship and alliance, they effectually diffused a
reverence for the Roman name, and a desire, which was seldom
disappointed, of sharing, in due time, its honors and advantages.
The municipal cities insensibly equalled the rank and splendor of
the colonies; and in the reign of Hadrian, it was disputed which
was the preferable condition, of those societies which had issued
from, or those which had been received into, the bosom of Rome.
The right of Latium, as it was called, * conferred on the cities
to which it had been granted, a more partial favor. The
magistrates only, at the expiration of their office, assumed the
quality of Roman citizens; but as those offices were annual, in a
few years they circulated round the principal families. Those of
the provincials who were permitted to bear arms in the legions;
those who exercised any civil employment; all, in a word, who
performed any public service, or displayed any personal talents,
were rewarded with a present, whose value was continually
diminished by the increasing liberality of the emperors. Yet
even, in the age of the Antonines, when the freedom of the city
had been bestowed on the greater number of their subjects, it was
still accompanied with very solid advantages. The bulk of the
people acquired, with that title, the benefit of the Roman laws,
particularly in the interesting articles of marriage, testaments,
and inheritances; and the road of fortune was open to those whose
pretensions were seconded by favor or merit. The grandsons of the
Gauls, who had besieged Julius Cæsar in Alesia, commanded
legions, governed provinces, and were admitted into the senate of
Rome. Their ambition, instead of disturbing the tranquillity of
the state, was intimately connected with its safety and
greatness.
So sensible were the Romans of the influence of language over
national manners, that it was their most serious care to extend,
with the progress of their arms, the use of the Latin tongue. The
ancient dialects of Italy, the Sabine, the Etruscan, and the
Venetian, sunk into oblivion; but in the provinces, the east was
less docile than the west to the voice of its victorious
preceptors. This obvious difference marked the two portions of
the empire with a distinction of colors, which, though it was in
some degree concealed during the meridian splendor of prosperity,
became gradually more visible, as the shades of night descended
upon the Roman world. The western countries were civilized by the
same hands which subdued them. As soon as the barbarians were
reconciled to obedience, their minds were open to any new
impressions of knowledge and politeness. The language of Virgil
and Cicero, though with some inevitable mixture of corruption,
was so universally adopted in Africa, Spain, Gaul, Britain, and
Pannonia, that the faint traces of the Punic or Celtic idioms
were preserved only in the mountains, or among the peasants.
Education and study insensibly inspired the natives of those
countries with the sentiments of Romans; and Italy gave fashions,
as well as laws, to her Latin provincials. They solicited with
more ardor, and obtained with more facility, the freedom and
honors of the state; supported the national dignity in letters
and in arms; and at length, in the person of Trajan, produced an
emperor whom the Scipios would not have disowned for their
countryman. The situation of the Greeks was very different from
that of the barbarians. The former had been long since civilized
and corrupted. They had too much taste to relinquish their
language, and too much vanity to adopt any foreign institutions.
Still preserving the prejudices, after they had lost the virtues,
of their ancestors, they affected to despise the unpolished
manners of the Roman conquerors, whilst they were compelled to
respect their superior wisdom and power. Nor was the influence of
the Grecian language and sentiments confined to the narrow limits
of that once celebrated country. Their empire, by the progress of
colonies and conquest, had been diffused from the Adriatic to the
Euphrates and the Nile. Asia was covered with Greek cities, and
the long reign of the Macedonian kings had introduced a silent
revolution into Syria and Egypt. In their pompous courts, those
princes united the elegance of Athens with the luxury of the
East, and the example of the court was imitated, at an humble
distance, by the higher ranks of their subjects. Such was the
general division of the Roman empire into the Latin and Greek
languages. To these we may add a third distinction for the body
of the natives in Syria, and especially in Egypt, the use of
their ancient dialects, by secluding them from the commerce of
mankind, checked the improvements of those barbarians. The
slothful effeminacy of the former exposed them to the contempt,
the sullen ferociousness of the latter excited the aversion, of
the conquerors. Those nations had submitted to the Roman power,
but they seldom desired or deserved the freedom of the city: and
it was remarked, that more than two hundred and thirty years
elapsed after the ruin of the Ptolemies, before an Egyptian was
admitted into the senate of Rome.
It is a just though trite observation, that victorious Rome was
herself subdued by the arts of Greece. Those immortal writers who
still command the admiration of modern Europe, soon became the
favorite object of study and imitation in Italy and the western
provinces. But the elegant amusements of the Romans were not
suffered to interfere with their sound maxims of policy. Whilst
they acknowledged the charms of the Greek, they asserted the
dignity of the Latin tongue, and the exclusive use of the latter
was inflexibly maintained in the administration of civil as well
as military government. The two languages exercised at the same
time their separate jurisdiction throughout the empire: the
former, as the natural idiom of science; the latter, as the legal
dialect of public transactions. Those who united letters with
business were equally conversant with both; and it was almost
impossible, in any province, to find a Roman subject, of a
liberal education, who was at once a stranger to the Greek and to
the Latin language.
It was by such institutions that the nations of the empire
insensibly melted away into the Roman name and people. But there
still remained, in the centre of every province and of every
family, an unhappy condition of men who endured the weight,
without sharing the benefits, of society. In the free states of
antiquity, the domestic slaves were exposed to the wanton rigor
of despotism. The perfect settlement of the Roman empire was
preceded by ages of violence and rapine. The slaves consisted,
for the most part, of barbarian captives, * taken in thousands by
the chance of war, purchased at a vile price, accustomed to a
life of independence, and impatient to break and to revenge their
fetters. Against such internal enemies, whose desperate
insurrections had more than once reduced the republic to the
brink of destruction, the most severe regulations, and the most
cruel treatment, seemed almost justified by the great law of
self-preservation. But when the principal nations of Europe,
Asia, and Africa were united under the laws of one sovereign, the
source of foreign supplies flowed with much less abundance, and
the Romans were reduced to the milder but more tedious method of
propagation. * In their numerous families, and particularly in
their country estates, they encouraged the marriage of their
slaves. The sentiments of nature, the habits of education, and
the possession of a dependent species of property, contributed to
alleviate the hardships of servitude. The existence of a slave
became an object of greater value, and though his happiness still
depended on the temper and circumstances of the master, the
humanity of the latter, instead of being restrained by fear, was
encouraged by the sense of his own interest. The progress of
manners was accelerated by the virtue or policy of the emperors;
and by the edicts of Hadrian and the Antonines, the protection of
the laws was extended to the most abject part of mankind. The
jurisdiction of life and death over the slaves, a power long
exercised and often abused, was taken out of private hands, and
reserved to the magistrates alone. The subterraneous prisons were
abolished; and, upon a just complaint of intolerable treatment,
the injured slave obtained either his deliverance, or a less
cruel master.
Hope, the best comfort of our imperfect condition, was not denied
to the Roman slave; and if he had any opportunity of rendering
himself either useful or agreeable, he might very naturally
expect that the diligence and fidelity of a few years would be
rewarded with the inestimable gift of freedom. The benevolence of
the master was so frequently prompted by the meaner suggestions
of vanity and avarice, that the laws found it more necessary to
restrain than to encourage a profuse and undistinguishing
liberality, which might degenerate into a very dangerous abuse.
It was a maxim of ancient jurisprudence, that a slave had not any
country of his own; he acquired with his liberty an admission
into the political society of which his patron was a member. The
consequences of this maxim would have prostituted the privileges
of the Roman city to a mean and promiscuous multitude. Some
seasonable exceptions were therefore provided; and the honorable
distinction was confined to such slaves only as, for just causes,
and with the approbation of the magistrate, should receive a
solemn and legal manumission. Even these chosen freedmen obtained
no more than the private rights of citizens, and were rigorously
excluded from civil or military honors. Whatever might be the
merit or fortune of their sons, _they_ likewise were esteemed
unworthy of a seat in the senate; nor were the traces of a
servile origin allowed to be completely obliterated till the
third or fourth generation. Without destroying the distinction of
ranks, a distant prospect of freedom and honors was presented,
even to those whom pride and prejudice almost disdained to number
among the human species.
It was once proposed to discriminate the slaves by a peculiar
habit; but it was justly apprehended that there might be some
danger in acquainting them with their own numbers. Without
interpreting, in their utmost strictness, the liberal
appellations of legions and myriads, we may venture to pronounce,
that the proportion of slaves, who were valued as property, was
more considerable than that of servants, who can be computed only
as an expense. The youths of a promising genius were instructed
in the arts and sciences, and their price was ascertained by the
degree of their skill and talents. Almost every profession,
either liberal or mechanical, might be found in the household of
an opulent senator. The ministers of pomp and sensuality were
multiplied beyond the conception of modern luxury. It was more
for the interest of the merchant or manufacturer to purchase,
than to hire his workmen; and in the country, slaves were
employed as the cheapest and most laborious instruments of
agriculture. To confirm the general observation, and to display
the multitude of slaves, we might allege a variety of particular
instances. It was discovered, on a very melancholy occasion, that
four hundred slaves were maintained in a single palace of Rome.
The same number of four hundred belonged to an estate which an
African widow, of a very private condition, resigned to her son,
whilst she reserved for herself a much larger share of her
property. A freedman, under the name of Augustus, though his
fortune had suffered great losses in the civil wars, left behind
him three thousand six hundred yoke of oxen, two hundred and
fifty thousand head of smaller cattle, and what was almost
included in the description of cattle, four thousand one hundred
and sixteen slaves.
The number of subjects who acknowledged the laws of Rome, of
citizens, of provincials, and of slaves, cannot now be fixed with
such a degree of accuracy, as the importance of the object would
deserve. We are informed, that when the Emperor Claudius
exercised the office of censor, he took an account of six
millions nine hundred and forty-five thousand Roman citizens,
who, with the proportion of women and children, must have
amounted to about twenty millions of souls. The multitude of
subjects of an inferior rank was uncertain and fluctuating. But,
after weighing with attention every circumstance which could
influence the balance, it seems probable that there existed, in
the time of Claudius, about twice as many provincials as there
were citizens, of either sex, and of every age; and that the
slaves were at least equal in number to the free inhabitants of
the Roman world. * The total amount of this imperfect calculation
would rise to about one hundred and twenty millions of persons; a
degree of population which possibly exceeds that of modern
Europe, and forms the most numerous society that has ever been
united under the same system of government.
Chapter II: The Internal Prosperity In The Age Of The
Antonines.—Part III.
Domestic peace and union were the natural consequences of the
moderate and comprehensive policy embraced by the Romans. If we
turn our eyes towards the monarchies of Asia, we shall behold
despotism in the centre, and weakness in the extremities; the
collection of the revenue, or the administration of justice,
enforced by the presence of an army; hostile barbarians
established in the heart of the country, hereditary satraps
usurping the dominion of the provinces, and subjects inclined to
rebellion, though incapable of freedom. But the obedience of the
Roman world was uniform, voluntary, and permanent. The vanquished
nations, blended into one great people, resigned the hope, nay,
even the wish, of resuming their independence, and scarcely
considered their own existence as distinct from the existence of
Rome. The established authority of the emperors pervaded without
an effort the wide extent of their dominions, and was exercised
with the same facility on the banks of the Thames, or of the
Nile, as on those of the Tyber. The legions were destined to
serve against the public enemy, and the civil magistrate seldom
required the aid of a military force. In this state of general
security, the leisure, as well as opulence, both of the prince
and people, were devoted to improve and to adorn the Roman
empire.
Among the innumerable monuments of architecture constructed by
the Romans, how many have escaped the notice of history, how few
have resisted the ravages of time and barbarism! And yet, even
the majestic ruins that are still scattered over Italy and the
provinces, would be sufficient to prove that those countries were
once the seat of a polite and powerful empire. Their greatness
alone, or their beauty, might deserve our attention: but they are
rendered more interesting, by two important circumstances, which
connect the agreeable history of the arts with the more useful
history of human manners. Many of those works were erected at
private expense, and almost all were intended for public benefit.
It is natural to suppose that the greatest number, as well as the
most considerable of the Roman edifices, were raised by the
emperors, who possessed so unbounded a command both of men and
money. Augustus was accustomed to boast that he had found his
capital of brick, and that he had left it of marble. The strict
economy of Vespasian was the source of his magnificence. The
works of Trajan bear the stamp of his genius. The public
monuments with which Hadrian adorned every province of the
empire, were executed not only by his orders, but under his
immediate inspection. He was himself an artist; and he loved the
arts, as they conduced to the glory of the monarch. They were
encouraged by the Antonines, as they contributed to the happiness
of the people. But if the emperors were the first, they were not
the only architects of their dominions. Their example was
universally imitated by their principal subjects, who were not
afraid of declaring to the world that they had spirit to
conceive, and wealth to accomplish, the noblest undertakings.
Scarcely had the proud structure of the Coliseum been dedicated
at Rome, before the edifices, of a smaller scale indeed, but of
the same design and materials, were erected for the use, and at
the expense, of the cities of Capua and Verona. The inscription
of the stupendous bridge of Alcantara attests that it was thrown
over the Tagus by the contribution of a few Lusitanian
communities. When Pliny was intrusted with the government of
Bithynia and Pontus, provinces by no means the richest or most
considerable of the empire, he found the cities within his
jurisdiction striving with each other in every useful and
ornamental work, that might deserve the curiosity of strangers,
or the gratitude of their citizens. It was the duty of the
proconsul to supply their deficiencies, to direct their taste,
and sometimes to moderate their emulation. The opulent senators
of Rome and the provinces esteemed it an honor, and almost an
obligation, to adorn the splendor of their age and country; and
the influence of fashion very frequently supplied the want of
taste or generosity. Among a crowd of these private benefactors,
we may select Herodes Atticus, an Athenian citizen, who lived in
the age of the Antonines. Whatever might be the motive of his
conduct, his magnificence would have been worthy of the greatest
kings.
The family of Herod, at least after it had been favored by
fortune, was lineally descended from Cimon and Miltiades, Theseus
and Cecrops, Æacus and Jupiter. But the posterity of so many gods
and heroes was fallen into the most abject state. His grandfather
had suffered by the hands of justice, and Julius Atticus, his
father, must have ended his life in poverty and contempt, had he
not discovered an immense treasure buried under an old house, the
last remains of his patrimony. According to the rigor of the law,
the emperor might have asserted his claim, and the prudent
Atticus prevented, by a frank confession, the officiousness of
informers. But the equitable Nerva, who then filled the throne,
refused to accept any part of it, and commanded him to use,
without scruple, the present of fortune. The cautious Athenian
still insisted, that the treasure was too considerable for a
subject, and that he knew not how to _use it_. _Abuse it then_,
replied the monarch, with a good-natured peevishness; for it is
your own. Many will be of opinion, that Atticus literally obeyed
the emperor’s last instructions; since he expended the greatest
part of his fortune, which was much increased by an advantageous
marriage, in the service of the public. He had obtained for his
son Herod the prefecture of the free cities of Asia; and the
young magistrate, observing that the town of Troas was
indifferently supplied with water, obtained from the munificence
of Hadrian three hundred myriads of drachms, (about a hundred
thousand pounds,) for the construction of a new aqueduct. But in
the execution of the work, the charge amounted to more than
double the estimate, and the officers of the revenue began to
murmur, till the generous Atticus silenced their complaints, by
requesting that he might be permitted to take upon himself the
whole additional expense.
The ablest preceptors of Greece and Asia had been invited by
liberal rewards to direct the education of young Herod. Their
pupil soon became a celebrated orator, according to the useless
rhetoric of that age, which, confining itself to the schools,
disdained to visit either the Forum or the Senate. He was honored
with the consulship at Rome: but the greatest part of his life
was spent in a philosophic retirement at Athens, and his adjacent
villas; perpetually surrounded by sophists, who acknowledged,
without reluctance, the superiority of a rich and generous rival.
The monuments of his genius have perished; some considerable
ruins still preserve the fame of his taste and munificence:
modern travellers have measured the remains of the stadium which
he constructed at Athens. It was six hundred feet in length,
built entirely of white marble, capable of admitting the whole
body of the people, and finished in four years, whilst Herod was
president of the Athenian games. To the memory of his wife
Regilla he dedicated a theatre, scarcely to be paralleled in the
empire: no wood except cedar, very curiously carved, was employed
in any part of the building. The Odeum, * designed by Pericles
for musical performances, and the rehearsal of new tragedies, had
been a trophy of the victory of the arts over barbaric greatness;
as the timbers employed in the construction consisted chiefly of
the masts of the Persian vessels. Notwithstanding the repairs
bestowed on that ancient edifice by a king of Cappadocia, it was
again fallen to decay. Herod restored its ancient beauty and
magnificence. Nor was the liberality of that illustrious citizen
confined to the walls of Athens. The most splendid ornaments
bestowed on the temple of Neptune in the Isthmus, a theatre at
Corinth, a stadium at Delphi, a bath at Thermopylæ, and an
aqueduct at Canusium in Italy, were insufficient to exhaust his
treasures. The people of Epirus, Thessaly, Euboea, Boeotia, and
Peloponnesus, experienced his favors; and many inscriptions of
the cities of Greece and Asia gratefully style Herodes Atticus
their patron and benefactor.
In the commonwealths of Athens and Rome, the modest simplicity of
private houses announced the equal condition of freedom; whilst
the sovereignty of the people was represented in the majestic
edifices designed to the public use; nor was this republican
spirit totally extinguished by the introduction of wealth and
monarchy. It was in works of national honor and benefit, that the
most virtuous of the emperors affected to display their
magnificence. The golden palace of Nero excited a just
indignation, but the vast extent of ground which had been usurped
by his selfish luxury was more nobly filled under the succeeding
reigns by the Coliseum, the baths of Titus, the Claudian portico,
and the temples dedicated to the goddess of Peace, and to the
genius of Rome. These monuments of architecture, the property of
the Roman people, were adorned with the most beautiful
productions of Grecian painting and sculpture; and in the temple
of Peace, a very curious library was open to the curiosity of the
learned. * At a small distance from thence was situated the Forum
of Trajan. It was surrounded by a lofty portico, in the form of a
quadrangle, into which four triumphal arches opened a noble and
spacious entrance: in the centre arose a column of marble, whose
height, of one hundred and ten feet, denoted the elevation of the
hill that had been cut away. This column, which still subsists in
its ancient beauty, exhibited an exact representation of the
Dacian victories of its founder. The veteran soldier contemplated
the story of his own campaigns, and by an easy illusion of
national vanity, the peaceful citizen associated himself to the
honors of the triumph. All the other quarters of the capital, and
all the provinces of the empire, were embellished by the same
liberal spirit of public magnificence, and were filled with
amphitheatres, theatres, temples, porticoes, triumphal arches,
baths and aqueducts, all variously conducive to the health, the
devotion, and the pleasures of the meanest citizen. The last
mentioned of those edifices deserve our peculiar attention. The
boldness of the enterprise, the solidity of the execution, and
the uses to which they were subservient, rank the aqueducts among
the noblest monuments of Roman genius and power. The aqueducts of
the capital claim a just preeminence; but the curious traveller,
who, without the light of history, should examine those of
Spoleto, of Metz, or of Segovia, would very naturally conclude
that those provincial towns had formerly been the residence of
some potent monarch. The solitudes of Asia and Africa were once
covered with flourishing cities, whose populousness, and even
whose existence, was derived from such artificial supplies of a
perennial stream of fresh water.
We have computed the inhabitants, and contemplated the public
works, of the Roman empire. The observation of the number and
greatness of its cities will serve to confirm the former, and to
multiply the latter. It may not be unpleasing to collect a few
scattered instances relative to that subject without forgetting,
however, that from the vanity of nations and the poverty of
language, the vague appellation of city has been indifferently
bestowed on Rome and upon Laurentum.
I. _Ancient_ Italy is said to have contained eleven hundred and
ninety-seven cities; and for whatsoever æra of antiquity the
expression might be intended, there is not any reason to believe
the country less populous in the age of the Antonines, than in
that of Romulus. The petty states of Latium were contained within
the metropolis of the empire, by whose superior influence they
had been attracted. * Those parts of Italy which have so long
languished under the lazy tyranny of priests and viceroys, had
been afflicted only by the more tolerable calamities of war; and
the first symptoms of decay which they experienced, were amply
compensated by the rapid improvements of the Cisalpine Gaul. The
splendor of Verona may be traced in its remains: yet Verona was
less celebrated than Aquileia or Padua, Milan or Ravenna. II. The
spirit of improvement had passed the Alps, and been felt even in
the woods of Britain, which were gradually cleared away to open a
free space for convenient and elegant habitations. York was the
seat of government; London was already enriched by commerce; and
Bath was celebrated for the salutary effects of its medicinal
waters. Gaul could boast of her twelve hundred cities; and
though, in the northern parts, many of them, without excepting
Paris itself, were little more than the rude and imperfect
townships of a rising people, the southern provinces imitated the
wealth and elegance of Italy. Many were the cities of Gaul,
Marseilles, Arles, Nismes, Narbonne, Thoulouse, Bourdeaux, Autun,
Vienna, Lyons, Langres, and Treves, whose ancient condition might
sustain an equal, and perhaps advantageous comparison with their
present state. With regard to Spain, that country flourished as a
province, and has declined as a kingdom. Exhausted by the abuse
of her strength, by America, and by superstition, her pride might
possibly be confounded, if we required such a list of three
hundred and sixty cities, as Pliny has exhibited under the reign
of Vespasian. III. Three hundred African cities had once
acknowledged the authority of Carthage, nor is it likely that
their numbers diminished under the administration of the
emperors: Carthage itself rose with new splendor from its ashes;
and that capital, as well as Capua and Corinth, soon recovered
all the advantages which can be separated from independent
sovereignty. IV. The provinces of the East present the contrast
of Roman magnificence with Turkish barbarism. The ruins of
antiquity scattered over uncultivated fields, and ascribed, by
ignorance, to the power of magic, scarcely afford a shelter to
the oppressed peasant or wandering Arab. Under the reign of the
Cæsars, the proper Asia alone contained five hundred populous
cities, enriched with all the gifts of nature, and adorned with
all the refinements of art. Eleven cities of Asia had once
disputed the honor of dedicating a temple of Tiberius, and their
respective merits were examined by the senate. Four of them were
immediately rejected as unequal to the burden; and among these
was Laodicea, whose splendor is still displayed in its ruins.
Laodicea collected a very considerable revenue from its flocks of
sheep, celebrated for the fineness of their wool, and had
received, a little before the contest, a legacy of above four
hundred thousand pounds by the testament of a generous citizen.
If such was the poverty of Laodicea, what must have been the
wealth of those cities, whose claim appeared preferable, and
particularly of Pergamus, of Smyrna, and of Ephesus, who so long
disputed with each other the titular primacy of Asia? The
capitals of Syria and Egypt held a still superior rank in the
empire; Antioch and Alexandria looked down with disdain on a
crowd of dependent cities, and yielded, with reluctance, to the
majesty of Rome itself.
Chapter II: The Internal Prosperity In The Age Of The
Antonines.—Part IV.
All these cities were connected with each other, and with the
capital, by the public highways, which, issuing from the Forum of
Rome, traversed Italy, pervaded the provinces, and were
terminated only by the frontiers of the empire. If we carefully
trace the distance from the wall of Antoninus to Rome, and from
thence to Jerusalem, it will be found that the great chain of
communication, from the north-west to the south-east point of the
empire, was drawn out to the length of four thousand and eighty
Roman miles. The public roads were accurately divided by
mile-stones, and ran in a direct line from one city to another,
with very little respect for the obstacles either of nature or
private property. Mountains were perforated, and bold arches
thrown over the broadest and most rapid streams. The middle part
of the road was raised into a terrace which commanded the
adjacent country, consisted of several strata of sand, gravel,
and cement, and was paved with large stones, or, in some places
near the capital, with granite. Such was the solid construction
of the Roman highways, whose firmness has not entirely yielded to
the effort of fifteen centuries. They united the subjects of the
most distant provinces by an easy and familiar intercourse; but
their primary object had been to facilitate the marches of the
legions; nor was any country considered as completely subdued,
till it had been rendered, in all its parts, pervious to the arms
and authority of the conqueror. The advantage of receiving the
earliest intelligence, and of conveying their orders with
celerity, induced the emperors to establish, throughout their
extensive dominions, the regular institution of posts. Houses
were everywhere erected at the distance only of five or six
miles; each of them was constantly provided with forty horses,
and by the help of these relays, it was easy to travel a hundred
miles in a day along the Roman roads. * The use of posts was
allowed to those who claimed it by an Imperial mandate; but
though originally intended for the public service, it was
sometimes indulged to the business or conveniency of private
citizens. Nor was the communication of the Roman empire less free
and open by sea than it was by land. The provinces surrounded and
enclosed the Mediterranean: and Italy, in the shape of an immense
promontory, advanced into the midst of that great lake. The
coasts of Italy are, in general, destitute of safe harbors; but
human industry had corrected the deficiencies of nature; and the
artificial port of Ostia, in particular, situate at the mouth of
the Tyber, and formed by the emperor Claudius, was a useful
monument of Roman greatness. From this port, which was only
sixteen miles from the capital, a favorable breeze frequently
carried vessels in seven days to the columns of Hercules, and in
nine or ten, to Alexandria in Egypt.
Whatever evils either reason or declamation have imputed to
extensive empire, the power of Rome was attended with some
beneficial consequences to mankind; and the same freedom of
intercourse which extended the vices, diffused likewise the
improvements, of social life. In the more remote ages of
antiquity, the world was unequally divided. The East was in the
immemorial possession of arts and luxury; whilst the West was
inhabited by rude and warlike barbarians, who either disdained
agriculture, or to whom it was totally unknown. Under the
protection of an established government, the productions of
happier climates, and the industry of more civilized nations,
were gradually introduced into the western countries of Europe;
and the natives were encouraged, by an open and profitable
commerce, to multiply the former, as well as to improve the
latter. It would be almost impossible to enumerate all the
articles, either of the animal or the vegetable reign, which were
successively imported into Europe from Asia and Egypt: but it
will not be unworthy of the dignity, and much less of the
utility, of an historical work, slightly to touch on a few of the
principal heads. 1. Almost all the flowers, the herbs, and the
fruits, that grow in our European gardens, are of foreign
extraction, which, in many cases, is betrayed even by their
names: the apple was a native of Italy, and when the Romans had
tasted the richer flavor of the apricot, the peach, the
pomegranate, the citron, and the orange, they contented
themselves with applying to all these new fruits the common
denomination of apple, discriminating them from each other by the
additional epithet of their country. 2. In the time of Homer, the
vine grew wild in the island of Sicily, and most probably in the
adjacent continent; but it was not improved by the skill, nor did
it afford a liquor grateful to the taste, of the savage
inhabitants. A thousand years afterwards, Italy could boast, that
of the fourscore most generous and celebrated wines, more than
two thirds were produced from her soil. The blessing was soon
communicated to the Narbonnese province of Gaul; but so intense
was the cold to the north of the Cevennes, that, in the time of
Strabo, it was thought impossible to ripen the grapes in those
parts of Gaul. This difficulty, however, was gradually
vanquished; and there is some reason to believe, that the
vineyards of Burgundy are as old as the age of the Antonines. 3.
The olive, in the western world, followed the progress of peace,
of which it was considered as the symbol. Two centuries after the
foundation of Rome, both Italy and Africa were strangers to that
useful plant: it was naturalized in those countries; and at
length carried into the heart of Spain and Gaul. The timid errors
of the ancients, that it required a certain degree of heat, and
could only flourish in the neighborhood of the sea, were
insensibly exploded by industry and experience. 4. The
cultivation of flax was transported from Egypt to Gaul, and
enriched the whole country, however it might impoverish the
particular lands on which it was sown. 5. The use of artificial
grasses became familiar to the farmers both of Italy and the
provinces, particularly the Lucerne, which derived its name and
origin from Media. The assured supply of wholesome and plentiful
food for the cattle during winter, multiplied the number of the
docks and herds, which in their turn contributed to the fertility
of the soil. To all these improvements may be added an assiduous
attention to mines and fisheries, which, by employing a multitude
of laborious hands, serve to increase the pleasures of the rich
and the subsistence of the poor. The elegant treatise of
Columella describes the advanced state of the Spanish husbandry
under the reign of Tiberius; and it may be observed, that those
famines, which so frequently afflicted the infant republic, were
seldom or never experienced by the extensive empire of Rome. The
accidental scarcity, in any single province, was immediately
relieved by the plenty of its more fortunate neighbors.
Agriculture is the foundation of manufactures; since the
productions of nature are the materials of art. Under the Roman
empire, the labor of an industrious and ingenious people was
variously, but incessantly, employed in the service of the rich.
In their dress, their table, their houses, and their furniture,
the favorites of fortune united every refinement of conveniency,
of elegance, and of splendor, whatever could soothe their pride
or gratify their sensuality. Such refinements, under the odious
name of luxury, have been severely arraigned by the moralists of
every age; and it might perhaps be more conducive to the virtue,
as well as happiness, of mankind, if all possessed the
necessaries, and none the superfluities, of life. But in the
present imperfect condition of society, luxury, though it may
proceed from vice or folly, seems to be the only means that can
correct the unequal distribution of property. The diligent
mechanic, and the skilful artist, who have obtained no share in
the division of the earth, receive a voluntary tax from the
possessors of land; and the latter are prompted, by a sense of
interest, to improve those estates, with whose produce they may
purchase additional pleasures. This operation, the particular
effects of which are felt in every society, acted with much more
diffusive energy in the Roman world. The provinces would soon
have been exhausted of their wealth, if the manufactures and
commerce of luxury had not insensibly restored to the industrious
subjects the sums which were exacted from them by the arms and
authority of Rome. As long as the circulation was confined within
the bounds of the empire, it impressed the political machine with
a new degree of activity, and its consequences, sometimes
beneficial, could never become pernicious.
But it is no easy task to confine luxury within the limits of an
empire. The most remote countries of the ancient world were
ransacked to supply the pomp and delicacy of Rome. The forests of
Scythia afforded some valuable furs. Amber was brought over land
from the shores of the Baltic to the Danube; and the barbarians
were astonished at the price which they received in exchange for
so useless a commodity. There was a considerable demand for
Babylonian carpets, and other manufactures of the East; but the
most important and unpopular branch of foreign trade was carried
on with Arabia and India. Every year, about the time of the
summer solstice, a fleet of a hundred and twenty vessels sailed
from Myos-hormos, a port of Egypt, on the Red Sea. By the
periodical assistance of the monsoons, they traversed the ocean
in about forty days. The coast of Malabar, or the island of
Ceylon, was the usual term of their navigation, and it was in
those markets that the merchants from the more remote countries
of Asia expected their arrival. The return of the fleet of Egypt
was fixed to the months of December or January; and as soon as
their rich cargo had been transported on the backs of camels,
from the Red Sea to the Nile, and had descended that river as far
as Alexandria, it was poured, without delay, into the capital of
the empire. The objects of oriental traffic were splendid and
trifling; silk, a pound of which was esteemed not inferior in
value to a pound of gold; precious stones, among which the pearl
claimed the first rank after the diamond; and a variety of
aromatics, that were consumed in religious worship and the pomp
of funerals. The labor and risk of the voyage was rewarded with
almost incredible profit; but the profit was made upon Roman
subjects, and a few individuals were enriched at the expense of
the public. As the natives of Arabia and India were contented
with the productions and manufactures of their own country,
silver, on the side of the Romans, was the principal, if not the
only * instrument of commerce. It was a complaint worthy of the
gravity of the senate, that, in the purchase of female ornaments,
the wealth of the state was irrecoverably given away to foreign
and hostile nations. The annual loss is computed, by a writer of
an inquisitive but censorious temper, at upwards of eight hundred
thousand pounds sterling. Such was the style of discontent,
brooding over the dark prospect of approaching poverty. And yet,
if we compare the proportion between gold and silver, as it stood
in the time of Pliny, and as it was fixed in the reign of
Constantine, we shall discover within that period a very
considerable increase. There is not the least reason to suppose
that gold was become more scarce; it is therefore evident that
silver was grown more common; that whatever might be the amount
of the Indian and Arabian exports, they were far from exhausting
the wealth of the Roman world; and that the produce of the mines
abundantly supplied the demands of commerce.
Notwithstanding the propensity of mankind to exalt the past, and
to depreciate the present, the tranquil and prosperous state of
the empire was warmly felt, and honestly confessed, by the
provincials as well as Romans. “They acknowledged that the true
principles of social life, laws, agriculture, and science, which
had been first invented by the wisdom of Athens, were now firmly
established by the power of Rome, under whose auspicious
influence the fiercest barbarians were united by an equal
government and common language. They affirm, that with the
improvement of arts, the human species were visibly multiplied.
They celebrate the increasing splendor of the cities, the
beautiful face of the country, cultivated and adorned like an
immense garden; and the long festival of peace which was enjoyed
by so many nations, forgetful of the ancient animosities, and
delivered from the apprehension of future danger.” Whatever
suspicions may be suggested by the air of rhetoric and
declamation, which seems to prevail in these passages, the
substance of them is perfectly agreeable to historic truth.
It was scarcely possible that the eyes of contemporaries should
discover in the public felicity the latent causes of decay and
corruption. This long peace, and the uniform government of the
Romans, introduced a slow and secret poison into the vitals of
the empire. The minds of men were gradually reduced to the same
level, the fire of genius was extinguished, and even the military
spirit evaporated. The natives of Europe were brave and robust.
Spain, Gaul, Britain, and Illyricum supplied the legions with
excellent soldiers, and constituted the real strength of the
monarchy. Their personal valor remained, but they no longer
possessed that public courage which is nourished by the love of
independence, the sense of national honor, the presence of
danger, and the habit of command. They received laws and
governors from the will of their sovereign, and trusted for their
defence to a mercenary army. The posterity of their boldest
leaders was contented with the rank of citizens and subjects. The
most aspiring spirits resorted to the court or standard of the
emperors; and the deserted provinces, deprived of political
strength or union, insensibly sunk into the languid indifference
of private life.
The love of letters, almost inseparable from peace and
refinement, was fashionable among the subjects of Hadrian and the
Antonines, who were themselves men of learning and curiosity. It
was diffused over the whole extent of their empire; the most
northern tribes of Britons had acquired a taste for rhetoric;
Homer as well as Virgil were transcribed and studied on the banks
of the Rhine and Danube; and the most liberal rewards sought out
the faintest glimmerings of literary merit. The sciences of
physic and astronomy were successfully cultivated by the Greeks;
the observations of Ptolemy and the writings of Galen are studied
by those who have improved their discoveries and corrected their
errors; but if we except the inimitable Lucian, this age of
indolence passed away without having produced a single writer of
original genius, or who excelled in the arts of elegant
composition.* The authority of Plato and Aristotle, of Zeno and
Epicurus, still reigned in the schools; and their systems,
transmitted with blind deference from one generation of disciples
to another, precluded every generous attempt to exercise the
powers, or enlarge the limits, of the human mind. The beauties of
the poets and orators, instead of kindling a fire like their own,
inspired only cold and servile imitations: or if any ventured to
deviate from those models, they deviated at the same time from
good sense and propriety. On the revival of letters, the youthful
vigor of the imagination, after a long repose, national
emulation, a new religion, new languages, and a new world, called
forth the genius of Europe. But the provincials of Rome, trained
by a uniform artificial foreign education, were engaged in a very
unequal competition with those bold ancients, who, by expressing
their genuine feelings in their native tongue, had already
occupied every place of honor. The name of Poet was almost
forgotten; that of Orator was usurped by the sophists. A cloud of
critics, of compilers, of commentators, darkened the face of
learning, and the decline of genius was soon followed by the
corruption of taste.
The sublime Longinus, who, in somewhat a later period, and in the
court of a Syrian queen, preserved the spirit of ancient Athens,
observes and laments this degeneracy of his contemporaries, which
debased their sentiments, enervated their courage, and depressed
their talents. “In the same manner,” says he, “as some children
always remain pygmies, whose infant limbs have been too closely
confined, thus our tender minds, fettered by the prejudices and
habits of a just servitude, are unable to expand themselves, or
to attain that well-proportioned greatness which we admire in the
ancients; who, living under a popular government, wrote with the
same freedom as they acted.” This diminutive stature of mankind,
if we pursue the metaphor, was daily sinking below the old
standard, and the Roman world was indeed peopled by a race of
pygmies; when the fierce giants of the north broke in, and mended
the puny breed. They restored a manly spirit of freedom; and
after the revolution of ten centuries, freedom became the happy
parent of taste and science.
Chapter III: The Constitution In The Age Of The Antonines.—Part
I.
Of The Constitution Of The Roman Empire, In The Age Of The Antonines.
The obvious definition of a monarchy seems to be that of a state,
in which a single person, by whatsoever name he may be
distinguished, is intrusted with the execution of the laws, the
management of the revenue, and the command of the army. But,
unless public liberty is protected by intrepid and vigilant
guardians, the authority of so formidable a magistrate will soon
degenerate into despotism. The influence of the clergy, in an age
of superstition, might be usefully employed to assert the rights
of mankind; but so intimate is the connection between the throne
and the altar, that the banner of the church has very seldom been
seen on the side of the people. * A martial nobility and stubborn
commons, possessed of arms, tenacious of property, and collected
into constitutional assemblies, form the only balance capable of
preserving a free constitution against enterprises of an aspiring
prince.
Every barrier of the Roman constitution had been levelled by the
vast ambition of the dictator; every fence had been extirpated by
the cruel hand of the triumvir. After the victory of Actium, the
fate of the Roman world depended on the will of Octavianus,
surnamed Cæsar, by his uncle’s adoption, and afterwards Augustus,
by the flattery of the senate. The conqueror was at the head of
forty-four veteran legions, conscious of their own strength, and
of the weakness of the constitution, habituated, during twenty
years’ civil war, to every act of blood and violence, and
passionately devoted to the house of Cæsar, from whence alone
they had received, and expected the most lavish rewards. The
provinces, long oppressed by the ministers of the republic,
sighed for the government of a single person, who would be the
master, not the accomplice, of those petty tyrants. The people of
Rome, viewing, with a secret pleasure, the humiliation of the
aristocracy, demanded only bread and public shows; and were
supplied with both by the liberal hand of Augustus. The rich and
polite Italians, who had almost universally embraced the
philosophy of Epicurus, enjoyed the present blessings of ease and
tranquillity, and suffered not the pleasing dream to be
interrupted by the memory of their old tumultuous freedom. With
its power, the senate had lost its dignity; many of the most
noble families were extinct. The republicans of spirit and
ability had perished in the field of battle, or in the
proscription . The door of the assembly had been designedly left
open, for a mixed multitude of more than a thousand persons, who
reflected disgrace upon their rank, instead of deriving honor
from it.
The reformation of the senate was one of the first steps in which
Augustus laid aside the tyrant, and professed himself the father
of his country. He was elected censor; and, in concert with his
faithful Agrippa, he examined the list of the senators, expelled
a few members, * whose vices or whose obstinacy required a public
example, persuaded near two hundred to prevent the shame of an
expulsion by a voluntary retreat, raised the qualification of a
senator to about ten thousand pounds, created a sufficient number
of patrician families, and accepted for himself the honorable
title of Prince of the Senate, which had always been bestowed, by
the censors, on the citizen the most eminent for his honors and
services. But whilst he thus restored the dignity, he destroyed
the independence, of the senate. The principles of a free
constitution are irrecoverably lost, when the legislative power
is nominated by the executive.
Before an assembly thus modelled and prepared, Augustus
pronounced a studied oration, which displayed his patriotism, and
disguised his ambition. “He lamented, yet excused, his past
conduct. Filial piety had required at his hands the revenge of
his father’s murder; the humanity of his own nature had sometimes
given way to the stern laws of necessity, and to a forced
connection with two unworthy colleagues: as long as Antony lived,
the republic forbade him to abandon her to a degenerate Roman,
and a barbarian queen. He was now at liberty to satisfy his duty
and his inclination. He solemnly restored the senate and people
to all their ancient rights; and wished only to mingle with the
crowd of his fellow-citizens, and to share the blessings which he
had obtained for his country.”
It would require the pen of Tacitus (if Tacitus had assisted at
this assembly) to describe the various emotions of the senate,
those that were suppressed, and those that were affected. It was
dangerous to trust the sincerity of Augustus; to seem to distrust
it was still more dangerous. The respective advantages of
monarchy and a republic have often divided speculative inquirers;
the present greatness of the Roman state, the corruption of
manners, and the license of the soldiers, supplied new arguments
to the advocates of monarchy; and these general views of
government were again warped by the hopes and fears of each
individual. Amidst this confusion of sentiments, the answer of
the senate was unanimous and decisive. They refused to accept the
resignation of Augustus; they conjured him not to desert the
republic, which he had saved. After a decent resistance, the
crafty tyrant submitted to the orders of the senate; and
consented to receive the government of the provinces, and the
general command of the Roman armies, under the well-known names
of Proconsul and Imperator. But he would receive them only for
ten years. Even before the expiration of that period, he hope
that the wounds of civil discord would be completely healed, and
that the republic, restored to its pristine health and vigor,
would no longer require the dangerous interposition of so
extraordinary a magistrate. The memory of this comedy, repeated
several times during the life of Augustus, was preserved to the
last ages of the empire, by the peculiar pomp with which the
perpetual monarchs of Rome always solemnized the tenth years of
their reign.
Without any violation of the principles of the constitution, the
general of the Roman armies might receive and exercise an
authority almost despotic over the soldiers, the enemies, and the
subjects of the republic. With regard to the soldiers, the
jealousy of freedom had, even from the earliest ages of Rome,
given way to the hopes of conquest, and a just sense of military
discipline. The dictator, or consul, had a right to command the
service of the Roman youth; and to punish an obstinate or
cowardly disobedience by the most severe and ignominious
penalties, by striking the offender out of the list of citizens,
by confiscating his property, and by selling his person into
slavery. The most sacred rights of freedom, confirmed by the
Porcian and Sempronian laws, were suspended by the military
engagement. In his camp the general exercised an absolute power
of life and death; his jurisdiction was not confined by any forms
of trial, or rules of proceeding, and the execution of the
sentence was immediate and without appeal. The choice of the
enemies of Rome was regularly decided by the legislative
authority. The most important resolutions of peace and war were
seriously debated in the senate, and solemnly ratified by the
people. But when the arms of the legions were carried to a great
distance from Italy, the general assumed the liberty of directing
them against whatever people, and in whatever manner, they judged
most advantageous for the public service. It was from the
success, not from the justice, of their enterprises, that they
expected the honors of a triumph. In the use of victory,
especially after they were no longer controlled by the
commissioners of the senate, they exercised the most unbounded
despotism. When Pompey commanded in the East, he rewarded his
soldiers and allies, dethroned princes, divided kingdoms, founded
colonies, and distributed the treasures of Mithridates. On his
return to Rome, he obtained, by a single act of the senate and
people, the universal ratification of all his proceedings. Such
was the power over the soldiers, and over the enemies of Rome,
which was either granted to, or assumed by, the generals of the
republic. They were, at the same time, the governors, or rather
monarchs, of the conquered provinces, united the civil with the
military character, administered justice as well as the finances,
and exercised both the executive and legislative power of the
state.
From what has already been observed in the first chapter of this
work, some notion may be formed of the armies and provinces thus
intrusted to the ruling hand of Augustus. But as it was
impossible that he could personally command the regions of so
many distant frontiers, he was indulged by the senate, as Pompey
had already been, in the permission of devolving the execution of
his great office on a sufficient number of lieutenants. In rank
and authority these officers seemed not inferior to the ancient
proconsuls; but their station was dependent and precarious. They
received and held their commissions at the will of a superior, to
whose _auspicious_ influence the merit of their action was
legally attributed. They were the representatives of the emperor.
The emperor alone was the general of the republic, and his
jurisdiction, civil as well as military, extended over all the
conquests of Rome. It was some satisfaction, however, to the
senate, that he always delegated his power to the members of
their body. The imperial lieutenants were of consular or
prætorian dignity; the legions were commanded by senators, and
the præfecture of Egypt was the only important trust committed to
a Roman knight.
Within six days after Augustus had been compelled to accept so
very liberal a grant, he resolved to gratify the pride of the
senate by an easy sacrifice. He represented to them, that they
had enlarged his powers, even beyond that degree which might be
required by the melancholy condition of the times. They had not
permitted him to refuse the laborious command of the armies and
the frontiers; but he must insist on being allowed to restore the
more peaceful and secure provinces to the mild administration of
the civil magistrate. In the division of the provinces, Augustus
provided for his own power and for the dignity of the republic.
The proconsuls of the senate, particularly those of Asia, Greece,
and Africa, enjoyed a more honorable character than the
lieutenants of the emperor, who commanded in Gaul or Syria. The
former were attended by lictors, the latter by soldiers. * A law
was passed, that wherever the emperor was present, his
extraordinary commission should supersede the ordinary
jurisdiction of the governor; a custom was introduced, that the
new conquests belonged to the imperial portion; and it was soon
discovered that the authority of the _Prince_, the favorite
epithet of Augustus, was the same in every part of the empire.
In return for this imaginary concession, Augustus obtained an
important privilege, which rendered him master of Rome and Italy.
By a dangerous exception to the ancient maxims, he was authorized
to preserve his military command, supported by a numerous body of
guards, even in time of peace, and in the heart of the capital.
His command, indeed, was confined to those citizens who were
engaged in the service by the military oath; but such was the
propensity of the Romans to servitude, that the oath was
voluntarily taken by the magistrates, the senators, and the
equestrian order, till the homage of flattery was insensibly
converted into an annual and solemn protestation of fidelity.
Although Augustus considered a military force as the firmest
foundation, he wisely rejected it, as a very odious instrument of
government. It was more agreeable to his temper, as well as to
his policy, to reign under the venerable names of ancient
magistracy, and artfully to collect, in his own person, all the
scattered rays of civil jurisdiction. With this view, he
permitted the senate to confer upon him, for his life, the powers
of the consular and tribunitian offices, which were, in the same
manner, continued to all his successors. The consuls had
succeeded to the kings of Rome, and represented the dignity of
the state. They superintended the ceremonies of religion, levied
and commanded the legions, gave audience to foreign ambassadors,
and presided in the assemblies both of the senate and people. The
general control of the finances was intrusted to their care; and
though they seldom had leisure to administer justice in person,
they were considered as the supreme guardians of law, equity, and
the public peace. Such was their ordinary jurisdiction; but
whenever the senate empowered the first magistrate to consult the
safety of the commonwealth, he was raised by that decree above
the laws, and exercised, in the defence of liberty, a temporary
despotism. The character of the tribunes was, in every respect,
different from that of the consuls. The appearance of the former
was modest and humble; but their persons were sacred and
inviolable. Their force was suited rather for opposition than for
action. They were instituted to defend the oppressed, to pardon
offences, to arraign the enemies of the people, and, when they
judged it necessary, to stop, by a single word, the whole machine
of government. As long as the republic subsisted, the dangerous
influence, which either the consul or the tribune might derive
from their respective jurisdiction, was diminished by several
important restrictions. Their authority expired with the year in
which they were elected; the former office was divided between
two, the latter among ten persons; and, as both in their private
and public interest they were averse to each other, their mutual
conflicts contributed, for the most part, to strengthen rather
than to destroy the balance of the constitution. * But when the
consular and tribunitian powers were united, when they were
vested for life in a single person, when the general of the army
was, at the same time, the minister of the senate and the
representative of the Roman people, it was impossible to resist
the exercise, nor was it easy to define the limits, of his
imperial prerogative.
To these accumulated honors, the policy of Augustus soon added
the splendid as well as important dignities of supreme pontiff,
and of censor. By the former he acquired the management of the
religion, and by the latter a legal inspection over the manners
and fortunes, of the Roman people. If so many distinct and
independent powers did not exactly unite with each other, the
complaisance of the senate was prepared to supply every
deficiency by the most ample and extraordinary concessions. The
emperors, as the first ministers of the republic, were exempted
from the obligation and penalty of many inconvenient laws: they
were authorized to convoke the senate, to make several motions in
the same day, to recommend candidates for the honors of the
state, to enlarge the bounds of the city, to employ the revenue
at their discretion, to declare peace and war, to ratify
treaties; and by a most comprehensive clause, they were empowered
to execute whatsoever they should judge advantageous to the
empire, and agreeable to the majesty of things private or public,
human of divine.
When all the various powers of executive government were
committed to the _Imperial magistrate_, the ordinary magistrates
of the commonwealth languished in obscurity, without vigor, and
almost without business. The names and forms of the ancient
administration were preserved by Augustus with the most anxious
care. The usual number of consuls, prætors, and tribunes, were
annually invested with their respective ensigns of office, and
continued to discharge some of their least important functions.
Those honors still attracted the vain ambition of the Romans; and
the emperors themselves, though invested for life with the powers
of the consulship, frequently aspired to the title of that annual
dignity, which they condescended to share with the most
illustrious of their fellow-citizens. In the election of these
magistrates, the people, during the reign of Augustus, were
permitted to expose all the inconveniences of a wild democracy.
That artful prince, instead of discovering the least symptom of
impatience, humbly solicited their suffrages for himself or his
friends, and scrupulously practised all the duties of an ordinary
candidate. But we may venture to ascribe to his councils the
first measure of the succeeding reign, by which the elections
were transferred to the senate. The assemblies of the people were
forever abolished, and the emperors were delivered from a
dangerous multitude, who, without restoring liberty, might have
disturbed, and perhaps endangered, the established government.
By declaring themselves the protectors of the people, Marius and
Cæsar had subverted the constitution of their country. But as
soon as the senate had been humbled and disarmed, such an
assembly, consisting of five or six hundred persons, was found a
much more tractable and useful instrument of dominion. It was on
the dignity of the senate that Augustus and his successors
founded their new empire; and they affected, on every occasion,
to adopt the language and principles of Patricians. In the
administration of their own powers, they frequently consulted the
great national council, and _seemed_ to refer to its decision the
most important concerns of peace and war. Rome, Italy, and the
internal provinces, were subject to the immediate jurisdiction of
the senate. With regard to civil objects, it was the supreme
court of appeal; with regard to criminal matters, a tribunal,
constituted for the trial of all offences that were committed by
men in any public station, or that affected the peace and majesty
of the Roman people. The exercise of the judicial power became
the most frequent and serious occupation of the senate; and the
important causes that were pleaded before them afforded a last
refuge to the spirit of ancient eloquence. As a council of state,
and as a court of justice, the senate possessed very considerable
prerogatives; but in its legislative capacity, in which it was
supposed virtually to represent the people, the rights of
sovereignty were acknowledged to reside in that assembly. Every
power was derived from their authority, every law was ratified by
their sanction. Their regular meetings were held on three stated
days in every month, the Calends, the Nones, and the Ides. The
debates were conducted with decent freedom; and the emperors
themselves, who gloried in the name of senators, sat, voted, and
divided with their equals.
To resume, in a few words, the system of the Imperial government;
as it was instituted by Augustus, and maintained by those princes
who understood their own interest and that of the people, it may
be defined an absolute monarchy disguised by the forms of a
commonwealth. The masters of the Roman world surrounded their
throne with darkness, concealed their irresistible strength, and
humbly professed themselves the accountable ministers of the
senate, whose supreme decrees they dictated and obeyed.
The face of the court corresponded with the forms of the
administration. The emperors, if we except those tyrants whose
capricious folly violated every law of nature and decency,
disdained that pomp and ceremony which might offend their
countrymen, but could add nothing to their real power. In all the
offices of life, they affected to confound themselves with their
subjects, and maintained with them an equal intercourse of visits
and entertainments. Their habit, their palace, their table, were
suited only to the rank of an opulent senator. Their family,
however numerous or splendid, was composed entirely of their
domestic slaves and freedmen. Augustus or Trajan would have
blushed at employing the meanest of the Romans in those menial
offices, which, in the household and bedchamber of a limited
monarch, are so eagerly solicited by the proudest nobles of
Britain.
The deification of the emperors is the only instance in which
they departed from their accustomed prudence and modesty. The
Asiatic Greeks were the first inventors, the successors of
Alexander the first objects, of this servile and impious mode of
adulation. * It was easily transferred from the kings to the
governors of Asia; and the Roman magistrates very frequently were
adored as provincial deities, with the pomp of altars and
temples, of festivals and sacrifices. It was natural that the
emperors should not refuse what the proconsuls had accepted; and
the divine honors which both the one and the other received from
the provinces, attested rather the despotism than the servitude
of Rome. But the conquerors soon imitated the vanquished nations
in the arts of flattery; and the imperious spirit of the first
Cæsar too easily consented to assume, during his lifetime, a
place among the tutelar deities of Rome. The milder temper of his
successor declined so dangerous an ambition, which was never
afterwards revived, except by the madness of Caligula and
Domitian. Augustus permitted indeed some of the provincial cities
to erect temples to his honor, on condition that they should
associate the worship of Rome with that of the sovereign; he
tolerated private superstition, of which he might be the object;
but he contented himself with being revered by the senate and the
people in his human character, and wisely left to his successor
the care of his public deification. A regular custom was
introduced, that on the decease of every emperor who had neither
lived nor died like a tyrant, the senate by a solemn decree
should place him in the number of the gods: and the ceremonies of
his apotheosis were blended with those of his funeral. This
legal, and, as it should seem, injudicious profanation, so
abhorrent to our stricter principles, was received with a very
faint murmur, by the easy nature of Polytheism; but it was
received as an institution, not of religion, but of policy. We
should disgrace the virtues of the Antonines by comparing them
with the vices of Hercules or Jupiter. Even the characters of
Cæsar or Augustus were far superior to those of the popular
deities. But it was the misfortune of the former to live in an
enlightened age, and their actions were too faithfully recorded
to admit of such a mixture of fable and mystery, as the devotion
of the vulgar requires. As soon as their divinity was established
by law, it sunk into oblivion, without contributing either to
their own fame, or to the dignity of succeeding princes.
In the consideration of the Imperial government, we have
frequently mentioned the artful founder, under his well-known
title of Augustus, which was not, however, conferred upon him
till the edifice was almost completed. The obscure name of
Octavianus he derived from a mean family, in the little town of
Aricia. It was stained with the blood of the proscription; and he
was desirous, had it been possible, to erase all memory of his
former life. The illustrious surname of Cæsar he had assumed, as
the adopted son of the dictator: but he had too much good sense,
either to hope to be confounded, or to wish to be compared with
that extraordinary man. It was proposed in the senate to dignify
their minister with a new appellation; and after a serious
discussion, that of Augustus was chosen, among several others, as
being the most expressive of the character of peace and sanctity,
which he uniformly affected. _Augustus_ was therefore a personal,
_Cæsar_ a family distinction. The former should naturally have
expired with the prince on whom it was bestowed; and however the
latter was diffused by adoption and female alliance, Nero was the
last prince who could allege any hereditary claim to the honors
of the Julian line. But, at the time of his death, the practice
of a century had inseparably connected those appellations with
the Imperial dignity, and they have been preserved by a long
succession of emperors, Romans, Greeks, Franks, and Germans, from
the fall of the republic to the present time. A distinction was,
however, soon introduced. The sacred title of Augustus was always
reserved for the monarch, whilst the name of Cæsar was more
freely communicated to his relations; and, from the reign of
Hadrian, at least, was appropriated to the second person in the
state, who was considered as the presumptive heir of the empire.
*
Chapter III: The Constitution In The Age Of The Antonines.—Part
II.
The tender respect of Augustus for a free constitution which he
had destroyed, can only be explained by an attentive
consideration of the character of that subtle tyrant. A cool
head, an unfeeling heart, and a cowardly disposition, prompted
him at the age of nineteen to assume the mask of hypocrisy, which
he never afterwards laid aside. With the same hand, and probably
with the same temper, he signed the proscription of Cicero, and
the pardon of Cinna. His virtues, and even his vices, were
artificial; and according to the various dictates of his
interest, he was at first the enemy, and at last the father, of
the Roman world. When he framed the artful system of the Imperial
authority, his moderation was inspired by his fears. He wished to
deceive the people by an image of civil liberty, and the armies
by an image of civil government.
I. The death of Cæsar was ever before his eyes. He had lavished
wealth and honors on his adherents; but the most favored friends
of his uncle were in the number of the conspirators. The fidelity
of the legions might defend his authority against open rebellion;
but their vigilance could not secure his person from the dagger
of a determined republican; and the Romans, who revered the
memory of Brutus, would applaud the imitation of his virtue.
Cæsar had provoked his fate, as much as by the ostentation of his
power, as by his power itself. The consul or the tribune might
have reigned in peace. The title of king had armed the Romans
against his life. Augustus was sensible that mankind is governed
by names; nor was he deceived in his expectation, that the senate
and people would submit to slavery, provided they were
respectfully assured that they still enjoyed their ancient
freedom. A feeble senate and enervated people cheerfully
acquiesced in the pleasing illusion, as long as it was supported
by the virtue, or even by the prudence, of the successors of
Augustus. It was a motive of self-preservation, not a principle
of liberty, that animated the conspirators against Caligula,
Nero, and Domitian. They attacked the person of the tyrant,
without aiming their blow at the authority of the emperor.
There appears, indeed, _one_ memorable occasion, in which the
senate, after seventy years of patience, made an ineffectual
attempt to re-assume its long-forgotten rights. When the throne
was vacant by the murder of Caligula, the consuls convoked that
assembly in the Capitol, condemned the memory of the Cæsars, gave
the watchword _liberty_ to the few cohorts who faintly adhered to
their standard, and during eight-and-forty hours acted as the
independent chiefs of a free commonwealth. But while they
deliberated, the prætorian guards had resolved. The stupid
Claudius, brother of Germanicus, was already in their camp,
invested with the Imperial purple, and prepared to support his
election by arms. The dream of liberty was at an end; and the
senate awoke to all the horrors of inevitable servitude. Deserted
by the people, and threatened by a military force, that feeble
assembly was compelled to ratify the choice of the prætorians,
and to embrace the benefit of an amnesty, which Claudius had the
prudence to offer, and the generosity to observe.
II. The insolence of the armies inspired Augustus with fears of a
still more alarming nature. The despair of the citizens could
only attempt, what the power of the soldiers was, at any time,
able to execute. How precarious was his own authority over men
whom he had taught to violate every social duty! He had heard
their seditious clamors; he dreaded their calmer moments of
reflection. One revolution had been purchased by immense rewards;
but a second revolution might double those rewards. The troops
professed the fondest attachment to the house of Cæsar; but the
attachments of the multitude are capricious and inconstant.
Augustus summoned to his aid whatever remained in those fierce
minds of Roman prejudices; enforced the rigor of discipline by
the sanction of law; and, interposing the majesty of the senate
between the emperor and the army, boldly claimed their
allegiance, as the first magistrate of the republic.
During a long period of two hundred and twenty years from the
establishment of this artful system to the death of Commodus, the
dangers inherent to a military government were, in a great
measure, suspended. The soldiers were seldom roused to that fatal
sense of their own strength, and of the weakness of the civil
authority, which was, before and afterwards, productive of such
dreadful calamities. Caligula and Domitian were assassinated in
their palace by their own domestics: * the convulsions which
agitated Rome on the death of the former, were confined to the
walls of the city. But Nero involved the whole empire in his
ruin. In the space of eighteen months, four princes perished by
the sword; and the Roman world was shaken by the fury of the
contending armies. Excepting only this short, though violent
eruption of military license, the two centuries from Augustus to
Commodus passed away unstained with civil blood, and undisturbed
by revolutions. The emperor was elected by the _authority of the
senate, and the consent of the soldiers_. The legions respected
their oath of fidelity; and it requires a minute inspection of
the Roman annals to discover three inconsiderable rebellions,
which were all suppressed in a few months, and without even the
hazard of a battle.
In elective monarchies, the vacancy of the throne is a moment big
with danger and mischief. The Roman emperors, desirous to spare
the legions that interval of suspense, and the temptation of an
irregular choice, invested their designed successor with so large
a share of present power, as should enable him, after their
decease, to assume the remainder, without suffering the empire to
perceive the change of masters. Thus Augustus, after all his
fairer prospects had been snatched from him by untimely deaths,
rested his last hopes on Tiberius, obtained for his adopted son
the censorial and tribunitian powers, and dictated a law, by
which the future prince was invested with an authority equal to
his own, over the provinces and the armies. Thus Vespasian
subdued the generous mind of his eldest son. Titus was adored by
the eastern legions, which, under his command, had recently
achieved the conquest of Judæa. His power was dreaded, and, as
his virtues were clouded by the intemperance of youth, his
designs were suspected. Instead of listening to such unworthy
suspicions, the prudent monarch associated Titus to the full
powers of the Imperial dignity; and the grateful son ever
approved himself the humble and faithful minister of so indulgent
a father.
The good sense of Vespasian engaged him indeed to embrace every
measure that might confirm his recent and precarious elevation.
The military oath, and the fidelity of the troops, had been
consecrated, by the habits of a hundred years, to the name and
family of the Cæsars; and although that family had been continued
only by the fictitious rite of adoption, the Romans still
revered, in the person of Nero, the grandson of Germanicus, and
the lineal successor of Augustus. It was not without reluctance
and remorse, that the prætorian guards had been persuaded to
abandon the cause of the tyrant. The rapid downfall of Galba,
Otho, and Vitellus, taught the armies to consider the emperors as
the creatures of _their_ will, and the instruments of _their_
license. The birth of Vespasian was mean: his grandfather had
been a private soldier, his father a petty officer of the
revenue; his own merit had raised him, in an advanced age, to the
empire; but his merit was rather useful than shining, and his
virtues were disgraced by a strict and even sordid parsimony.
Such a prince consulted his true interest by the association of a
son, whose more splendid and amiable character might turn the
public attention from the obscure origin, to the future glories,
of the Flavian house. Under the mild administration of Titus, the
Roman world enjoyed a transient felicity, and his beloved memory
served to protect, above fifteen years, the vices of his brother
Domitian.
Nerva had scarcely accepted the purple from the assassins of
Domitian, before he discovered that his feeble age was unable to
stem the torrent of public disorders, which had multiplied under
the long tyranny of his predecessor. His mild disposition was
respected by the good; but the degenerate Romans required a more
vigorous character, whose justice should strike terror into the
guilty. Though he had several relations, he fixed his choice on a
stranger. He adopted Trajan, then about forty years of age, and
who commanded a powerful army in the Lower Germany; and
immediately, by a decree of the senate, declared him his
colleague and successor in the empire. It is sincerely to be
lamented, that whilst we are fatigued with the disgustful
relation of Nero’s crimes and follies, we are reduced to collect
the actions of Trajan from the glimmerings of an abridgment, or
the doubtful light of a panegyric. There remains, however, one
panegyric far removed beyond the suspicion of flattery. Above two
hundred and fifty years after the death of Trajan, the senate, in
pouring out the customary acclamations on the accession of a new
emperor, wished that he might surpass the felicity of Augustus,
and the virtue of Trajan.
We may readily believe, that the father of his country hesitated
whether he ought to intrust the various and doubtful character of
his kinsman Hadrian with sovereign power. In his last moments the
arts of the empress Plotina either fixed the irresolution of
Trajan, or boldly supposed a fictitious adoption; the truth of
which could not be safely disputed, and Hadrian was peaceably
acknowledged as his lawful successor. Under his reign, as has
been already mentioned, the empire flourished in peace and
prosperity. He encouraged the arts, reformed the laws, asserted
military discipline, and visited all his provinces in person. His
vast and active genius was equally suited to the most enlarged
views, and the minute details of civil policy. But the ruling
passions of his soul were curiosity and vanity. As they
prevailed, and as they were attracted by different objects,
Hadrian was, by turns, an excellent prince, a ridiculous sophist,
and a jealous tyrant. The general tenor of his conduct deserved
praise for its equity and moderation. Yet in the first days of
his reign, he put to death four consular senators, his personal
enemies, and men who had been judged worthy of empire; and the
tediousness of a painful illness rendered him, at last, peevish
and cruel. The senate doubted whether they should pronounce him a
god or a tyrant; and the honors decreed to his memory were
granted to the prayers of the pious Antoninus.
The caprice of Hadrian influenced his choice of a successor.
After revolving in his mind several men of distinguished merit,
whom he esteemed and hated, he adopted Ælius Verus a gay and
voluptuous nobleman, recommended by uncommon beauty to the lover
of Antinous. But whilst Hadrian was delighting himself with his
own applause, and the acclamations of the soldiers, whose consent
had been secured by an immense donative, the new Cæsar was
ravished from his embraces by an untimely death. He left only one
son. Hadrian commended the boy to the gratitude of the Antonines.
He was adopted by Pius; and, on the accession of Marcus, was
invested with an equal share of sovereign power. Among the many
vices of this younger Verus, he possessed one virtue; a dutiful
reverence for his wiser colleague, to whom he willingly abandoned
the ruder cares of empire. The philosophic emperor dissembled his
follies, lamented his early death, and cast a decent veil over
his memory.
As soon as Hadrian’s passion was either gratified or
disappointed, he resolved to deserve the thanks of posterity, by
placing the most exalted merit on the Roman throne. His
discerning eye easily discovered a senator about fifty years of
age, blameless in all the offices of life; and a youth of about
seventeen, whose riper years opened a fair prospect of every
virtue: the elder of these was declared the son and successor of
Hadrian, on condition, however, that he himself should
immediately adopt the younger. The two Antonines (for it is of
them that we are now speaking,) governed the Roman world
forty-two years, with the same invariable spirit of wisdom and
virtue. Although Pius had two sons, he preferred the welfare of
Rome to the interest of his family, gave his daughter Faustina,
in marriage to young Marcus, obtained from the senate the
tribunitian and proconsular powers, and, with a noble disdain, or
rather ignorance of jealousy, associated him to all the labors of
government. Marcus, on the other hand, revered the character of
his benefactor, loved him as a parent, obeyed him as his
sovereign, and, after he was no more, regulated his own
administration by the example and maxims of his predecessor.
Their united reigns are possibly the only period of history in
which the happiness of a great people was the sole object of
government.
Titus Antoninus Pius has been justly denominated a second Numa.
The same love of religion, justice, and peace, was the
distinguishing characteristic of both princes. But the situation
of the latter opened a much larger field for the exercise of
those virtues. Numa could only prevent a few neighboring villages
from plundering each other’s harvests. Antoninus diffused order
and tranquillity over the greatest part of the earth. His reign
is marked by the rare advantage of furnishing very few materials
for history; which is, indeed, little more than the register of
the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind. In private life,
he was an amiable, as well as a good man. The native simplicity
of his virtue was a stranger to vanity or affectation. He enjoyed
with moderation the conveniences of his fortune, and the innocent
pleasures of society; and the benevolence of his soul displayed
itself in a cheerful serenity of temper.
The virtue of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was of severer and more
laborious kind. It was the well-earned harvest of many a learned
conference, of many a patient lecture, and many a midnight
lucubration. At the age of twelve years he embraced the rigid
system of the Stoics, which taught him to submit his body to his
mind, his passions to his reason; to consider virtue as the only
good, vice as the only evil, all things external as things
indifferent. His meditations, composed in the tumult of the camp,
are still extant; and he even condescended to give lessons of
philosophy, in a more public manner than was perhaps consistent
with the modesty of sage, or the dignity of an emperor. But his
life was the noblest commentary on the precepts of Zeno. He was
severe to himself, indulgent to the imperfections of others, just
and beneficent to all mankind. He regretted that Avidius Cassius,
who excited a rebellion in Syria, had disappointed him, by a
voluntary death, * of the pleasure of converting an enemy into a
friend; and he justified the sincerity of that sentiment, by
moderating the zeal of the senate against the adherents of the
traitor. War he detested, as the disgrace and calamity of human
nature; but when the necessity of a just defence called upon him
to take up arms, he readily exposed his person to eight winter
campaigns, on the frozen banks of the Danube, the severity of
which was at last fatal to the weakness of his constitution. His
memory was revered by a grateful posterity, and above a century
after his death, many persons preserved the image of Marcus
Antoninus among those of their household gods.
If a man were called to fix the period in the history of the
world, during which the condition of the human race was most
happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that
which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of
Commodus. The vast extent of the Roman empire was governed by
absolute power, under the guidance of virtue and wisdom. The
armies were restrained by the firm but gentle hand of four
successive emperors, whose characters and authority commanded
involuntary respect. The forms of the civil administration were
carefully preserved by Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the Antonines,
who delighted in the image of liberty, and were pleased with
considering themselves as the accountable ministers of the laws.
Such princes deserved the honor of restoring the republic, had
the Romans of their days been capable of enjoying a rational
freedom.
The labors of these monarchs were overpaid by the immense reward
that inseparably waited on their success; by the honest pride of
virtue, and by the exquisite delight of beholding the general
happiness of which they were the authors. A just but melancholy
reflection imbittered, however, the noblest of human enjoyments.
They must often have recollected the instability of a happiness
which depended on the character of single man. The fatal moment
was perhaps approaching, when some licentious youth, or some
jealous tyrant, would abuse, to the destruction, that absolute
power, which they had exerted for the benefit of their people.
The ideal restraints of the senate and the laws might serve to
display the virtues, but could never correct the vices, of the
emperor. The military force was a blind and irresistible
instrument of oppression; and the corruption of Roman manners
would always supply flatterers eager to applaud, and ministers
prepared to serve, the fear or the avarice, the lust or the
cruelty, of their master.
These gloomy apprehensions had been already justified by the
experience of the Romans. The annals of the emperors exhibit a
strong and various picture of human nature, which we should
vainly seek among the mixed and doubtful characters of modern
history. In the conduct of those monarchs we may trace the utmost
lines of vice and virtue; the most exalted perfection, and the
meanest degeneracy of our own species. The golden age of Trajan
and the Antonines had been preceded by an age of iron. It is
almost superfluous to enumerate the unworthy successors of
Augustus. Their unparalleled vices, and the splendid theatre on
which they were acted, have saved them from oblivion. The dark,
unrelenting Tiberius, the furious Caligula, the feeble Claudius,
the profligate and cruel Nero, the beastly Vitellius, and the
timid, inhuman Domitian, are condemned to everlasting infamy.
During fourscore years (excepting only the short and doubtful
respite of Vespasian’s reign) Rome groaned beneath an unremitting
tyranny, which exterminated the ancient families of the republic,
and was fatal to almost every virtue and every talent that arose
in that unhappy period.
Under the reign of these monsters, the slavery of the Romans was
accompanied with two peculiar circumstances, the one occasioned
by their former liberty, the other by their extensive conquests,
which rendered their condition more completely wretched than that
of the victims of tyranny in any other age or country. From these
causes were derived, 1. The exquisite sensibility of the
sufferers; and, 2. The impossibility of escaping from the hand of
the oppressor.
I. When Persia was governed by the descendants of Sefi, a race of
princes whose wanton cruelty often stained their divan, their
table, and their bed, with the blood of their favorites, there is
a saying recorded of a young nobleman, that he never departed
from the sultan’s presence, without satisfying himself whether
his head was still on his shoulders. The experience of every day
might almost justify the scepticism of Rustan. Yet the fatal
sword, suspended above him by a single thread, seems not to have
disturbed the slumbers, or interrupted the tranquillity, of the
Persian. The monarch’s frown, he well knew, could level him with
the dust; but the stroke of lightning or apoplexy might be
equally fatal; and it was the part of a wise man to forget the
inevitable calamities of human life in the enjoyment of the
fleeting hour. He was dignified with the appellation of the
king’s slave; had, perhaps, been purchased from obscure parents,
in a country which he had never known; and was trained up from
his infancy in the severe discipline of the seraglio. His name,
his wealth, his honors, were the gift of a master, who might,
without injustice, resume what he had bestowed. Rustan’s
knowledge, if he possessed any, could only serve to confirm his
habits by prejudices. His language afforded not words for any
form of government, except absolute monarchy. The history of the
East informed him, that such had ever been the condition of
mankind. The Koran, and the interpreters of that divine book,
inculcated to him, that the sultan was the descendant of the
prophet, and the vicegerent of heaven; that patience was the
first virtue of a Mussulman, and unlimited obedience the great
duty of a subject.
The minds of the Romans were very differently prepared for
slavery. Oppressed beneath the weight of their own corruption and
of military violence, they for a long while preserved the
sentiments, or at least the ideas, of their free-born ancestors.
The education of Helvidius and Thrasea, of Tacitus and Pliny, was
the same as that of Cato and Cicero. From Grecian philosophy,
they had imbibed the justest and most liberal notions of the
dignity of human nature, and the origin of civil society. The
history of their own country had taught them to revere a free, a
virtuous, and a victorious commonwealth; to abhor the successful
crimes of Cæsar and Augustus; and inwardly to despise those
tyrants whom they adored with the most abject flattery. As
magistrates and senators they were admitted into the great
council, which had once dictated laws to the earth, whose
authority was so often prostituted to the vilest purposes of
tyranny. Tiberius, and those emperors who adopted his maxims,
attempted to disguise their murders by the formalities of
justice, and perhaps enjoyed a secret pleasure in rendering the
senate their accomplice as well as their victim. By this
assembly, the last of the Romans were condemned for imaginary
crimes and real virtues. Their infamous accusers assumed the
language of independent patriots, who arraigned a dangerous
citizen before the tribunal of his country; and the public
service was rewarded by riches and honors. The servile judges
professed to assert the majesty of the commonwealth, violated in
the person of its first magistrate, whose clemency they most
applauded when they trembled the most at his inexorable and
impending cruelty. The tyrant beheld their baseness with just
contempt, and encountered their secret sentiments of detestation
with sincere and avowed hatred for the whole body of the senate.
II. The division of Europe into a number of independent states,
connected, however, with each other by the general resemblance of
religion, language, and manners, is productive of the most
beneficial consequences to the liberty of mankind. A modern
tyrant, who should find no resistance either in his own breast,
or in his people, would soon experience a gentle restrain from
the example of his equals, the dread of present censure, the
advice of his allies, and the apprehension of his enemies. The
object of his displeasure, escaping from the narrow limits of his
dominions, would easily obtain, in a happier climate, a secure
refuge, a new fortune adequate to his merit, the freedom of
complaint, and perhaps the means of revenge. But the empire of
the Romans filled the world, and when the empire fell into the
hands of a single person, the world became a safe and dreary
prison for his enemies. The slave of Imperial despotism, whether
he was condemned to drag his gilded chain in Rome and the senate,
or to were out a life of exile on the barren rock of Seriphus, or
the frozen bank of the Danube, expected his fate in silent
despair. To resist was fatal, and it was impossible to fly. On
every side he was encompassed with a vast extent of sea and land,
which he could never hope to traverse without being discovered,
seized, and restored to his irritated master. Beyond the
frontiers, his anxious view could discover nothing, except the
ocean, inhospitable deserts, hostile tribes of barbarians, of
fierce manners and unknown language, or dependent kings, who
would gladly purchase the emperor’s protection by the sacrifice
of an obnoxious fugitive. “Wherever you are,” said Cicero to the
exiled Marcellus, “remember that you are equally within the power
of the conqueror.”
Chapter IV: The Cruelty, Follies And Murder Of Commodus.—Part I.
The Cruelty, Follies, And Murder Of Commodus. Election Of
Pertinax—His Attempts To Reform The State—His Assassination By The
Prætorian Guards.
The mildness of Marcus, which the rigid discipline of the Stoics
was unable to eradicate, formed, at the same time, the most
amiable, and the only defective part of his character. His
excellent understanding was often deceived by the unsuspecting
goodness of his heart. Artful men, who study the passions of
princes, and conceal their own, approached his person in the
disguise of philosophic sanctity, and acquired riches and honors
by affecting to despise them. His excessive indulgence to his
brother, * his wife, and his son, exceeded the bounds of private
virtue, and became a public injury, by the example and
consequences of their vices.
Faustina, the daughter of Pius and the wife of Marcus, has been
as much celebrated for her gallantries as for her beauty. The
grave simplicity of the philosopher was ill calculated to engage
her wanton levity, or to fix that unbounded passion for variety,
which often discovered personal merit in the meanest of mankind.
The Cupid of the ancients was, in general, a very sensual deity;
and the amours of an empress, as they exact on her side the
plainest advances, are seldom susceptible of much sentimental
delicacy. Marcus was the only man in the empire who seemed
ignorant or insensible of the irregularities of Faustina; which,
according to the prejudices of every age, reflected some disgrace
on the injured husband. He promoted several of her lovers to
posts of honor and profit, and during a connection of thirty
years, invariably gave her proofs of the most tender confidence,
and of a respect which ended not with her life. In his
Meditations, he thanks the gods, who had bestowed on him a wife
so faithful, so gentle, and of such a wonderful simplicity of
manners. The obsequious senate, at his earnest request, declared
her a goddess. She was represented in her temples, with the
attributes of Juno, Venus, and Ceres; and it was decreed, that,
on the day of their nuptials, the youth of either sex should pay
their vows before the altar of their chaste patroness.
The monstrous vices of the son have cast a shade on the purity of
the father’s virtues. It has been objected to Marcus, that he
sacrificed the happiness of millions to a fond partiality for a
worthless boy; and that he chose a successor in his own family,
rather than in the republic. Nothing however, was neglected by
the anxious father, and by the men of virtue and learning whom he
summoned to his assistance, to expand the narrow mind of young
Commodus, to correct his growing vices, and to render him worthy
of the throne for which he was designed. But the power of
instruction is seldom of much efficacy, except in those happy
dispositions where it is almost superfluous. The distasteful
lesson of a grave philosopher was, in a moment, obliterated by
the whisper of a profligate favorite; and Marcus himself blasted
the fruits of this labored education, by admitting his son, at
the age of fourteen or fifteen, to a full participation of the
Imperial power. He lived but four years afterwards: but he lived
long enough to repent a rash measure, which raised the impetuous
youth above the restraint of reason and authority.
Most of the crimes which disturb the internal peace of society,
are produced by the restraints which the necessary but unequal
laws of property have imposed on the appetites of mankind, by
confining to a few the possession of those objects that are
coveted by many. Of all our passions and appetites, the love of
power is of the most imperious and unsociable nature, since the
pride of one man requires the submission of the multitude. In the
tumult of civil discord, the laws of society lose their force,
and their place is seldom supplied by those of humanity. The
ardor of contention, the pride of victory, the despair of
success, the memory of past injuries, and the fear of future
dangers, all contribute to inflame the mind, and to silence the
voice of pity. From such motives almost every page of history has
been stained with civil blood; but these motives will not account
for the unprovoked cruelties of Commodus, who had nothing to wish
and every thing to enjoy. The beloved son of Marcus succeeded to
his father, amidst the acclamations of the senate and armies; and
when he ascended the throne, the happy youth saw round him
neither competitor to remove, nor enemies to punish. In this
calm, elevated station, it was surely natural that he should
prefer the love of mankind to their detestation, the mild glories
of his five predecessors to the ignominious fate of Nero and
Domitian.
Yet Commodus was not, as he has been represented, a tiger born
with an insatiate thirst of human blood, and capable, from his
infancy, of the most inhuman actions. Nature had formed him of a
weak rather than a wicked disposition. His simplicity and
timidity rendered him the slave of his attendants, who gradually
corrupted his mind. His cruelty, which at first obeyed the
dictates of others, degenerated into habit, and at length became
the ruling passion of his soul.
Upon the death of his father, Commodus found himself embarrassed
with the command of a great army, and the conduct of a difficult
war against the Quadi and Marcomanni. The servile and profligate
youths whom Marcus had banished, soon regained their station and
influence about the new emperor. They exaggerated the hardships
and dangers of a campaign in the wild countries beyond the
Danube; and they assured the indolent prince that the terror of
his name, and the arms of his lieutenants, would be sufficient to
complete the conquest of the dismayed barbarians, or to impose
such conditions as were more advantageous than any conquest. By a
dexterous application to his sensual appetites, they compared the
tranquillity, the splendor, the refined pleasures of Rome, with
the tumult of a Pannonian camp, which afforded neither leisure
nor materials for luxury. Commodus listened to the pleasing
advice; but whilst he hesitated between his own inclination and
the awe which he still retained for his father’s counsellors, the
summer insensibly elapsed, and his triumphal entry into the
capital was deferred till the autumn. His graceful person,
popular address, and imagined virtues, attracted the public
favor; the honorable peace which he had recently granted to the
barbarians, diffused a universal joy; his impatience to revisit
Rome was fondly ascribed to the love of his country; and his
dissolute course of amusements was faintly condemned in a prince
of nineteen years of age.
During the three first years of his reign, the forms, and even
the spirit, of the old administration, were maintained by those
faithful counsellors, to whom Marcus had recommended his son, and
for whose wisdom and integrity Commodus still entertained a
reluctant esteem. The young prince and his profligate favorites
revelled in all the license of sovereign power; but his hands
were yet unstained with blood; and he had even displayed a
generosity of sentiment, which might perhaps have ripened into
solid virtue. A fatal incident decided his fluctuating character.
One evening, as the emperor was returning to the palace, through
a dark and narrow portico in the amphitheatre, an assassin, who
waited his passage, rushed upon him with a drawn sword, loudly
exclaiming, “_The senate sends you this._” The menace prevented
the deed; the assassin was seized by the guards, and immediately
revealed the authors of the conspiracy. It had been formed, not
in the state, but within the walls of the palace. Lucilla, the
emperor’s sister, and widow of Lucius Verus, impatient of the
second rank, and jealous of the reigning empress, had armed the
murderer against her brother’s life. She had not ventured to
communicate the black design to her second husband, Claudius
Pompeiarus, a senator of distinguished merit and unshaken
loyalty; but among the crowd of her lovers (for she imitated the
manners of Faustina) she found men of desperate fortunes and wild
ambition, who were prepared to serve her more violent, as well as
her tender passions. The conspirators experienced the rigor of
justice, and the abandoned princess was punished, first with
exile, and afterwards with death.
But the words of the assassin sunk deep into the mind of
Commodus, and left an indelible impression of fear and hatred
against the whole body of the senate. * Those whom he had dreaded
as importunate ministers, he now suspected as secret enemies. The
Delators, a race of men discouraged, and almost extinguished,
under the former reigns, again became formidable, as soon as they
discovered that the emperor was desirous of finding disaffection
and treason in the senate. That assembly, whom Marcus had ever
considered as the great council of the nation, was composed of
the most distinguished of the Romans; and distinction of every
kind soon became criminal. The possession of wealth stimulated
the diligence of the informers; rigid virtue implied a tacit
censure of the irregularities of Commodus; important services
implied a dangerous superiority of merit; and the friendship of
the father always insured the aversion of the son. Suspicion was
equivalent to proof; trial to condemnation. The execution of a
considerable senator was attended with the death of all who might
lament or revenge his fate; and when Commodus had once tasted
human blood, he became incapable of pity or remorse.
Of these innocent victims of tyranny, none died more lamented
than the two brothers of the Quintilian family, Maximus and
Condianus; whose fraternal love has saved their names from
oblivion, and endeared their memory to posterity. Their studies
and their occupations, their pursuits and their pleasures, were
still the same. In the enjoyment of a great estate, they never
admitted the idea of a separate interest: some fragments are now
extant of a treatise which they composed in common; and in every
action of life it was observed that their two bodies were
animated by one soul. The Antonines, who valued their virtues,
and delighted in their union, raised them, in the same year, to
the consulship; and Marcus afterwards intrusted to their joint
care the civil administration of Greece, and a great military
command, in which they obtained a signal victory over the
Germans. The kind cruelty of Commodus united them in death.
The tyrant’s rage, after having shed the noblest blood of the
senate, at length recoiled on the principal instrument of his
cruelty. Whilst Commodus was immersed in blood and luxury, he
devolved the detail of the public business on Perennis, a servile
and ambitious minister, who had obtained his post by the murder
of his predecessor, but who possessed a considerable share of
vigor and ability. By acts of extortion, and the forfeited
estates of the nobles sacrificed to his avarice, he had
accumulated an immense treasure. The Prætorian guards were under
his immediate command; and his son, who already discovered a
military genius, was at the head of the Illyrian legions.
Perennis aspired to the empire; or what, in the eyes of Commodus,
amounted to the same crime, he was capable of aspiring to it, had
he not been prevented, surprised, and put to death. The fall of a
minister is a very trifling incident in the general history of
the empire; but it was hastened by an extraordinary circumstance,
which proved how much the nerves of discipline were already
relaxed. The legions of Britain, discontented with the
administration of Perennis, formed a deputation of fifteen
hundred select men, with instructions to march to Rome, and lay
their complaints before the emperor. These military petitioners,
by their own determined behaviour, by inflaming the divisions of
the guards, by exaggerating the strength of the British army, and
by alarming the fears of Commodus, exacted and obtained the
minister’s death, as the only redress of their grievances. This
presumption of a distant army, and their discovery of the
weakness of government, was a sure presage of the most dreadful
convulsions.
The negligence of the public administration was betrayed, soon
afterwards, by a new disorder, which arose from the smallest
beginnings. A spirit of desertion began to prevail among the
troops: and the deserters, instead of seeking their safety in
flight or concealment, infested the highways. Maternus, a private
soldier, of a daring boldness above his station, collected these
bands of robbers into a little army, set open the prisons,
invited the slaves to assert their freedom, and plundered with
impunity the rich and defenceless cities of Gaul and Spain. The
governors of the provinces, who had long been the spectators, and
perhaps the partners, of his depredations, were, at length,
roused from their supine indolence by the threatening commands of
the emperor. Maternus found that he was encompassed, and foresaw
that he must be overpowered. A great effort of despair was his
last resource. He ordered his followers to disperse, to pass the
Alps in small parties and various disguises, and to assemble at
Rome, during the licentious tumult of the festival of Cybele. To
murder Commodus, and to ascend the vacant throne, was the
ambition of no vulgar robber. His measures were so ably concerted
that his concealed troops already filled the streets of Rome. The
envy of an accomplice discovered and ruined this singular
enterprise, in a moment when it was ripe for execution.
Suspicious princes often promote the last of mankind, from a vain
persuasion, that those who have no dependence, except on their
favor, will have no attachment, except to the person of their
benefactor. Cleander, the successor of Perennis, was a Phrygian
by birth; of a nation over whose stubborn, but servile temper,
blows only could prevail. He had been sent from his native
country to Rome, in the capacity of a slave. As a slave he
entered the Imperial palace, rendered himself useful to his
master’s passions, and rapidly ascended to the most exalted
station which a subject could enjoy. His influence over the mind
of Commodus was much greater than that of his predecessor; for
Cleander was devoid of any ability or virtue which could inspire
the emperor with envy or distrust. Avarice was the reigning
passion of his soul, and the great principle of his
administration. The rank of Consul, of Patrician, of Senator, was
exposed to public sale; and it would have been considered as
disaffection, if any one had refused to purchase these empty and
disgraceful honors with the greatest part of his fortune. In the
lucrative provincial employments, the minister shared with the
governor the spoils of the people. The execution of the laws was
penal and arbitrary. A wealthy criminal might obtain, not only
the reversal of the sentence by which he was justly condemned,
but might likewise inflict whatever punishment he pleased on the
accuser, the witnesses, and the judge.
By these means, Cleander, in the space of three years, had
accumulated more wealth than had ever yet been possessed by any
freedman. Commodus was perfectly satisfied with the magnificent
presents which the artful courtier laid at his feet in the most
seasonable moments. To divert the public envy, Cleander, under
the emperor’s name, erected baths, porticos, and places of
exercise, for the use of the people. He flattered himself that
the Romans, dazzled and amused by this apparent liberality, would
be less affected by the bloody scenes which were daily exhibited;
that they would forget the death of Byrrhus, a senator to whose
superior merit the late emperor had granted one of his daughters;
and that they would forgive the execution of Arrius Antoninus,
the last representative of the name and virtues of the Antonines.
The former, with more integrity than prudence, had attempted to
disclose, to his brother-in-law, the true character of Cleander.
An equitable sentence pronounced by the latter, when proconsul of
Asia, against a worthless creature of the favorite, proved fatal
to him. After the fall of Perennis, the terrors of Commodus had,
for a short time, assumed the appearance of a return to virtue.
He repealed the most odious of his acts; loaded his memory with
the public execration, and ascribed to the pernicious counsels of
that wicked minister all the errors of his inexperienced youth.
But his repentance lasted only thirty days; and, under Cleander’s
tyranny, the administration of Perennis was often regretted.
Chapter IV: The Cruelty, Follies And Murder Of Commodus.—Part II.
Pestilence and famine contributed to fill up the measure of the
calamities of Rome. The first could be only imputed to the just
indignation of the gods; but a monopoly of corn, supported by the
riches and power of the minister, was considered as the immediate
cause of the second. The popular discontent, after it had long
circulated in whispers, broke out in the assembled circus. The
people quitted their favorite amusements for the more delicious
pleasure of revenge, rushed in crowds towards a palace in the
suburbs, one of the emperor’s retirements, and demanded, with
angry clamors, the head of the public enemy. Cleander, who
commanded the Prætorian guards, ordered a body of cavalry to
sally forth, and disperse the seditious multitude. The multitude
fled with precipitation towards the city; several were slain, and
many more were trampled to death; but when the cavalry entered
the streets, their pursuit was checked by a shower of stones and
darts from the roofs and windows of the houses. The foot guards,
who had been long jealous of the prerogatives and insolence of
the Prætorian cavalry, embraced the party of the people. The
tumult became a regular engagement, and threatened a general
massacre. The Prætorians, at length, gave way, oppressed with
numbers; and the tide of popular fury returned with redoubled
violence against the gates of the palace, where Commodus lay,
dissolved in luxury, and alone unconscious of the civil war. It
was death to approach his person with the unwelcome news. He
would have perished in this supine security, had not two women,
his eldest sister Fadilla, and Marcia, the most favored of his
concubines, ventured to break into his presence. Bathed in tears,
and with dishevelled hair, they threw themselves at his feet; and
with all the pressing eloquence of fear, discovered to the
affrighted emperor the crimes of the minister, the rage of the
people, and the impending ruin, which, in a few minutes, would
burst over his palace and person. Commodus started from his dream
of pleasure, and commanded that the head of Cleander should be
thrown out to the people. The desired spectacle instantly
appeased the tumult; and the son of Marcus might even yet have
regained the affection and confidence of his subjects.
But every sentiment of virtue and humanity was extinct in the
mind of Commodus. Whilst he thus abandoned the reins of empire to
these unworthy favorites, he valued nothing in sovereign power,
except the unbounded license of indulging his sensual appetites.
His hours were spent in a seraglio of three hundred beautiful
women, and as many boys, of every rank, and of every province;
and, wherever the arts of seduction proved ineffectual, the
brutal lover had recourse to violence. The ancient historians
have expatiated on these abandoned scenes of prostitution, which
scorned every restraint of nature or modesty; but it would not be
easy to translate their too faithful descriptions into the
decency of modern language. The intervals of lust were filled up
with the basest amusements. The influence of a polite age, and
the labor of an attentive education, had never been able to
infuse into his rude and brutish mind the least tincture of
learning; and he was the first of the Roman emperors totally
devoid of taste for the pleasures of the understanding. Nero
himself excelled, or affected to excel, in the elegant arts of
music and poetry: nor should we despise his pursuits, had he not
converted the pleasing relaxation of a leisure hour into the
serious business and ambition of his life. But Commodus, from his
earliest infancy, discovered an aversion to whatever was rational
or liberal, and a fond attachment to the amusements of the
populace; the sports of the circus and amphitheatre, the combats
of gladiators, and the hunting of wild beasts. The masters in
every branch of learning, whom Marcus provided for his son, were
heard with inattention and disgust; whilst the Moors and
Parthians, who taught him to dart the javelin and to shoot with
the bow, found a disciple who delighted in his application, and
soon equalled the most skilful of his instructors in the
steadiness of the eye and the dexterity of the hand.
The servile crowd, whose fortune depended on their master’s
vices, applauded these ignoble pursuits. The perfidious voice of
flattery reminded him, that by exploits of the same nature, by
the defeat of the Nemæan lion, and the slaughter of the wild boar
of Erymanthus, the Grecian Hercules had acquired a place among
the gods, and an immortal memory among men. They only forgot to
observe, that, in the first ages of society, when the fiercer
animals often dispute with man the possession of an unsettled
country, a successful war against those savages is one of the
most innocent and beneficial labors of heroism. In the civilized
state of the Roman empire, the wild beasts had long since retired
from the face of man, and the neighborhood of populous cities. To
surprise them in their solitary haunts, and to transport them to
Rome, that they might be slain in pomp by the hand of an emperor,
was an enterprise equally ridiculous for the prince and
oppressive for the people. Ignorant of these distinctions,
Commodus eagerly embraced the glorious resemblance, and styled
himself (as we still read on his medals ) the _Roman_ _Hercules_.
* The club and the lion’s hide were placed by the side of the
throne, amongst the ensigns of sovereignty; and statues were
erected, in which Commodus was represented in the character, and
with the attributes, of the god, whose valor and dexterity he
endeavored to emulate in the daily course of his ferocious
amusements.
Elated with these praises, which gradually extinguished the
innate sense of shame, Commodus resolved to exhibit before the
eyes of the Roman people those exercises, which till then he had
decently confined within the walls of his palace, and to the
presence of a few favorites. On the appointed day, the various
motives of flattery, fear, and curiosity, attracted to the
amphitheatre an innumerable multitude of spectators; and some
degree of applause was deservedly bestowed on the uncommon skill
of the Imperial performer. Whether he aimed at the head or heart
of the animal, the wound was alike certain and mortal. With
arrows whose point was shaped into the form of crescent, Commodus
often intercepted the rapid career, and cut asunder the long,
bony neck of the ostrich. A panther was let loose; and the archer
waited till he had leaped upon a trembling malefactor. In the
same instant the shaft flew, the beast dropped dead, and the man
remained unhurt. The dens of the amphitheatre disgorged at once a
hundred lions: a hundred darts from the unerring hand of Commodus
laid them dead as they run raging round the _Arena_. Neither the
huge bulk of the elephant, nor the scaly hide of the rhinoceros,
could defend them from his stroke. Æthiopia and India yielded
their most extraordinary productions; and several animals were
slain in the amphitheatre, which had been seen only in the
representations of art, or perhaps of fancy. In all these
exhibitions, the securest precautions were used to protect the
person of the Roman Hercules from the desperate spring of any
savage, who might possibly disregard the dignity of the emperor
and the sanctity of the god.*
But the meanest of the populace were affected with shame and
indignation when they beheld their sovereign enter the lists as a
gladiator, and glory in a profession which the laws and manners
of the Romans had branded with the justest note of infamy. He
chose the habit and arms of the _Secutor_, whose combat with the
_Retiarius_ formed one of the most lively scenes in the bloody
sports of the amphitheatre. The _Secutor_ was armed with a
helmet, sword, and buckler; his naked antagonist had only a large
net and a trident; with the one he endeavored to entangle, with
the other to despatch his enemy. If he missed the first throw, he
was obliged to fly from the pursuit of the _Secutor_, till he had
prepared his net for a second cast. The emperor fought in this
character seven hundred and thirty-five several times. These
glorious achievements were carefully recorded in the public acts
of the empire; and that he might omit no circumstance of infamy,
he received from the common fund of gladiators a stipend so
exorbitant that it became a new and most ignominious tax upon the
Roman people. It may be easily supposed, that in these
engagements the master of the world was always successful; in the
amphitheatre, his victories were not often sanguinary; but when
he exercised his skill in the school of gladiators, or his own
palace, his wretched antagonists were frequently honored with a
mortal wound from the hand of Commodus, and obliged to seal their
flattery with their blood. He now disdained the appellation of
Hercules. The name of Paulus, a celebrated Secutor, was the only
one which delighted his ear. It was inscribed on his colossal
statues, and repeated in the redoubled acclamations of the
mournful and applauding senate. Claudius Pompeianus, the virtuous
husband of Lucilla, was the only senator who asserted the honor
of his rank. As a father, he permitted his sons to consult their
safety by attending the amphitheatre. As a Roman, he declared,
that his own life was in the emperor’s hands, but that he would
never behold the son of Marcus prostituting his person and
dignity. Notwithstanding his manly resolution Pompeianus escaped
the resentment of the tyrant, and, with his honor, had the good
fortune to preserve his life.
Commodus had now attained the summit of vice and infamy. Amidst
the acclamations of a flattering court, he was unable to disguise
from himself, that he had deserved the contempt and hatred of
every man of sense and virtue in his empire. His ferocious spirit
was irritated by the consciousness of that hatred, by the envy of
every kind of merit, by the just apprehension of danger, and by
the habit of slaughter, which he contracted in his daily
amusements. History has preserved a long list of consular
senators sacrificed to his wanton suspicion, which sought out,
with peculiar anxiety, those unfortunate persons connected,
however remotely, with the family of the Antonines, without
sparing even the ministers of his crimes or pleasures. His
cruelty proved at last fatal to himself. He had shed with
impunity the noblest blood of Rome: he perished as soon as he was
dreaded by his own domestics. Marcia, his favorite concubine,
Eclectus, his chamberlain, and Lætus, his Prætorian præfect,
alarmed by the fate of their companions and predecessors,
resolved to prevent the destruction which every hour hung over
their heads, either from the mad caprice of the tyrant, * or the
sudden indignation of the people. Marcia seized the occasion of
presenting a draught of wine to her lover, after he had fatigued
himself with hunting some wild beasts. Commodus retired to sleep;
but whilst he was laboring with the effects of poison and
drunkenness, a robust youth, by profession a wrestler, entered
his chamber, and strangled him without resistance. The body was
secretly conveyed out of the palace, before the least suspicion
was entertained in the city, or even in the court, of the
emperor’s death. Such was the fate of the son of Marcus, and so
easy was it to destroy a hated tyrant, who, by the artificial
powers of government, had oppressed, during thirteen years, so
many millions of subjects, each of whom was equal to their master
in personal strength and personal abilities.
The measures of the conspirators were conducted with the
deliberate coolness and celerity which the greatness of the
occasion required. They resolved instantly to fill the vacant
throne with an emperor whose character would justify and maintain
the action that had been committed. They fixed on Pertinax,
præfect of the city, an ancient senator of consular rank, whose
conspicuous merit had broke through the obscurity of his birth,
and raised him to the first honors of the state. He had
successively governed most of the provinces of the empire; and in
all his great employments, military as well as civil, he had
uniformly distinguished himself by the firmness, the prudence,
and the integrity of his conduct. He now remained almost alone of
the friends and ministers of Marcus; and when, at a late hour of
the night, he was awakened with the news, that the chamberlain
and the præfect were at his door, he received them with intrepid
resignation, and desired they would execute their master’s
orders. Instead of death, they offered him the throne of the
Roman world. During some moments he distrusted their intentions
and assurances. Convinced at length of the death of Commodus, he
accepted the purple with a sincere reluctance, the natural effect
of his knowledge both of the duties and of the dangers of the
supreme rank.
Lætus conducted without delay his new emperor to the camp of the
Prætorians, diffusing at the same time through the city a
seasonable report that Commodus died suddenly of an apoplexy; and
that the virtuous Pertinax had already succeeded to the throne.
The guards were rather surprised than pleased with the suspicious
death of a prince, whose indulgence and liberality they alone had
experienced; but the emergency of the occasion, the authority of
their præfect, the reputation of Pertinax, and the clamors of the
people, obliged them to stifle their secret discontents, to
accept the donative promised by the new emperor, to swear
allegiance to him, and with joyful acclamations and laurels in
their hands to conduct him to the senate house, that the military
consent might be ratified by the civil authority.
This important night was now far spent; with the dawn of day, and
the commencement of the new year, the senators expected a summons
to attend an ignominious ceremony. * In spite of all
remonstrances, even of those of his creatures who yet preserved
any regard for prudence or decency, Commodus had resolved to pass
the night in the gladiators’ school, and from thence to take
possession of the consulship, in the habit and with the
attendance of that infamous crew. On a sudden, before the break
of day, the senate was called together in the temple of Concord,
to meet the guards, and to ratify the election of a new emperor.
For a few minutes they sat in silent suspense, doubtful of their
unexpected deliverance, and suspicious of the cruel artifices of
Commodus: but when at length they were assured that the tyrant
was no more, they resigned themselves to all the transports of
joy and indignation. Pertinax, who modestly represented the
meanness of his extraction, and pointed out several noble
senators more deserving than himself of the empire, was
constrained by their dutiful violence to ascend the throne, and
received all the titles of Imperial power, confirmed by the most
sincere vows of fidelity. The memory of Commodus was branded with
eternal infamy. The names of tyrant, of gladiator, of public
enemy resounded in every corner of the house. They decreed in
tumultuous votes, that his honors should be reversed, his titles
erased from the public monuments, his statues thrown down, his
body dragged with a hook into the stripping room of the
gladiators, to satiate the public fury; and they expressed some
indignation against those officious servants who had already
presumed to screen his remains from the justice of the senate.
But Pertinax could not refuse those last rites to the memory of
Marcus, and the tears of his first protector Claudius Pompeianus,
who lamented the cruel fate of his brother-in-law, and lamented
still more that he had deserved it.
These effusions of impotent rage against a dead emperor, whom the
senate had flattered when alive with the most abject servility,
betrayed a just but ungenerous spirit of revenge. The legality of
these decrees was, however, supported by the principles of the
Imperial constitution. To censure, to depose, or to punish with
death, the first magistrate of the republic, who had abused his
delegated trust, was the ancient and undoubted prerogative of the
Roman senate; but the feeble assembly was obliged to content
itself with inflicting on a fallen tyrant that public justice,
from which, during his life and reign, he had been shielded by
the strong arm of military despotism. *
Pertinax found a nobler way of condemning his predecessor’s
memory; by the contrast of his own virtues with the vices of
Commodus. On the day of his accession, he resigned over to his
wife and son his whole private fortune; that they might have no
pretence to solicit favors at the expense of the state. He
refused to flatter the vanity of the former with the title of
Augusta; or to corrupt the inexperienced youth of the latter by
the rank of Cæsar. Accurately distinguishing between the duties
of a parent and those of a sovereign, he educated his son with a
severe simplicity, which, while it gave him no assured prospect
of the throne, might in time have rendered him worthy of it. In
public, the behavior of Pertinax was grave and affable. He lived
with the virtuous part of the senate, (and, in a private station,
he had been acquainted with the true character of each
individual,) without either pride or jealousy; considered them as
friends and companions, with whom he had shared the danger of the
tyranny, and with whom he wished to enjoy the security of the
present time. He very frequently invited them to familiar
entertainments, the frugality of which was ridiculed by those who
remembered and regretted the luxurious prodigality of Commodus.
To heal, as far as it was possible, the wounds inflicted by the
hand of tyranny, was the pleasing, but melancholy, task of
Pertinax. The innocent victims, who yet survived, were recalled
from exile, released from prison, and restored to the full
possession of their honors and fortunes. The unburied bodies of
murdered senators (for the cruelty of Commodus endeavored to
extend itself beyond death) were deposited in the sepulchres of
their ancestors; their memory was justified and every consolation
was bestowed on their ruined and afflicted families. Among these
consolations, one of the most grateful was the punishment of the
Delators; the common enemies of their master, of virtue, and of
their country. Yet even in the inquisition of these legal
assassins, Pertinax proceeded with a steady temper, which gave
every thing to justice, and nothing to popular prejudice and
resentment.
The finances of the state demanded the most vigilant care of the
emperor. Though every measure of injustice and extortion had been
adopted, which could collect the property of the subject into the
coffers of the prince, the rapaciousness of Commodus had been so
very inadequate to his extravagance, that, upon his death, no
more than eight thousand pounds were found in the exhausted
treasury, to defray the current expenses of government, and to
discharge the pressing demand of a liberal donative, which the
new emperor had been obliged to promise to the Prætorian guards.
Yet under these distressed circumstances, Pertinax had the
generous firmness to remit all the oppressive taxes invented by
Commodus, and to cancel all the unjust claims of the treasury;
declaring, in a decree of the senate, “that he was better
satisfied to administer a poor republic with innocence, than to
acquire riches by the ways of tyranny and dishonor.” Economy and
industry he considered as the pure and genuine sources of wealth;
and from them he soon derived a copious supply for the public
necessities. The expense of the household was immediately reduced
to one half. All the instruments of luxury Pertinax exposed to
public auction, gold and silver plate, chariots of a singular
construction, a superfluous wardrobe of silk and embroidery, and
a great number of beautiful slaves of both sexes; excepting only,
with attentive humanity, those who were born in a state of
freedom, and had been ravished from the arms of their weeping
parents. At the same time that he obliged the worthless favorites
of the tyrant to resign a part of their ill-gotten wealth, he
satisfied the just creditors of the state, and unexpectedly
discharged the long arrears of honest services. He removed the
oppressive restrictions which had been laid upon commerce, and
granted all the uncultivated lands in Italy and the provinces to
those who would improve them; with an exemption from tribute
during the term of ten years.
Such a uniform conduct had already secured to Pertinax the
noblest reward of a sovereign, the love and esteem of his people.
Those who remembered the virtues of Marcus were happy to
contemplate in their new emperor the features of that bright
original; and flattered themselves, that they should long enjoy
the benign influence of his administration. A hasty zeal to
reform the corrupted state, accompanied with less prudence than
might have been expected from the years and experience of
Pertinax, proved fatal to himself and to his country. His honest
indiscretion united against him the servile crowd, who found
their private benefit in the public disorders, and who preferred
the favor of a tyrant to the inexorable equality of the laws.
Amidst the general joy, the sullen and angry countenance of the
Prætorian guards betrayed their inward dissatisfaction. They had
reluctantly submitted to Pertinax; they dreaded the strictness of
the ancient discipline, which he was preparing to restore; and
they regretted the license of the former reign. Their discontents
were secretly fomented by Lætus, their præfect, who found, when
it was too late, that his new emperor would reward a servant, but
would not be ruled by a favorite. On the third day of his reign,
the soldiers seized on a noble senator, with a design to carry
him to the camp, and to invest him with the Imperial purple.
Instead of being dazzled by the dangerous honor, the affrighted
victim escaped from their violence, and took refuge at the feet
of Pertinax. A short time afterwards, Sosius Falco, one of the
consuls of the year, a rash youth, but of an ancient and opulent
family, listened to the voice of ambition; and a conspiracy was
formed during a short absence of Pertinax, which was crushed by
his sudden return to Rome, and his resolute behavior. Falco was
on the point of being justly condemned to death as a public enemy
had he not been saved by the earnest and sincere entreaties of
the injured emperor, who conjured the senate, that the purity of
his reign might not be stained by the blood even of a guilty
senator.
These disappointments served only to irritate the rage of the
Prætorian guards. On the twenty-eighth of March, eighty-six days
only after the death of Commodus, a general sedition broke out in
the camp, which the officers wanted either power or inclination
to suppress. Two or three hundred of the most desperate soldiers
marched at noonday, with arms in their hands and fury in their
looks, towards the Imperial palace. The gates were thrown open by
their companions upon guard, and by the domestics of the old
court, who had already formed a secret conspiracy against the
life of the too virtuous emperor. On the news of their approach,
Pertinax, disdaining either flight or concealment, advanced to
meet his assassins; and recalled to their minds his own
innocence, and the sanctity of their recent oath. For a few
moments they stood in silent suspense, ashamed of their atrocious
design, and awed by the venerable aspect and majestic firmness of
their sovereign, till at length, the despair of pardon reviving
their fury, a barbarian of the country of Tongress levelled the
first blow against Pertinax, who was instantly despatched with a
multitude of wounds. His head, separated from his body, and
placed on a lance, was carried in triumph to the Prætorian camp,
in the sight of a mournful and indignant people, who lamented the
unworthy fate of that excellent prince, and the transient
blessings of a reign, the memory of which could serve only to
aggravate their approaching misfortunes.
Chapter V: Sale Of The Empire To Didius Julianus.—Part I.
Public Sale Of The Empire To Didius Julianus By The Prætorian
Guards—Clodius Albinus In Britain, Pescennius Niger In Syria, And
Septimius Severus In Pannonia, Declare Against The Murderers Of
Pertinax—Civil Wars And Victory Of Severus Over His Three
Rivals—Relaxation Of Discipline—New Maxims Of Government.
The power of the sword is more sensibly felt in an extensive
monarchy, than in a small community. It has been calculated by
the ablest politicians, that no state, without being soon
exhausted, can maintain above the hundredth part of its members
in arms and idleness. But although this relative proportion may
be uniform, the influence of the army over the rest of the
society will vary according to the degree of its positive
strength. The advantages of military science and discipline
cannot be exerted, unless a proper number of soldiers are united
into one body, and actuated by one soul. With a handful of men,
such a union would be ineffectual; with an unwieldy host, it
would be impracticable; and the powers of the machine would be
alike destroyed by the extreme minuteness or the excessive weight
of its springs. To illustrate this observation, we need only
reflect, that there is no superiority of natural strength,
artificial weapons, or acquired skill, which could enable one man
to keep in constant subjection one hundred of his
fellow-creatures: the tyrant of a single town, or a small
district, would soon discover that a hundred armed followers were
a weak defence against ten thousand peasants or citizens; but a
hundred thousand well-disciplined soldiers will command, with
despotic sway, ten millions of subjects; and a body of ten or
fifteen thousand guards will strike terror into the most numerous
populace that ever crowded the streets of an immense capital.
The Prætorian bands, whose licentious fury was the first symptom
and cause of the decline of the Roman empire, scarcely amounted
to the last-mentioned number.* They derived their institution
from Augustus. That crafty tyrant, sensible that laws might
color, but that arms alone could maintain, his usurped dominion,
had gradually formed this powerful body of guards, in constant
readiness to protect his person, to awe the senate, and either to
prevent or to crush the first motions of rebellion. He
distinguished these favored troops by a double pay and superior
privileges; but, as their formidable aspect would at once have
alarmed and irritated the Roman people, three cohorts only were
stationed in the capital, whilst the remainder was dispersed in
the adjacent towns of Italy. But after fifty years of peace and
servitude, Tiberius ventured on a decisive measure, which forever
rivetted the fetters of his country. Under the fair pretences of
relieving Italy from the heavy burden of military quarters, and
of introducing a stricter discipline among the guards, he
assembled them at Rome, in a permanent camp, which was fortified
with skilful care, and placed on a commanding situation.
Such formidable servants are always necessary, but often fatal to
the throne of despotism. By thus introducing the Prætorian guards
as it were into the palace and the senate, the emperors taught
them to perceive their own strength, and the weakness of the
civil government; to view the vices of their masters with
familiar contempt, and to lay aside that reverential awe, which
distance only, and mystery, can preserve towards an imaginary
power. In the luxurious idleness of an opulent city, their pride
was nourished by the sense of their irresistible weight; nor was
it possible to conceal from them, that the person of the
sovereign, the authority of the senate, the public treasure, and
the seat of empire, were all in their hands. To divert the
Prætorian bands from these dangerous reflections, the firmest and
best established princes were obliged to mix blandishments with
commands, rewards with punishments, to flatter their pride,
indulge their pleasures, connive at their irregularities, and to
purchase their precarious faith by a liberal donative; which,
since the elevation of Claudius, was enacted as a legal claim, on
the accession of every new emperor.
The advocate of the guards endeavored to justify by arguments the
power which they asserted by arms; and to maintain that,
according to the purest principles of the constitution, _their_
consent was essentially necessary in the appointment of an
emperor. The election of consuls, of generals, and of
magistrates, however it had been recently usurped by the senate,
was the ancient and undoubted right of the Roman people. But
where was the Roman people to be found? Not surely amongst the
mixed multitude of slaves and strangers that filled the streets
of Rome; a servile populace, as devoid of spirit as destitute of
property. The defenders of the state, selected from the flower of
the Italian youth, and trained in the exercise of arms and
virtue, were the genuine representatives of the people, and the
best entitled to elect the military chief of the republic. These
assertions, however defective in reason, became unanswerable when
the fierce Prætorians increased their weight, by throwing, like
the barbarian conqueror of Rome, their swords into the scale.
The Prætorians had violated the sanctity of the throne by the
atrocious murder of Pertinax; they dishonored the majesty of it
by their subsequent conduct. The camp was without a leader, for
even the præfect Lætus, who had excited the tempest, prudently
declined the public indignation. Amidst the wild disorder,
Sulpicianus, the emperor’s father-in-law, and governor of the
city, who had been sent to the camp on the first alarm of mutiny,
was endeavoring to calm the fury of the multitude, when he was
silenced by the clamorous return of the murderers, bearing on a
lance the head of Pertinax. Though history has accustomed us to
observe every principle and every passion yielding to the
imperious dictates of ambition, it is scarcely credible that, in
these moments of horror, Sulpicianus should have aspired to
ascend a throne polluted with the recent blood of so near a
relation and so excellent a prince. He had already begun to use
the only effectual argument, and to treat for the Imperial
dignity; but the more prudent of the Prætorians, apprehensive
that, in this private contract, they should not obtain a just
price for so valuable a commodity, ran out upon the ramparts;
and, with a loud voice, proclaimed that the Roman world was to be
disposed of to the best bidder by public auction.
This infamous offer, the most insolent excess of military
license, diffused a universal grief, shame, and indignation
throughout the city. It reached at length the ears of Didius
Julianus, a wealthy senator, who, regardless of the public
calamities, was indulging himself in the luxury of the table. His
wife and his daughter, his freedmen and his parasites, easily
convinced him that he deserved the throne, and earnestly conjured
him to embrace so fortunate an opportunity. The vain old man
hastened to the Prætorian camp, where Sulpicianus was still in
treaty with the guards, and began to bid against him from the
foot of the rampart. The unworthy negotiation was transacted by
faithful emissaries, who passed alternately from one candidate to
the other, and acquainted each of them with the offers of his
rival. Sulpicianus had already promised a donative of five
thousand drachms (above one hundred and sixty pounds) to each
soldier; when Julian, eager for the prize, rose at once to the
sum of six thousand two hundred and fifty drachms, or upwards of
two hundred pounds sterling. The gates of the camp were instantly
thrown open to the purchaser; he was declared emperor, and
received an oath of allegiance from the soldiers, who retained
humanity enough to stipulate that he should pardon and forget the
competition of Sulpicianus. *
It was now incumbent on the Prætorians to fulfil the conditions
of the sale. They placed their new sovereign, whom they served
and despised, in the centre of their ranks, surrounded him on
every side with their shields, and conducted him in close order
of battle through the deserted streets of the city. The senate
was commanded to assemble; and those who had been the
distinguished friends of Pertinax, or the personal enemies of
Julian, found it necessary to affect a more than common share of
satisfaction at this happy revolution. After Julian had filled
the senate house with armed soldiers, he expatiated on the
freedom of his election, his own eminent virtues, and his full
assurance of the affections of the senate. The obsequious
assembly congratulated their own and the public felicity; engaged
their allegiance, and conferred on him all the several branches
of the Imperial power. From the senate Julian was conducted, by
the same military procession, to take possession of the palace.
The first objects that struck his eyes, were the abandoned trunk
of Pertinax, and the frugal entertainment prepared for his
supper. The one he viewed with indifference, the other with
contempt. A magnificent feast was prepared by his order, and he
amused himself, till a very late hour, with dice, and the
performances of Pylades, a celebrated dancer. Yet it was
observed, that after the crowd of flatterers dispersed, and left
him to darkness, solitude, and terrible reflection, he passed a
sleepless night; revolving most probably in his mind his own rash
folly, the fate of his virtuous predecessor, and the doubtful and
dangerous tenure of an empire which had not been acquired by
merit, but purchased by money.
He had reason to tremble. On the throne of the world he found
himself without a friend, and even without an adherent. The
guards themselves were ashamed of the prince whom their avarice
had persuaded them to accept; nor was there a citizen who did not
consider his elevation with horror, as the last insult on the
Roman name. The nobility, whose conspicuous station, and ample
possessions, exacted the strictest caution, dissembled their
sentiments, and met the affected civility of the emperor with
smiles of complacency and professions of duty. But the people,
secure in their numbers and obscurity, gave a free vent to their
passions. The streets and public places of Rome resounded with
clamors and imprecations. The enraged multitude affronted the
person of Julian, rejected his liberality, and, conscious of the
impotence of their own resentment, they called aloud on the
legions of the frontiers to assert the violated majesty of the
Roman empire.
The public discontent was soon diffused from the centre to the
frontiers of the empire. The armies of Britain, of Syria, and of
Illyricum, lamented the death of Pertinax, in whose company, or
under whose command, they had so often fought and conquered. They
received with surprise, with indignation, and perhaps with envy,
the extraordinary intelligence, that the Prætorians had disposed
of the empire by public auction; and they sternly refused to
ratify the ignominious bargain. Their immediate and unanimous
revolt was fatal to Julian, but it was fatal at the same time to
the public peace, as the generals of the respective armies,
Clodius Albinus, Pescennius Niger, and Septimius Severus, were
still more anxious to succeed than to revenge the murdered
Pertinax. Their forces were exactly balanced. Each of them was at
the head of three legions, with a numerous train of auxiliaries;
and however different in their characters, they were all soldiers
of experience and capacity.
Clodius Albinus, governor of Britain, surpassed both his
competitors in the nobility of his extraction, which he derived
from some of the most illustrious names of the old republic. But
the branch from which he claimed his descent was sunk into mean
circumstances, and transplanted into a remote province. It is
difficult to form a just idea of his true character. Under the
philosophic cloak of austerity, he stands accused of concealing
most of the vices which degrade human nature. But his accusers
are those venal writers who adored the fortune of Severus, and
trampled on the ashes of an unsuccessful rival. Virtue, or the
appearances of virtue, recommended Albinus to the confidence and
good opinion of Marcus; and his preserving with the son the same
interest which he had acquired with the father, is a proof at
least that he was possessed of a very flexible disposition. The
favor of a tyrant does not always suppose a want of merit in the
object of it; he may, without intending it, reward a man of worth
and ability, or he may find such a man useful to his own service.
It does not appear that Albinus served the son of Marcus, either
as the minister of his cruelties, or even as the associate of his
pleasures. He was employed in a distant honorable command, when
he received a confidential letter from the emperor, acquainting
him of the treasonable designs of some discontented generals, and
authorizing him to declare himself the guardian and successor of
the throne, by assuming the title and ensigns of Cæsar. The
governor of Britain wisely declined the dangerous honor, which
would have marked him for the jealousy, or involved him in the
approaching ruin, of Commodus. He courted power by nobler, or, at
least, by more specious arts. On a premature report of the death
of the emperor, he assembled his troops; and, in an eloquent
discourse, deplored the inevitable mischiefs of despotism,
described the happiness and glory which their ancestors had
enjoyed under the consular government, and declared his firm
resolution to reinstate the senate and people in their legal
authority. This popular harangue was answered by the loud
acclamations of the British legions, and received at Rome with a
secret murmur of applause. Safe in the possession of his little
world, and in the command of an army less distinguished indeed
for discipline than for numbers and valor, Albinus braved the
menaces of Commodus, maintained towards Pertinax a stately
ambiguous reserve, and instantly declared against the usurpation
of Julian. The convulsions of the capital added new weight to his
sentiments, or rather to his professions of patriotism. A regard
to decency induced him to decline the lofty titles of Augustus
and Emperor; and he imitated perhaps the example of Galba, who,
on a similar occasion, had styled himself the Lieutenant of the
senate and people.
Personal merit alone had raised Pescennius Niger, from an obscure
birth and station, to the government of Syria; a lucrative and
important command, which in times of civil confusion gave him a
near prospect of the throne. Yet his parts seem to have been
better suited to the second than to the first rank; he was an
unequal rival, though he might have approved himself an excellent
lieutenant, to Severus, who afterwards displayed the greatness of
his mind by adopting several useful institutions from a
vanquished enemy. In his government Niger acquired the esteem of
the soldiers and the love of the provincials. His rigid
discipline fortified the valor and confirmed the obedience of the
former, whilst the voluptuous Syrians were less delighted with
the mild firmness of his administration, than with the affability
of his manners, and the apparent pleasure with which he attended
their frequent and pompous festivals. As soon as the intelligence
of the atrocious murder of Pertinax had reached Antioch, the
wishes of Asia invited Niger to assume the Imperial purple and
revenge his death. The legions of the eastern frontier embraced
his cause; the opulent but unarmed provinces, from the frontiers
of Æthiopia to the Hadriatic, cheerfully submitted to his power;
and the kings beyond the Tigris and the Euphrates congratulated
his election, and offered him their homage and services. The mind
of Niger was not capable of receiving this sudden tide of
fortune: he flattered himself that his accession would be
undisturbed by competition and unstained by civil blood; and
whilst he enjoyed the vain pomp of triumph, he neglected to
secure the means of victory. Instead of entering into an
effectual negotiation with the powerful armies of the West, whose
resolution might decide, or at least must balance, the mighty
contest; instead of advancing without delay towards Rome and
Italy, where his presence was impatiently expected, Niger trifled
away in the luxury of Antioch those irretrievable moments which
were diligently improved by the decisive activity of Severus.
The country of Pannonia and Dalmatia, which occupied the space
between the Danube and the Hadriatic, was one of the last and
most difficult conquests of the Romans. In the defence of
national freedom, two hundred thousand of these barbarians had
once appeared in the field, alarmed the declining age of
Augustus, and exercised the vigilant prudence of Tiberius at the
head of the collected force of the empire. The Pannonians yielded
at length to the arms and institutions of Rome. Their recent
subjection, however, the neighborhood, and even the mixture, of
the unconquered tribes, and perhaps the climate, adapted, as it
has been observed, to the production of great bodies and slow
minds, all contributed to preserve some remains of their original
ferocity, and under the tame and uniform countenance of Roman
provincials, the hardy features of the natives were still to be
discerned. Their warlike youth afforded an inexhaustible supply
of recruits to the legions stationed on the banks of the Danube,
and which, from a perpetual warfare against the Germans and
Sarmazans, were deservedly esteemed the best troops in the
service.
The Pannonian army was at this time commanded by Septimius
Severus, a native of Africa, who, in the gradual ascent of
private honors, had concealed his daring ambition, which was
never diverted from its steady course by the allurements of
pleasure, the apprehension of danger, or the feelings of
humanity. On the first news of the murder of Pertinax, he
assembled his troops, painted in the most lively colors the
crime, the insolence, and the weakness of the Prætorian guards,
and animated the legions to arms and to revenge. He concluded
(and the peroration was thought extremely eloquent) with
promising every soldier about four hundred pounds; an honorable
donative, double in value to the infamous bribe with which Julian
had purchased the empire. The acclamations of the army
immediately saluted Severus with the names of Augustus, Pertinax,
and Emperor; and he thus attained the lofty station to which he
was invited, by conscious merit and a long train of dreams and
omens, the fruitful offsprings either of his superstition or
policy.
The new candidate for empire saw and improved the peculiar
advantage of his situation. His province extended to the Julian
Alps, which gave an easy access into Italy; and he remembered the
saying of Augustus, that a Pannonian army might in ten days
appear in sight of Rome. By a celerity proportioned to the
greatness of the occasion, he might reasonably hope to revenge
Pertinax, punish Julian, and receive the homage of the senate and
people, as their lawful emperor, before his competitors,
separated from Italy by an immense tract of sea and land, were
apprised of his success, or even of his election. During the
whole expedition, he scarcely allowed himself any moments for
sleep or food; marching on foot, and in complete armor, at the
head of his columns, he insinuated himself into the confidence
and affection of his troops, pressed their diligence, revived
their spirits, animated their hopes, and was well satisfied to
share the hardships of the meanest soldier, whilst he kept in
view the infinite superiority of his reward.
The wretched Julian had expected, and thought himself prepared,
to dispute the empire with the governor of Syria; but in the
invincible and rapid approach of the Pannonian legions, he saw
his inevitable ruin. The hasty arrival of every messenger
increased his just apprehensions. He was successively informed,
that Severus had passed the Alps; that the Italian cities,
unwilling or unable to oppose his progress, had received him with
the warmest professions of joy and duty; that the important place
of Ravenna had surrendered without resistance, and that the
Hadriatic fleet was in the hands of the conqueror. The enemy was
now within two hundred and fifty miles of Rome; and every moment
diminished the narrow span of life and empire allotted to Julian.
He attempted, however, to prevent, or at least to protract, his
ruin. He implored the venal faith of the Prætorians, filled the
city with unavailing preparations for war, drew lines round the
suburbs, and even strengthened the fortifications of the palace;
as if those last intrenchments could be defended, without hope of
relief, against a victorious invader. Fear and shame prevented
the guards from deserting his standard; but they trembled at the
name of the Pannonian legions, commanded by an experienced
general, and accustomed to vanquish the barbarians on the frozen
Danube. They quitted, with a sigh, the pleasures of the baths and
theatres, to put on arms, whose use they had almost forgotten,
and beneath the weight of which they were oppressed. The
unpractised elephants, whose uncouth appearance, it was hoped,
would strike terror into the army of the north, threw their
unskilful riders; and the awkward evolutions of the marines,
drawn from the fleet of Misenum, were an object of ridicule to
the populace; whilst the senate enjoyed, with secret pleasure,
the distress and weakness of the usurper.
Every motion of Julian betrayed his trembling perplexity. He
insisted that Severus should be declared a public enemy by the
senate. He entreated that the Pannonian general might be
associated to the empire. He sent public ambassadors of consular
rank to negotiate with his rival; he despatched private assassins
to take away his life. He designed that the Vestal virgins, and
all the colleges of priests, in their sacerdotal habits, and
bearing before them the sacred pledges of the Roman religion,
should advance in solemn procession to meet the Pannonian
legions; and, at the same time, he vainly tried to interrogate,
or to appease, the fates, by magic ceremonies and unlawful
sacrifices.
Chapter V: Sale Of The Empire To Didius Julianus.—Part II.
Severus, who dreaded neither his arms nor his enchantments,
guarded himself from the only danger of secret conspiracy, by the
faithful attendance of six hundred chosen men, who never quitted
his person or their cuirasses, either by night or by day, during
the whole march. Advancing with a steady and rapid course, he
passed, without difficulty, the defiles of the Apennine, received
into his party the troops and ambassadors sent to retard his
progress, and made a short halt at Interamnia, about seventy
miles from Rome. His victory was already secure, but the despair
of the Prætorians might have rendered it bloody; and Severus had
the laudable ambition of ascending the throne without drawing the
sword. His emissaries, dispersed in the capital, assured the
guards, that provided they would abandon their worthless prince,
and the perpetrators of the murder of Pertinax, to the justice of
the conqueror, he would no longer consider that melancholy event
as the act of the whole body. The faithless Prætorians, whose
resistance was supported only by sullen obstinacy, gladly
complied with the easy conditions, seized the greatest part of
the assassins, and signified to the senate, that they no longer
defended the cause of Julian. That assembly, convoked by the
consul, unanimously acknowledged Severus as lawful emperor,
decreed divine honors to Pertinax, and pronounced a sentence of
deposition and death against his unfortunate successor. Julian
was conducted into a private apartment of the baths of the
palace, and beheaded as a common criminal, after having
purchased, with an immense treasure, an anxious and precarious
reign of only sixty-six days. The almost incredible expedition of
Severus, who, in so short a space of time, conducted a numerous
army from the banks of the Danube to those of the Tyber, proves
at once the plenty of provisions produced by agriculture and
commerce, the goodness of the roads, the discipline of the
legions, and the indolent, subdued temper of the provinces.
The first cares of Severus were bestowed on two measures, the one
dictated by policy, the other by decency; the revenge, and the
honors, due to the memory of Pertinax. Before the new emperor
entered Rome, he issued his commands to the Prætorian guards,
directing them to wait his arrival on a large plain near the
city, without arms, but in the habits of ceremony, in which they
were accustomed to attend their sovereign. He was obeyed by those
haughty troops, whose contrition was the effect of their just
terrors. A chosen part of the Illyrian army encompassed them with
levelled spears. Incapable of flight or resistance, they expected
their fate in silent consternation. Severus mounted the tribunal,
sternly reproached them with perfidy and cowardice, dismissed
them with ignominy from the trust which they had betrayed,
despoiled them of their splendid ornaments, and banished them, on
pain of death, to the distance of a hundred miles from the
capital. During the transaction, another detachment had been sent
to seize their arms, occupy their camp, and prevent the hasty
consequences of their despair.
The funeral and consecration of Pertinax was next solemnized with
every circumstance of sad magnificence. The senate, with a
melancholy pleasure, performed the last rites to that excellent
prince, whom they had loved, and still regretted. The concern of
his successor was probably less sincere; he esteemed the virtues
of Pertinax, but those virtues would forever have confined his
ambition to a private station. Severus pronounced his funeral
oration with studied eloquence, inward satisfaction, and
well-acted sorrow; and by this pious regard to his memory,
convinced the credulous multitude, that he alone was worthy to
supply his place. Sensible, however, that arms, not ceremonies,
must assert his claim to the empire, he left Rome at the end of
thirty days, and without suffering himself to be elated by this
easy victory, prepared to encounter his more formidable rivals.
The uncommon abilities and fortune of Severus have induced an
elegant historian to compare him with the first and greatest of
the Cæsars. The parallel is, at least, imperfect. Where shall we
find, in the character of Severus, the commanding superiority of
soul, the generous clemency, and the various genius, which could
reconcile and unite the love of pleasure, the thirst of
knowledge, and the fire of ambition? In one instance only, they
may be compared, with some degree of propriety, in the celerity
of their motions, and their civil victories. In less than four
years, Severus subdued the riches of the East, and the valor of
the West. He vanquished two competitors of reputation and
ability, and defeated numerous armies, provided with weapons and
discipline equal to his own. In that age, the art of
fortification, and the principles of tactics, were well
understood by all the Roman generals; and the constant
superiority of Severus was that of an artist, who uses the same
instruments with more skill and industry than his rivals. I shall
not, however, enter into a minute narrative of these military
operations; but as the two civil wars against Niger and against
Albinus were almost the same in their conduct, event, and
consequences, I shall collect into one point of view the most
striking circumstances, tending to develop the character of the
conqueror and the state of the empire.
Falsehood and insincerity, unsuitable as they seem to the dignity
of public transactions, offend us with a less degrading idea of
meanness, than when they are found in the intercourse of private
life. In the latter, they discover a want of courage; in the
other, only a defect of power: and, as it is impossible for the
most able statesmen to subdue millions of followers and enemies
by their own personal strength, the world, under the name of
policy, seems to have granted them a very liberal indulgence of
craft and dissimulation. Yet the arts of Severus cannot be
justified by the most ample privileges of state reason. He
promised only to betray, he flattered only to ruin; and however
he might occasionally bind himself by oaths and treaties, his
conscience, obsequious to his interest, always released him from
the inconvenient obligation.
If his two competitors, reconciled by their common danger, had
advanced upon him without delay, perhaps Severus would have sunk
under their united effort. Had they even attacked him, at the
same time, with separate views and separate armies, the contest
might have been long and doubtful. But they fell, singly and
successively, an easy prey to the arts as well as arms of their
subtle enemy, lulled into security by the moderation of his
professions, and overwhelmed by the rapidity of his action. He
first marched against Niger, whose reputation and power he the
most dreaded: but he declined any hostile declarations,
suppressed the name of his antagonist, and only signified to the
senate and people his intention of regulating the eastern
provinces. In private, he spoke of Niger, his old friend and
intended successor, with the most affectionate regard, and highly
applauded his generous design of revenging the murder of
Pertinax. To punish the vile usurper of the throne, was the duty
of every Roman general. To persevere in arms, and to resist a
lawful emperor, acknowledged by the senate, would alone render
him criminal. The sons of Niger had fallen into his hands among
the children of the provincial governors, detained at Rome as
pledges for the loyalty of their parents. As long as the power of
Niger inspired terror, or even respect, they were educated with
the most tender care, with the children of Severus himself; but
they were soon involved in their father’s ruin, and removed first
by exile, and afterwards by death, from the eye of public
compassion.
Whilst Severus was engaged in his eastern war, he had reason to
apprehend that the governor of Britain might pass the sea and the
Alps, occupy the vacant seat of empire, and oppose his return
with the authority of the senate and the forces of the West. The
ambiguous conduct of Albinus, in not assuming the Imperial title,
left room for negotiation. Forgetting, at once, his professions
of patriotism, and the jealousy of sovereign power, he accepted
the precarious rank of Cæsar, as a reward for his fatal
neutrality. Till the first contest was decided, Severus treated
the man, whom he had doomed to destruction, with every mark of
esteem and regard. Even in the letter, in which he announced his
victory over Niger, he styles Albinus the brother of his soul and
empire, sends him the affectionate salutations of his wife Julia,
and his young family, and entreats him to preserve the armies and
the republic faithful to their common interest. The messengers
charged with this letter were instructed to accost the Cæsar with
respect, to desire a private audience, and to plunge their
daggers into his heart. The conspiracy was discovered, and the
too credulous Albinus, at length, passed over to the continent,
and prepared for an unequal contest with his rival, who rushed
upon him at the head of a veteran and victorious army.
The military labors of Severus seem inadequate to the importance
of his conquests. Two engagements, * the one near the Hellespont,
the other in the narrow defiles of Cilicia, decided the fate of
his Syrian competitor; and the troops of Europe asserted their
usual ascendant over the effeminate natives of Asia. The battle
of Lyons, where one hundred and fifty thousand Romans were
engaged, was equally fatal to Albinus. The valor of the British
army maintained, indeed, a sharp and doubtful contest, with the
hardy discipline of the Illyrian legions. The fame and person of
Severus appeared, during a few moments, irrecoverably lost, till
that warlike prince rallied his fainting troops, and led them on
to a decisive victory. The war was finished by that memorable
day.
The civil wars of modern Europe have been distinguished, not only
by the fierce animosity, but likewise by the obstinate
perseverance, of the contending factions. They have generally
been justified by some principle, or, at least, colored by some
pretext, of religion, freedom, or loyalty. The leaders were
nobles of independent property and hereditary influence. The
troops fought like men interested in the decision of the quarrel;
and as military spirit and party zeal were strongly diffused
throughout the whole community, a vanquished chief was
immediately supplied with new adherents, eager to shed their
blood in the same cause. But the Romans, after the fall of the
republic, combated only for the choice of masters. Under the
standard of a popular candidate for empire, a few enlisted from
affection, some from fear, many from interest, none from
principle. The legions, uninflamed by party zeal, were allured
into civil war by liberal donatives, and still more liberal
promises. A defeat, by disabling the chief from the performance
of his engagements, dissolved the mercenary allegiance of his
followers, and left them to consult their own safety by a timely
desertion of an unsuccessful cause. It was of little moment to
the provinces, under whose name they were oppressed or governed;
they were driven by the impulsion of the present power, and as
soon as that power yielded to a superior force, they hastened to
implore the clemency of the conqueror, who, as he had an immense
debt to discharge, was obliged to sacrifice the most guilty
countries to the avarice of his soldiers. In the vast extent of
the Roman empire, there were few fortified cities capable of
protecting a routed army; nor was there any person, or family, or
order of men, whose natural interest, unsupported by the powers
of government, was capable of restoring the cause of a sinking
party.
Yet, in the contest between Niger and Severus, a single city
deserves an honorable exception. As Byzantium was one of the
greatest passages from Europe into Asia, it had been provided
with a strong garrison, and a fleet of five hundred vessels was
anchored in the harbor. The impetuosity of Severus disappointed
this prudent scheme of defence; he left to his generals the siege
of Byzantium, forced the less guarded passage of the Hellespont,
and, impatient of a meaner enemy, pressed forward to encounter
his rival. Byzantium, attacked by a numerous and increasing army,
and afterwards by the whole naval power of the empire, sustained
a siege of three years, and remained faithful to the name and
memory of Niger. The citizens and soldiers (we know not from what
cause) were animated with equal fury; several of the principal
officers of Niger, who despaired of, or who disdained, a pardon,
had thrown themselves into this last refuge: the fortifications
were esteemed impregnable, and, in the defence of the place, a
celebrated engineer displayed all the mechanic powers known to
the ancients. Byzantium, at length, surrendered to famine. The
magistrates and soldiers were put to the sword, the walls
demolished, the privileges suppressed, and the destined capital
of the East subsisted only as an open village, subject to the
insulting jurisdiction of Perinthus. The historian Dion, who had
admired the flourishing, and lamented the desolate, state of
Byzantium, accused the revenge of Severus, for depriving the
Roman people of the strongest bulwark against the barbarians of
Pontus and Asia The truth of this observation was but too well
justified in the succeeding age, when the Gothic fleets covered
the Euxine, and passed through the undefined Bosphorus into the
centre of the Mediterranean.
Both Niger and Albinus were discovered and put to death in their
flight from the field of battle. Their fate excited neither
surprise nor compassion. They had staked their lives against the
chance of empire, and suffered what they would have inflicted;
nor did Severus claim the arrogant superiority of suffering his
rivals to live in a private station. But his unforgiving temper,
stimulated by avarice, indulged a spirit of revenge, where there
was no room for apprehension. The most considerable of the
provincials, who, without any dislike to the fortunate candidate,
had obeyed the governor under whose authority they were
accidentally placed, were punished by death, exile, and
especially by the confiscation of their estates. Many cities of
the East were stripped of their ancient honors, and obliged to
pay, into the treasury of Severus, four times the amount of the
sums contributed by them for the service of Niger.
Till the final decision of the war, the cruelty of Severus was,
in some measure, restrained by the uncertainty of the event, and
his pretended reverence for the senate. The head of Albinus,
accompanied with a menacing letter, announced to the Romans that
he was resolved to spare none of the adherents of his unfortunate
competitors. He was irritated by the just suspicion that he had
never possessed the affections of the senate, and he concealed
his old malevolence under the recent discovery of some
treasonable correspondences. Thirty-five senators, however,
accused of having favored the party of Albinus, he freely
pardoned, and, by his subsequent behavior, endeavored to convince
them, that he had forgotten, as well as forgiven, their supposed
offences. But, at the same time, he condemned forty-one other
senators, whose names history has recorded; their wives,
children, and clients attended them in death, * and the noblest
provincials of Spain and Gaul were involved in the same ruin.
Such rigid justice—for so he termed it—was, in the opinion of
Severus, the only conduct capable of insuring peace to the people
or stability to the prince; and he condescended slightly to
lament, that to be mild, it was necessary that he should first be
cruel.
The true interest of an absolute monarch generally coincides with
that of his people. Their numbers, their wealth, their order, and
their security, are the best and only foundations of his real
greatness; and were he totally devoid of virtue, prudence might
supply its place, and would dictate the same rule of conduct.
Severus considered the Roman empire as his property, and had no
sooner secured the possession, than he bestowed his care on the
cultivation and improvement of so valuable an acquisition.
Salutary laws, executed with inflexible firmness, soon corrected
most of the abuses with which, since the death of Marcus, every
part of the government had been infected. In the administration
of justice, the judgments of the emperor were characterized by
attention, discernment, and impartiality; and whenever he
deviated from the strict line of equity, it was generally in
favor of the poor and oppressed; not so much indeed from any
sense of humanity, as from the natural propensity of a despot to
humble the pride of greatness, and to sink all his subjects to
the same common level of absolute dependence. His expensive taste
for building, magnificent shows, and above all a constant and
liberal distribution of corn and provisions, were the surest
means of captivating the affection of the Roman people. The
misfortunes of civil discord were obliterated. The calm of peace
and prosperity was once more experienced in the provinces; and
many cities, restored by the munificence of Severus, assumed the
title of his colonies, and attested by public monuments their
gratitude and felicity. The fame of the Roman arms was revived by
that warlike and successful emperor, and he boasted, with a just
pride, that, having received the empire oppressed with foreign
and domestic wars, he left it established in profound, universal,
and honorable peace.
Although the wounds of civil war appeared completely healed, its
mortal poison still lurked in the vitals of the constitution.
Severus possessed a considerable share of vigor and ability; but
the daring soul of the first Cæsar, or the deep policy of
Augustus, were scarcely equal to the task of curbing the
insolence of the victorious legions. By gratitude, by misguided
policy, by seeming necessity, Severus was reduced to relax the
nerves of discipline. The vanity of his soldiers was flattered
with the honor of wearing gold rings; their ease was indulged in
the permission of living with their wives in the idleness of
quarters. He increased their pay beyond the example of former
times, and taught them to expect, and soon to claim,
extraordinary donatives on every public occasion of danger or
festivity. Elated by success, enervated by luxury, and raised
above the level of subjects by their dangerous privileges, they
soon became incapable of military fatigue, oppressive to the
country, and impatient of a just subordination. Their officers
asserted the superiority of rank by a more profuse and elegant
luxury. There is still extant a letter of Severus, lamenting the
licentious stage of the army, * and exhorting one of his generals
to begin the necessary reformation from the tribunes themselves;
since, as he justly observes, the officer who has forfeited the
esteem, will never command the obedience, of his soldiers. Had
the emperor pursued the train of reflection, he would have
discovered, that the primary cause of this general corruption
might be ascribed, not indeed to the example, but to the
pernicious indulgence, however, of the commander-in-chief.
The Prætorians, who murdered their emperor and sold the empire,
had received the just punishment of their treason; but the
necessary, though dangerous, institution of guards was soon
restored on a new model by Severus, and increased to four times
the ancient number. Formerly these troops had been recruited in
Italy; and as the adjacent provinces gradually imbibed the softer
manners of Rome, the levies were extended to Macedonia, Noricum,
and Spain. In the room of these elegant troops, better adapted to
the pomp of courts than to the uses of war, it was established by
Severus, that from all the legions of the frontiers, the soldiers
most distinguished for strength, valor, and fidelity, should be
occasionally draughted; and promoted, as an honor and reward,
into the more eligible service of the guards. By this new
institution, the Italian youth were diverted from the exercise of
arms, and the capital was terrified by the strange aspect and
manners of a multitude of barbarians. But Severus flattered
himself, that the legions would consider these chosen Prætorians
as the representatives of the whole military order; and that the
present aid of fifty thousand men, superior in arms and
appointments to any force that could be brought into the field
against them, would forever crush the hopes of rebellion, and
secure the empire to himself and his posterity.
The command of these favored and formidable troops soon became
the first office of the empire. As the government degenerated
into military despotism, the Prætorian Præfect, who in his origin
had been a simple captain of the guards, * was placed not only at
the head of the army, but of the finances, and even of the law.
In every department of administration, he represented the person,
and exercised the authority, of the emperor. The first præfect
who enjoyed and abused this immense power was Plautianus, the
favorite minister of Severus. His reign lasted above ten years,
till the marriage of his daughter with the eldest son of the
emperor, which seemed to assure his fortune, proved the occasion
of his ruin. The animosities of the palace, by irritating the
ambition and alarming the fears of Plautianus, threatened to
produce a revolution, and obliged the emperor, who still loved
him, to consent with reluctance to his death. After the fall of
Plautianus, an eminent lawyer, the celebrated Papinian, was
appointed to execute the motley office of Prætorian Præfect.
Till the reign of Severus, the virtue and even the good sense of
the emperors had been distinguished by their zeal or affected
reverence for the senate, and by a tender regard to the nice
frame of civil policy instituted by Augustus. But the youth of
Severus had been trained in the implicit obedience of camps, and
his riper years spent in the despotism of military command. His
haughty and inflexible spirit could not discover, or would not
acknowledge, the advantage of preserving an intermediate power,
however imaginary, between the emperor and the army. He disdained
to profess himself the servant of an assembly that detested his
person and trembled at his frown; he issued his commands, where
his requests would have proved as effectual; assumed the conduct
and style of a sovereign and a conqueror, and exercised, without
disguise, the whole legislative, as well as the executive power.
The victory over the senate was easy and inglorious. Every eye
and every passion were directed to the supreme magistrate, who
possessed the arms and treasure of the state; whilst the senate,
neither elected by the people, nor guarded by military force, nor
animated by public spirit, rested its declining authority on the
frail and crumbling basis of ancient opinion. The fine theory of
a republic insensibly vanished, and made way for the more natural
and substantial feelings of monarchy. As the freedom and honors
of Rome were successively communicated to the provinces, in which
the old government had been either unknown, or was remembered
with abhorrence, the tradition of republican maxims was gradually
obliterated. The Greek historians of the age of the Antonines
observe, with a malicious pleasure, that although the sovereign
of Rome, in compliance with an obsolete prejudice, abstained from
the name of king, he possessed the full measure of regal power.
In the reign of Severus, the senate was filled with polished and
eloquent slaves from the eastern provinces, who justified
personal flattery by speculative principles of servitude. These
new advocates of prerogative were heard with pleasure by the
court, and with patience by the people, when they inculcated the
duty of passive obedience, and descanted on the inevitable
mischiefs of freedom. The lawyers and historians concurred in
teaching, that the Imperial authority was held, not by the
delegated commission, but by the irrevocable resignation of the
senate; that the emperor was freed from the restraint of civil
laws, could command by his arbitrary will the lives and fortunes
of his subjects, and might dispose of the empire as of his
private patrimony. The most eminent of the civil lawyers, and
particularly Papinian, Paulus, and Ulpian, flourished under the
house of Severus; and the Roman jurisprudence, having closely
united itself with the system of monarchy, was supposed to have
attained its full majority and perfection.
The contemporaries of Severus in the enjoyment of the peace and
glory of his reign, forgave the cruelties by which it had been
introduced. Posterity, who experienced the fatal effects of his
maxims and example, justly considered him as the principal author
of the decline of the Roman empire.
Chapter VI: Death Of Severus, Tyranny Of Caracalla, Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Part I.
The Death Of Severus.—Tyranny Of Caracalla.—Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Follies Of Elagabalus.—Virtues Of Alexander
Severus.—Licentiousness Of The Army.—General State Of The Roman
Finances.
The ascent to greatness, however steep and dangerous, may
entertain an active spirit with the consciousness and exercise of
its own powers: but the possession of a throne could never yet
afford a lasting satisfaction to an ambitious mind. This
melancholy truth was felt and acknowledged by Severus. Fortune
and merit had, from an humble station, elevated him to the first
place among mankind. “He had been all things,” as he said
himself, “and all was of little value.” Distracted with the care,
not of acquiring, but of preserving an empire, oppressed with age
and infirmities, careless of fame, and satiated with power, all
his prospects of life were closed. The desire of perpetuating the
greatness of his family was the only remaining wish of his
ambition and paternal tenderness.
Like most of the Africans, Severus was passionately addicted to
the vain studies of magic and divination, deeply versed in the
interpretation of dreams and omens, and perfectly acquainted with
the science of judicial astrology; which, in almost every age
except the present, has maintained its dominion over the mind of
man. He had lost his first wife, while he was governor of the
Lionnese Gaul. In the choice of a second, he sought only to
connect himself with some favorite of fortune; and as soon as he
had discovered that the young lady of Emesa in Syria had a royal
nativity, he solicited and obtained her hand. Julia Domna (for
that was her name) deserved all that the stars could promise her.
She possessed, even in advanced age, the attractions of beauty,
and united to a lively imagination a firmness of mind, and
strength of judgment, seldom bestowed on her sex. Her amiable
qualities never made any deep impression on the dark and jealous
temper of her husband; but in her son’s reign, she administered
the principal affairs of the empire, with a prudence that
supported his authority, and with a moderation that sometimes
corrected his wild extravagancies. Julia applied herself to
letters and philosophy, with some success, and with the most
splendid reputation. She was the patroness of every art, and the
friend of every man of genius. The grateful flattery of the
learned has celebrated her virtues; but, if we may credit the
scandal of ancient history, chastity was very far from being the
most conspicuous virtue of the empress Julia.
Two sons, Caracalla and Geta, were the fruit of this marriage,
and the destined heirs of the empire. The fond hopes of the
father, and of the Roman world, were soon disappointed by these
vain youths, who displayed the indolent security of hereditary
princes; and a presumption that fortune would supply the place of
merit and application. Without any emulation of virtue or
talents, they discovered, almost from their infancy, a fixed and
implacable antipathy for each other.
Their aversion, confirmed by years, and fomented by the arts of
their interested favorites, broke out in childish, and gradually
in more serious competitions; and, at length, divided the
theatre, the circus, and the court, into two factions, actuated
by the hopes and fears of their respective leaders. The prudent
emperor endeavored, by every expedient of advice and authority,
to allay this growing animosity. The unhappy discord of his sons
clouded all his prospects, and threatened to overturn a throne
raised with so much labor, cemented with so much blood, and
guarded with every defence of arms and treasure. With an
impartial hand he maintained between them an exact balance of
favor, conferred on both the rank of Augustus, with the revered
name of Antoninus; and for the first time the Roman world beheld
three emperors. Yet even this equal conduct served only to
inflame the contest, whilst the fierce Caracalla asserted the
right of primogeniture, and the milder Geta courted the
affections of the people and the soldiers. In the anguish of a
disappointed father, Severus foretold that the weaker of his sons
would fall a sacrifice to the stronger; who, in his turn, would
be ruined by his own vices.
In these circumstances the intelligence of a war in Britain, and
of an invasion of the province by the barbarians of the North,
was received with pleasure by Severus. Though the vigilance of
his lieutenants might have been sufficient to repel the distant
enemy, he resolved to embrace the honorable pretext of
withdrawing his sons from the luxury of Rome, which enervated
their minds and irritated their passions; and of inuring their
youth to the toils of war and government. Notwithstanding his
advanced age, (for he was above threescore,) and his gout, which
obliged him to be carried in a litter, he transported himself in
person into that remote island, attended by his two sons, his
whole court, and a formidable army. He immediately passed the
walls of Hadrian and Antoninus, and entered the enemy’s country,
with a design of completing the long attempted conquest of
Britain. He penetrated to the northern extremity of the island,
without meeting an enemy. But the concealed ambuscades of the
Caledonians, who hung unseen on the rear and flanks of his army,
the coldness of the climate and the severity of a winter march
across the hills and morasses of Scotland, are reported to have
cost the Romans above fifty thousand men. The Caledonians at
length yielded to the powerful and obstinate attack, sued for
peace, and surrendered a part of their arms, and a large tract of
territory. But their apparent submission lasted no longer than
the present terror. As soon as the Roman legions had retired,
they resumed their hostile independence. Their restless spirit
provoked Severus to send a new army into Caledonia, with the most
bloody orders, not to subdue, but to extirpate the natives. They
were saved by the death of their haughty enemy.
This Caledonian war, neither marked by decisive events, nor
attended with any important consequences, would ill deserve our
attention; but it is supposed, not without a considerable degree
of probability, that the invasion of Severus is connected with
the most shining period of the British history or fable. Fingal,
whose fame, with that of his heroes and bards, has been revived
in our language by a recent publication, is said to have
commanded the Caledonians in that memorable juncture, to have
eluded the power of Severus, and to have obtained a signal
victory on the banks of the Carun, in which the son of _the King
of the World_, Caracul, fled from his arms along the fields of
his pride. Something of a doubtful mist still hangs over these
Highland traditions; nor can it be entirely dispelled by the most
ingenious researches of modern criticism; but if we could, with
safety, indulge the pleasing supposition, that Fingal lived, and
that Ossian sung, the striking contrast of the situation and
manners of the contending nations might amuse a philosophic mind.
The parallel would be little to the advantage of the more
civilized people, if we compared the unrelenting revenge of
Severus with the generous clemency of Fingal; the timid and
brutal cruelty of Caracalla with the bravery, the tenderness, the
elegant genius of Ossian; the mercenary chiefs, who, from motives
of fear or interest, served under the imperial standard, with the
free-born warriors who started to arms at the voice of the king
of Morven; if, in a word, we contemplated the untutored
Caledonians, glowing with the warm virtues of nature, and the
degenerate Romans, polluted with the mean vices of wealth and
slavery.
The declining health and last illness of Severus inflamed the
wild ambition and black passions of Caracalla’s soul. Impatient
of any delay or division of empire, he attempted, more than once,
to shorten the small remainder of his father’s days, and
endeavored, but without success, to excite a mutiny among the
troops. The old emperor had often censured the misguided lenity
of Marcus, who, by a single act of justice, might have saved the
Romans from the tyranny of his worthless son. Placed in the same
situation, he experienced how easily the rigor of a judge
dissolves away in the tenderness of a parent. He deliberated, he
threatened, but he could not punish; and this last and only
instance of mercy was more fatal to the empire than a long series
of cruelty. The disorder of his mind irritated the pains of his
body; he wished impatiently for death, and hastened the instant
of it by his impatience. He expired at York in the sixty-fifth
year of his life, and in the eighteenth of a glorious and
successful reign. In his last moments he recommended concord to
his sons, and his sons to the army. The salutary advice never
reached the heart, or even the understanding, of the impetuous
youths; but the more obedient troops, mindful of their oath of
allegiance, and of the authority of their deceased master,
resisted the solicitations of Caracalla, and proclaimed both
brothers emperors of Rome. The new princes soon left the
Caledonians in peace, returned to the capital, celebrated their
father’s funeral with divine honors, and were cheerfully
acknowledged as lawful sovereigns, by the senate, the people, and
the provinces. Some preeminence of rank seems to have been
allowed to the elder brother; but they both administered the
empire with equal and independent power.
Such a divided form of government would have proved a source of
discord between the most affectionate brothers. It was impossible
that it could long subsist between two implacable enemies, who
neither desired nor could trust a reconciliation. It was visible
that one only could reign, and that the other must fall; and each
of them, judging of his rival’s designs by his own, guarded his
life with the most jealous vigilance from the repeated attacks of
poison or the sword. Their rapid journey through Gaul and Italy,
during which they never ate at the same table, or slept in the
same house, displayed to the provinces the odious spectacle of
fraternal discord. On their arrival at Rome, they immediately
divided the vast extent of the imperial palace. No communication
was allowed between their apartments; the doors and passages were
diligently fortified, and guards posted and relieved with the
same strictness as in a besieged place. The emperors met only in
public, in the presence of their afflicted mother; and each
surrounded by a numerous train of armed followers. Even on these
occasions of ceremony, the dissimulation of courts could ill
disguise the rancor of their hearts.
This latent civil war already distracted the whole government,
when a scheme was suggested that seemed of mutual benefit to the
hostile brothers. It was proposed, that since it was impossible
to reconcile their minds, they should separate their interest,
and divide the empire between them. The conditions of the treaty
were already drawn with some accuracy. It was agreed that
Caracalla, as the elder brother should remain in possession of
Europe and the western Africa; and that he should relinquish the
sovereignty of Asia and Egypt to Geta, who might fix his
residence at Alexandria or Antioch, cities little inferior to
Rome itself in wealth and greatness; that numerous armies should
be constantly encamped on either side of the Thracian Bosphorus,
to guard the frontiers of the rival monarchies; and that the
senators of European extraction should acknowledge the sovereign
of Rome, whilst the natives of Asia followed the emperor of the
East. The tears of the empress Julia interrupted the negotiation,
the first idea of which had filled every Roman breast with
surprise and indignation. The mighty mass of conquest was so
intimately united by the hand of time and policy, that it
required the most forcible violence to rend it asunder. The
Romans had reason to dread, that the disjointed members would
soon be reduced by a civil war under the dominion of one master;
but if the separation was permanent, the division of the
provinces must terminate in the dissolution of an empire whose
unity had hitherto remained inviolate.
Had the treaty been carried into execution, the sovereign of
Europe might soon have been the conqueror of Asia; but Caracalla
obtained an easier, though a more guilty, victory. He artfully
listened to his mother’s entreaties, and consented to meet his
brother in her apartment, on terms of peace and reconciliation.
In the midst of their conversation, some centurions, who had
contrived to conceal themselves, rushed with drawn swords upon
the unfortunate Geta. His distracted mother strove to protect him
in her arms; but, in the unavailing struggle, she was wounded in
the hand, and covered with the blood of her younger son, while
she saw the elder animating and assisting the fury of the
assassins. As soon as the deed was perpetrated, Caracalla, with
hasty steps, and horror in his countenance, ran towards the
Prætorian camp, as his only refuge, and threw himself on the
ground before the statues of the tutelar deities. The soldiers
attempted to raise and comfort him. In broken and disordered
words he informed them of his imminent danger, and fortunate
escape; insinuating that he had prevented the designs of his
enemy, and declared his resolution to live and die with his
faithful troops. Geta had been the favorite of the soldiers; but
complaint was useless, revenge was dangerous, and they still
reverenced the son of Severus. Their discontent died away in idle
murmurs, and Caracalla soon convinced them of the justice of his
cause, by distributing in one lavish donative the accumulated
treasures of his father’s reign. The real _sentiments_ of the
soldiers alone were of importance to his power or safety. Their
declaration in his favor commanded the dutiful _professions_ of
the senate. The obsequious assembly was always prepared to ratify
the decision of fortune; * but as Caracalla wished to assuage the
first emotions of public indignation, the name of Geta was
mentioned with decency, and he received the funeral honors of a
Roman emperor. Posterity, in pity to his misfortune, has cast a
veil over his vices. We consider that young prince as the
innocent victim of his brother’s ambition, without recollecting
that he himself wanted power, rather than inclination, to
consummate the same attempts of revenge and murder.
The crime went not unpunished. Neither business, nor pleasure,
nor flattery, could defend Caracalla from the stings of a guilty
conscience; and he confessed, in the anguish of a tortured mind,
that his disordered fancy often beheld the angry forms of his
father and his brother rising into life, to threaten and upbraid
him. The consciousness of his crime should have induced him to
convince mankind, by the virtues of his reign, that the bloody
deed had been the involuntary effect of fatal necessity. But the
repentance of Caracalla only prompted him to remove from the
world whatever could remind him of his guilt, or recall the
memory of his murdered brother. On his return from the senate to
the palace, he found his mother in the company of several noble
matrons, weeping over the untimely fate of her younger son. The
jealous emperor threatened them with instant death; the sentence
was executed against Fadilla, the last remaining daughter of the
emperor Marcus; * and even the afflicted Julia was obliged to
silence her lamentations, to suppress her sighs, and to receive
the assassin with smiles of joy and approbation. It was computed
that, under the vague appellation of the friends of Geta, above
twenty thousand persons of both sexes suffered death. His guards
and freedmen, the ministers of his serious business, and the
companions of his looser hours, those who by his interest had
been promoted to any commands in the army or provinces, with the
long connected chain of their dependants, were included in the
proscription; which endeavored to reach every one who had
maintained the smallest correspondence with Geta, who lamented
his death, or who even mentioned his name. Helvius Pertinax, son
to the prince of that name, lost his life by an unseasonable
witticism. It was a sufficient crime of Thrasea Priscus to be
descended from a family in which the love of liberty seemed an
hereditary quality. The particular causes of calumny and
suspicion were at length exhausted; and when a senator was
accused of being a secret enemy to the government, the emperor
was satisfied with the general proof that he was a man of
property and virtue. From this well-grounded principle he
frequently drew the most bloody inferences.
Chapter VI: Death Of Severus, Tyranny Of Caracalla, Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Part II.
The execution of so many innocent citizens was bewailed by the
secret tears of their friends and families. The death of
Papinian, the Prætorian Præfect, was lamented as a public
calamity. During the last seven years of Severus, he had
exercised the most important offices of the state, and, by his
salutary influence, guided the emperor’s steps in the paths of
justice and moderation. In full assurance of his virtue and
abilities, Severus, on his death-bed, had conjured him to watch
over the prosperity and union of the Imperial family. The honest
labors of Papinian served only to inflame the hatred which
Caracalla had already conceived against his father’s minister.
After the murder of Geta, the Præfect was commanded to exert the
powers of his skill and eloquence in a studied apology for that
atrocious deed. The philosophic Seneca had condescended to
compose a similar epistle to the senate, in the name of the son
and assassin of Agrippina. “That it was easier to commit than to
justify a parricide,” was the glorious reply of Papinian; who did
not hesitate between the loss of life and that of honor. Such
intrepid virtue, which had escaped pure and unsullied from the
intrigues of courts, the habits of business, and the arts of his
profession, reflects more lustre on the memory of Papinian, than
all his great employments, his numerous writings, and the
superior reputation as a lawyer, which he has preserved through
every age of the Roman jurisprudence.
It had hitherto been the peculiar felicity of the Romans, and in
the worst of times the consolation, that the virtue of the
emperors was active, and their vice indolent. Augustus, Trajan,
Hadrian, and Marcus visited their extensive dominions in person,
and their progress was marked by acts of wisdom and beneficence.
The tyranny of Tiberius, Nero, and Domitian, who resided almost
constantly at Rome, or in the adjacent was confined to the
senatorial and equestrian orders. But Caracalla was the common
enemy of mankind. He left capital (and he never returned to it)
about a year after the murder of Geta. The rest of his reign was
spent in the several provinces of the empire, particularly those
of the East, and every province was by turns the scene of his
rapine and cruelty. The senators, compelled by fear to attend his
capricious motions, were obliged to provide daily entertainments
at an immense expense, which he abandoned with contempt to his
guards; and to erect, in every city, magnificent palaces and
theatres, which he either disdained to visit, or ordered
immediately thrown down. The most wealthy families were ruined by
partial fines and confiscations, and the great body of his
subjects oppressed by ingenious and aggravated taxes. In the
midst of peace, and upon the slightest provocation, he issued his
commands, at Alexandria, in Egypt for a general massacre. From a
secure post in the temple of Serapis, he viewed and directed the
slaughter of many thousand citizens, as well as strangers,
without distinguishing the number or the crime of the sufferers;
since as he coolly informed the senate, _all_the Alexandrians,
those who had perished, and those who had escaped, were alike
guilty.
The wise instructions of Severus never made any lasting
impression on the mind of his son, who, although not destitute of
imagination and eloquence, was equally devoid of judgment and
humanity. One dangerous maxim, worthy of a tyrant, was remembered
and abused by Caracalla. “To secure the affections of the army,
and to esteem the rest of his subjects as of little moment.” But
the liberality of the father had been restrained by prudence, and
his indulgence to the troops was tempered by firmness and
authority. The careless profusion of the son was the policy of
one reign, and the inevitable ruin both of the army and of the
empire. The vigor of the soldiers, instead of being confirmed by
the severe discipline of camps, melted away in the luxury of
cities. The excessive increase of their pay and donatives
exhausted the state to enrich the military order, whose modesty
in peace, and service in war, is best secured by an honorable
poverty. The demeanor of Caracalla was haughty and full of pride;
but with the troops he forgot even the proper dignity of his
rank, encouraged their insolent familiarity, and, neglecting the
essential duties of a general, affected to imitate the dress and
manners of a common soldier.
It was impossible that such a character, and such conduct as that
of Caracalla, could inspire either love or esteem; but as long as
his vices were beneficial to the armies, he was secure from the
danger of rebellion. A secret conspiracy, provoked by his own
jealousy, was fatal to the tyrant. The Prætorian præfecture was
divided between two ministers. The military department was
intrusted to Adventus, an experienced rather than able soldier;
and the civil affairs were transacted by Opilius Macrinus, who,
by his dexterity in business, had raised himself, with a fair
character, to that high office. But his favor varied with the
caprice of the emperor, and his life might depend on the
slightest suspicion, or the most casual circumstance. Malice or
fanaticism had suggested to an African, deeply skilled in the
knowledge of futurity, a very dangerous prediction, that Macrinus
and his son were destined to reign over the empire. The report
was soon diffused through the province; and when the man was sent
in chains to Rome, he still asserted, in the presence of the
præfect of the city, the faith of his prophecy. That magistrate,
who had received the most pressing instructions to inform himself
of the _successors_ of Caracalla, immediately communicated the
examination of the African to the Imperial court, which at that
time resided in Syria. But, notwithstanding the diligence of the
public messengers, a friend of Macrinus found means to apprise
him of the approaching danger. The emperor received the letters
from Rome; and as he was then engaged in the conduct of a chariot
race, he delivered them unopened to the Prætorian Præfect,
directing him to despatch the ordinary affairs, and to report the
more important business that might be contained in them. Macrinus
read his fate, and resolved to prevent it. He inflamed the
discontents of some inferior officers, and employed the hand of
Martialis, a desperate soldier, who had been refused the rank of
centurion. The devotion of Caracalla prompted him to make a
pilgrimage from Edessa to the celebrated temple of the Moon at
Carrhæ. * He was attended by a body of cavalry: but having
stopped on the road for some necessary occasion, his guards
preserved a respectful distance, and Martialis, approaching his
person under a presence of duty, stabbed him with a dagger. The
bold assassin was instantly killed by a Scythian archer of the
Imperial guard. Such was the end of a monster whose life
disgraced human nature, and whose reign accused the patience of
the Romans. The grateful soldiers forgot his vices, remembered
only his partial liberality, and obliged the senate to prostitute
their own dignity and that of religion, by granting him a place
among the gods. Whilst he was upon earth, Alexander the Great was
the only hero whom this god deemed worthy his admiration. He
assumed the name and ensigns of Alexander, formed a Macedonian
phalanx of guards, persecuted the disciples of Aristotle, and
displayed, with a puerile enthusiasm, the only sentiment by which
he discovered any regard for virtue or glory. We can easily
conceive, that after the battle of Narva, and the conquest of
Poland, Charles XII. (though he still wanted the more elegant
accomplishments of the son of Philip) might boast of having
rivalled his valor and magnanimity; but in no one action of his
life did Caracalla express the faintest resemblance of the
Macedonian hero, except in the murder of a great number of his
own and of his father’s friends.
After the extinction of the house of Severus, the Roman world
remained three days without a master. The choice of the army (for
the authority of a distant and feeble senate was little regarded)
hung in anxious suspense, as no candidate presented himself whose
distinguished birth and merit could engage their attachment and
unite their suffrages. The decisive weight of the Prætorian
guards elevated the hopes of their præfects, and these powerful
ministers began to assert their _legal_ claim to fill the vacancy
of the Imperial throne. Adventus, however, the senior præfect,
conscious of his age and infirmities, of his small reputation,
and his smaller abilities, resigned the dangerous honor to the
crafty ambition of his colleague Macrinus, whose well-dissembled
grief removed all suspicion of his being accessary to his
master’s death. The troops neither loved nor esteemed his
character. They cast their eyes around in search of a competitor,
and at last yielded with reluctance to his promises of unbounded
liberality and indulgence. A short time after his accession, he
conferred on his son Diadumenianus, at the age of only ten years,
the Imperial title, and the popular name of Antoninus. The
beautiful figure of the youth, assisted by an additional
donative, for which the ceremony furnished a pretext, might
attract, it was hoped, the favor of the army, and secure the
doubtful throne of Macrinus.
The authority of the new sovereign had been ratified by the
cheerful submission of the senate and provinces. They exulted in
their unexpected deliverance from a hated tyrant, and it seemed
of little consequence to examine into the virtues of the
successor of Caracalla. But as soon as the first transports of
joy and surprise had subsided, they began to scrutinize the
merits of Macrinus with a critical severity, and to arraign the
hasty choice of the army. It had hitherto been considered as a
fundamental maxim of the constitution, that the emperor must be
always chosen in the senate, and the sovereign power, no longer
exercised by the whole body, was always delegated to one of its
members. But Macrinus was not a senator. The sudden elevation of
the Prætorian præfects betrayed the meanness of their origin; and
the equestrian order was still in possession of that great
office, which commanded with arbitrary sway the lives and
fortunes of the senate. A murmur of indignation was heard, that a
man, whose obscure extraction had never been illustrated by any
signal service, should dare to invest himself with the purple,
instead of bestowing it on some distinguished senator, equal in
birth and dignity to the splendor of the Imperial station. As
soon as the character of Macrinus was surveyed by the sharp eye
of discontent, some vices, and many defects, were easily
discovered. The choice of his ministers was in many instances
justly censured, and the dissatisfied people, with their usual
candor, accused at once his indolent tameness and his excessive
severity.
His rash ambition had climbed a height where it was difficult to
stand with firmness, and impossible to fall without instant
destruction. Trained in the arts of courts and the forms of civil
business, he trembled in the presence of the fierce and
undisciplined multitude, over whom he had assumed the command;
his military talents were despised, and his personal courage
suspected; a whisper that circulated in the camp, disclosed the
fatal secret of the conspiracy against the late emperor,
aggravated the guilt of murder by the baseness of hypocrisy, and
heightened contempt by detestation. To alienate the soldiers, and
to provoke inevitable ruin, the character of a reformer was only
wanting; and such was the peculiar hardship of his fate, that
Macrinus was compelled to exercise that invidious office. The
prodigality of Caracalla had left behind it a long train of ruin
and disorder; and if that worthless tyrant had been capable of
reflecting on the sure consequences of his own conduct, he would
perhaps have enjoyed the dark prospect of the distress and
calamities which he bequeathed to his successors.
In the management of this necessary reformation, Macrinus
proceeded with a cautious prudence, which would have restored
health and vigor to the Roman army in an easy and almost
imperceptible manner. To the soldiers already engaged in the
service, he was constrained to leave the dangerous privileges and
extravagant pay given by Caracalla; but the new recruits were
received on the more moderate though liberal establishment of
Severus, and gradually formed to modesty and obedience. One fatal
error destroyed the salutary effects of this judicious plan. The
numerous army, assembled in the East by the late emperor, instead
of being immediately dispersed by Macrinus through the several
provinces, was suffered to remain united in Syria, during the
winter that followed his elevation. In the luxurious idleness of
their quarters, the troops viewed their strength and numbers,
communicated their complaints, and revolved in their minds the
advantages of another revolution. The veterans, instead of being
flattered by the advantageous distinction, were alarmed by the
first steps of the emperor, which they considered as the presage
of his future intentions. The recruits, with sullen reluctance,
entered on a service, whose labors were increased while its
rewards were diminished by a covetous and unwarlike sovereign.
The murmurs of the army swelled with impunity into seditious
clamors; and the partial mutinies betrayed a spirit of discontent
and disaffection that waited only for the slightest occasion to
break out on every side into a general rebellion. To minds thus
disposed, the occasion soon presented itself.
The empress Julia had experienced all the vicissitudes of
fortune. From an humble station she had been raised to greatness,
only to taste the superior bitterness of an exalted rank. She was
doomed to weep over the death of one of her sons, and over the
life of the other. The cruel fate of Caracalla, though her good
sense must have long taught her to expect it, awakened the
feelings of a mother and of an empress. Notwithstanding the
respectful civility expressed by the usurper towards the widow of
Severus, she descended with a painful struggle into the condition
of a subject, and soon withdrew herself, by a voluntary death,
from the anxious and humiliating dependence. * Julia Mæsa, her
sister, was ordered to leave the court and Antioch. She retired
to Emesa with an immense fortune, the fruit of twenty years’
favor accompanied by her two daughters, Soæmias and Mamæ, each of
whom was a widow, and each had an only son. Bassianus, for that
was the name of the son of Soæmias, was consecrated to the
honorable ministry of high priest of the Sun; and this holy
vocation, embraced either from prudence or superstition,
contributed to raise the Syrian youth to the empire of Rome. A
numerous body of troops was stationed at Emesa; and as the severe
discipline of Macrinus had constrained them to pass the winter
encamped, they were eager to revenge the cruelty of such
unaccustomed hardships. The soldiers, who resorted in crowds to
the temple of the Sun, beheld with veneration and delight the
elegant dress and figure of the young pontiff; they recognized,
or they thought that they recognized, the features of Caracalla,
whose memory they now adored. The artful Mæsa saw and cherished
their rising partiality, and readily sacrificing her daughter’s
reputation to the fortune of her grandson, she insinuated that
Bassianus was the natural son of their murdered sovereign. The
sums distributed by her emissaries with a lavish hand silenced
every objection, and the profusion sufficiently proved the
affinity, or at least the resemblance, of Bassianus with the
great original. The young Antoninus (for he had assumed and
polluted that respectable name) was declared emperor by the
troops of Emesa, asserted his hereditary right, and called aloud
on the armies to follow the standard of a young and liberal
prince, who had taken up arms to revenge his father’s death and
the oppression of the military order.
Whilst a conspiracy of women and eunuchs was concerted with
prudence, and conducted with rapid vigor, Macrinus, who, by a
decisive motion, might have crushed his infant enemy, floated
between the opposite extremes of terror and security, which alike
fixed him inactive at Antioch. A spirit of rebellion diffused
itself through all the camps and garrisons of Syria, successive
detachments murdered their officers, and joined the party of the
rebels; and the tardy restitution of military pay and privileges
was imputed to the acknowledged weakness of Macrinus. At length
he marched out of Antioch, to meet the increasing and zealous
army of the young pretender. His own troops seemed to take the
field with faintness and reluctance; but, in the heat of the
battle, the Prætorian guards, almost by an involuntary impulse,
asserted the superiority of their valor and discipline. The rebel
ranks were broken; when the mother and grandmother of the Syrian
prince, who, according to their eastern custom, had attended the
army, threw themselves from their covered chariots, and, by
exciting the compassion of the soldiers, endeavored to animate
their drooping courage. Antoninus himself, who, in the rest of
his life, never acted like a man, in this important crisis of his
fate, approved himself a hero, mounted his horse, and, at the
head of his rallied troops, charged sword in hand among the
thickest of the enemy; whilst the eunuch Gannys, * whose
occupations had been confined to female cares and the soft luxury
of Asia, displayed the talents of an able and experienced
general. The battle still raged with doubtful violence, and
Macrinus might have obtained the victory, had he not betrayed his
own cause by a shameful and precipitate flight. His cowardice
served only to protract his life a few days, and to stamp
deserved ignominy on his misfortunes. It is scarcely necessary to
add, that his son Diadumenianus was involved in the same fate. As
soon as the stubborn Prætorians could be convinced that they
fought for a prince who had basely deserted them, they
surrendered to the conqueror: the contending parties of the Roman
army, mingling tears of joy and tenderness, united under the
banners of the imagined son of Caracalla, and the East
acknowledged with pleasure the first emperor of Asiatic
extraction.
The letters of Macrinus had condescended to inform the senate of
the slight disturbance occasioned by an impostor in Syria, and a
decree immediately passed, declaring the rebel and his family
public enemies; with a promise of pardon, however, to such of his
deluded adherents as should merit it by an immediate return to
their duty. During the twenty days that elapsed from the
declaration of the victory of Antoninus (for in so short an
interval was the fate of the Roman world decided,) the capital
and the provinces, more especially those of the East, were
distracted with hopes and fears, agitated with tumult, and
stained with a useless effusion of civil blood, since whosoever
of the rivals prevailed in Syria must reign over the empire. The
specious letters in which the young conqueror announced his
victory to the obedient senate were filled with professions of
virtue and moderation; the shining examples of Marcus and
Augustus, he should ever consider as the great rule of his
administration; and he affected to dwell with pride on the
striking resemblance of his own age and fortunes with those of
Augustus, who in the earliest youth had revenged, by a successful
war, the murder of his father. By adopting the style of Marcus
Aurelius Antoninus, son of Antoninus and grandson of Severus, he
tacitly asserted his hereditary claim to the empire; but, by
assuming the tribunitian and proconsular powers before they had
been conferred on him by a decree of the senate, he offended the
delicacy of Roman prejudice. This new and injudicious violation
of the constitution was probably dictated either by the ignorance
of his Syrian courtiers, or the fierce disdain of his military
followers.
As the attention of the new emperor was diverted by the most
trifling amusements, he wasted many months in his luxurious
progress from Syria to Italy, passed at Nicomedia his first
winter after his victory, and deferred till the ensuing summer
his triumphal entry into the capital. A faithful picture,
however, which preceded his arrival, and was placed by his
immediate order over the altar of Victory in the senate house,
conveyed to the Romans the just but unworthy resemblance of his
person and manners. He was drawn in his sacerdotal robes of silk
and gold, after the loose flowing fashion of the Medes and
Phœnicians; his head was covered with a lofty tiara, his numerous
collars and bracelets were adorned with gems of an inestimable
value. His eyebrows were tinged with black, and his cheeks
painted with an artificial red and white. The grave senators
confessed with a sigh, that, after having long experienced the
stern tyranny of their own countrymen, Rome was at length humbled
beneath the effeminate luxury of Oriental despotism.
The Sun was worshipped at Emesa, under the name of Elagabalus,
and under the form of a black conical stone, which, as it was
universally believed, had fallen from heaven on that sacred
place. To this protecting deity, Antoninus, not without some
reason, ascribed his elevation to the throne. The display of
superstitious gratitude was the only serious business of his
reign. The triumph of the god of Emesa over all the religions of
the earth, was the great object of his zeal and vanity; and the
appellation of Elagabalus (for he presumed as pontiff and
favorite to adopt that sacred name) was dearer to him than all
the titles of Imperial greatness. In a solemn procession through
the streets of Rome, the way was strewed with gold dust; the
black stone, set in precious gems, was placed on a chariot drawn
by six milk-white horses richly caparisoned. The pious emperor
held the reins, and, supported by his ministers, moved slowly
backwards, that he might perpetually enjoy the felicity of the
divine presence. In a magnificent temple raised on the Palatine
Mount, the sacrifices of the god Elagabalus were celebrated with
every circumstance of cost and solemnity. The richest wines, the
most extraordinary victims, and the rarest aromatics, were
profusely consumed on his altar. Around the altar, a chorus of
Syrian damsels performed their lascivious dances to the sound of
barbarian music, whilst the gravest personages of the state and
army, clothed in long Phœnician tunics, officiated in the meanest
functions, with affected zeal and secret indignation.
Chapter VI: Death Of Severus, Tyranny Of Caracalla, Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Part III.
To this temple, as to the common centre of religious worship, the
Imperial fanatic attempted to remove the Ancilia, the Palladium,
and all the sacred pledges of the faith of Numa. A crowd of
inferior deities attended in various stations the majesty of the
god of Emesa; but his court was still imperfect, till a female of
distinguished rank was admitted to his bed. Pallas had been first
chosen for his consort; but as it was dreaded lest her warlike
terrors might affright the soft delicacy of a Syrian deity, the
Moon, adored by the Africans under the name of Astarte, was
deemed a more suitable companion for the Sun. Her image, with the
rich offerings of her temple as a marriage portion, was
transported with solemn pomp from Carthage to Rome, and the day
of these mystic nuptials was a general festival in the capital
and throughout the empire.
A rational voluptuary adheres with invariable respect to the
temperate dictates of nature, and improves the gratifications of
sense by social intercourse, endearing connections, and the soft
coloring of taste and the imagination. But Elagabalus, (I speak
of the emperor of that name,) corrupted by his youth, his
country, and his fortune, abandoned himself to the grossest
pleasures with ungoverned fury, and soon found disgust and
satiety in the midst of his enjoyments. The inflammatory powers
of art were summoned to his aid: the confused multitude of women,
of wines, and of dishes, and the studied variety of attitude and
sauces, served to revive his languid appetites. New terms and new
inventions in these sciences, the only ones cultivated and
patronized by the monarch, signalized his reign, and transmitted
his infamy to succeeding times. A capricious prodigality supplied
the want of taste and elegance; and whilst Elagabalus lavished
away the treasures of his people in the wildest extravagance, his
own voice and that of his flatterers applauded a spirit of
magnificence unknown to the tameness of his predecessors. To
confound the order of seasons and climates, to sport with the
passions and prejudices of his subjects, and to subvert every law
of nature and decency, were in the number of his most delicious
amusements. A long train of concubines, and a rapid succession of
wives, among whom was a vestal virgin, ravished by force from her
sacred asylum, were insufficient to satisfy the impotence of his
passions. The master of the Roman world affected to copy the
dress and manners of the female sex, preferred the distaff to the
sceptre, and dishonored the principal dignities of the empire by
distributing them among his numerous lovers; one of whom was
publicly invested with the title and authority of the emperor’s,
or, as he more properly styled himself, of the empress’s husband.
It may seem probable, the vices and follies of Elagabalus have
been adorned by fancy, and blackened by prejudice. Yet, confining
ourselves to the public scenes displayed before the Roman people,
and attested by grave and contemporary historians, their
inexpressible infamy surpasses that of any other age or country.
The license of an eastern monarch is secluded from the eye of
curiosity by the inaccessible walls of his seraglio. The
sentiments of honor and gallantry have introduced a refinement of
pleasure, a regard for decency, and a respect for the public
opinion, into the modern courts of Europe; * but the corrupt and
opulent nobles of Rome gratified every vice that could be
collected from the mighty conflux of nations and manners. Secure
of impunity, careless of censure, they lived without restraint in
the patient and humble society of their slaves and parasites. The
emperor, in his turn, viewing every rank of his subjects with the
same contemptuous indifference, asserted without control his
sovereign privilege of lust and luxury.
The most worthless of mankind are not afraid to condemn in others
the same disorders which they allow in themselves; and can
readily discover some nice difference of age, character, or
station, to justify the partial distinction. The licentious
soldiers, who had raised to the throne the dissolute son of
Caracalla, blushed at their ignominious choice, and turned with
disgust from that monster, to contemplate with pleasure the
opening virtues of his cousin Alexander, the son of Mamæa. The
crafty Mæsa, sensible that her grandson Elagabalus must
inevitably destroy himself by his own vices, had provided another
and surer support of her family. Embracing a favorable moment of
fondness and devotion, she had persuaded the young emperor to
adopt Alexander, and to invest him with the title of Cæsar, that
his own divine occupations might be no longer interrupted by the
care of the earth. In the second rank that amiable prince soon
acquired the affections of the public, and excited the tyrant’s
jealousy, who resolved to terminate the dangerous competition,
either by corrupting the manners, or by taking away the life, of
his rival. His arts proved unsuccessful; his vain designs were
constantly discovered by his own loquacious folly, and
disappointed by those virtuous and faithful servants whom the
prudence of Mamæa had placed about the person of her son. In a
hasty sally of passion, Elagabalus resolved to execute by force
what he had been unable to compass by fraud, and by a despotic
sentence degraded his cousin from the rank and honors of Cæsar.
The message was received in the senate with silence, and in the
camp with fury. The Prætorian guards swore to protect Alexander,
and to revenge the dishonored majesty of the throne. The tears
and promises of the trembling Elagabalus, who only begged them to
spare his life, and to leave him in the possession of his beloved
Hierocles, diverted their just indignation; and they contented
themselves with empowering their præfects to watch over the
safety of Alexander, and the conduct of the emperor.
It was impossible that such a reconciliation should last, or that
even the mean soul of Elagabalus could hold an empire on such
humiliating terms of dependence. He soon attempted, by a
dangerous experiment, to try the temper of the soldiers. The
report of the death of Alexander, and the natural suspicion that
he had been murdered, inflamed their passions into fury, and the
tempest of the camp could only be appeased by the presence and
authority of the popular youth. Provoked at this new instance of
their affection for his cousin, and their contempt for his
person, the emperor ventured to punish some of the leaders of the
mutiny. His unseasonable severity proved instantly fatal to his
minions, his mother, and himself. Elagabalus was massacred by the
indignant Prætorians, his mutilated corpse dragged through the
streets of the city, and thrown into the Tiber. His memory was
branded with eternal infamy by the senate; the justice of whose
decree has been ratified by posterity.
In the room of Elagabalus, his cousin Alexander was raised to the
throne by the Prætorian guards. His relation to the family of
Severus, whose name he assumed, was the same as that of his
predecessor; his virtue and his danger had already endeared him
to the Romans, and the eager liberality of the senate conferred
upon him, in one day, the various titles and powers of the
Imperial dignity. But as Alexander was a modest and dutiful
youth, of only seventeen years of age, the reins of government
were in the hands of two women, of his mother, Mamæa, and of
Mæsa, his grandmother. After the death of the latter, who
survived but a short time the elevation of Alexander, Mamæa
remained the sole regent of her son and of the empire.
In every age and country, the wiser, or at least the stronger, of
the two sexes, has usurped the powers of the state, and confined
the other to the cares and pleasures of domestic life. In
hereditary monarchies, however, and especially in those of modern
Europe, the gallant spirit of chivalry, and the law of
succession, have accustomed us to allow a singular exception; and
a woman is often acknowledged the absolute sovereign of a great
kingdom, in which she would be deemed incapable of exercising the
smallest employment, civil or military. But as the Roman emperors
were still considered as the generals and magistrates of the
republic, their wives and mothers, although distinguished by the
name of Augusta, were never associated to their personal honors;
and a female reign would have appeared an inexpiable prodigy in
the eyes of those primitive Romans, who married without love, or
loved without delicacy and respect. The haughty Agrippina
aspired, indeed, to share the honors of the empire which she had
conferred on her son; but her mad ambition, detested by every
citizen who felt for the dignity of Rome, was disappointed by the
artful firmness of Seneca and Burrhus. The good sense, or the
indifference, of succeeding princes, restrained them from
offending the prejudices of their subjects; and it was reserved
for the profligate Elagabalus to discharge the acts of the senate
with the name of his mother Soæmias, who was placed by the side
of the consuls, and subscribed, as a regular member, the decrees
of the legislative assembly. Her more prudent sister, Mamæa,
declined the useless and odious prerogative, and a solemn law was
enacted, excluding women forever from the senate, and devoting to
the infernal gods the head of the wretch by whom this sanction
should be violated. The substance, not the pageantry, of power,
was the object of Mamæa’s manly ambition. She maintained an
absolute and lasting empire over the mind of her son, and in his
affection the mother could not brook a rival. Alexander, with her
consent, married the daughter of a patrician; but his respect for
his father-in-law, and love for the empress, were inconsistent
with the tenderness of interest of Mamæa. The patrician was
executed on the ready accusation of treason, and the wife of
Alexander driven with ignominy from the palace, and banished into
Africa.
Notwithstanding this act of jealous cruelty, as well as some
instances of avarice, with which Mamæa is charged, the general
tenor of her administration was equally for the benefit of her
son and of the empire. With the approbation of the senate, she
chose sixteen of the wisest and most virtuous senators as a
perpetual council of state, before whom every public business of
moment was debated and determined. The celebrated Ulpian, equally
distinguished by his knowledge of, and his respect for, the laws
of Rome, was at their head; and the prudent firmness of this
aristocracy restored order and authority to the government. As
soon as they had purged the city from foreign superstition and
luxury, the remains of the capricious tyranny of Elagabalus, they
applied themselves to remove his worthless creatures from every
department of the public administration, and to supply their
places with men of virtue and ability. Learning, and the love of
justice, became the only recommendations for civil offices;
valor, and the love of discipline, the only qualifications for
military employments.
But the most important care of Mamæa and her wise counsellors,
was to form the character of the young emperor, on whose personal
qualities the happiness or misery of the Roman world must
ultimately depend. The fortunate soil assisted, and even
prevented, the hand of cultivation. An excellent understanding
soon convinced Alexander of the advantages of virtue, the
pleasure of knowledge, and the necessity of labor. A natural
mildness and moderation of temper preserved him from the assaults
of passion, and the allurements of vice. His unalterable regard
for his mother, and his esteem for the wise Ulpian, guarded his
unexperienced youth from the poison of flattery. *
The simple journal of his ordinary occupations exhibits a
pleasing picture of an accomplished emperor, and, with some
allowance for the difference of manners, might well deserve the
imitation of modern princes. Alexander rose early: the first
moments of the day were consecrated to private devotion, and his
domestic chapel was filled with the images of those heroes, who,
by improving or reforming human life, had deserved the grateful
reverence of posterity. But as he deemed the service of mankind
the most acceptable worship of the gods, the greatest part of his
morning hours was employed in his council, where he discussed
public affairs, and determined private causes, with a patience
and discretion above his years. The dryness of business was
relieved by the charms of literature; and a portion of time was
always set apart for his favorite studies of poetry, history, and
philosophy. The works of Virgil and Horace, the republics of
Plato and Cicero, formed his taste, enlarged his understanding,
and gave him the noblest ideas of man and government. The
exercises of the body succeeded to those of the mind; and
Alexander, who was tall, active, and robust, surpassed most of
his equals in the gymnastic arts. Refreshed by the use of the
bath and a slight dinner, he resumed, with new vigor, the
business of the day; and, till the hour of supper, the principal
meal of the Romans, he was attended by his secretaries, with whom
he read and answered the multitude of letters, memorials, and
petitions, that must have been addressed to the master of the
greatest part of the world. His table was served with the most
frugal simplicity, and whenever he was at liberty to consult his
own inclination, the company consisted of a few select friends,
men of learning and virtue, amongst whom Ulpian was constantly
invited. Their conversation was familiar and instructive; and the
pauses were occasionally enlivened by the recital of some
pleasing composition, which supplied the place of the dancers,
comedians, and even gladiators, so frequently summoned to the
tables of the rich and luxurious Romans. The dress of Alexander
was plain and modest, his demeanor courteous and affable: at the
proper hours his palace was open to all his subjects, but the
voice of a crier was heard, as in the Eleusinian mysteries,
pronouncing the same salutary admonition: “Let none enter these
holy walls, unless he is conscious of a pure and innocent mind.”
Such a uniform tenor of life, which left not a moment for vice or
folly, is a better proof of the wisdom and justice of Alexander’s
government, than all the trifling details preserved in the
compilation of Lampridius. Since the accession of Commodus, the
Roman world had experienced, during the term of forty years, the
successive and various vices of four tyrants. From the death of
Elagabalus, it enjoyed an auspicious calm of thirteen years. *
The provinces, relieved from the oppressive taxes invented by
Caracalla and his pretended son, flourished in peace and
prosperity, under the administration of magistrates who were
convinced by experience that to deserve the love of the subjects
was their best and only method of obtaining the favor of their
sovereign. While some gentle restraints were imposed on the
innocent luxury of the Roman people, the price of provisions and
the interest of money, were reduced by the paternal care of
Alexander, whose prudent liberality, without distressing the
industrious, supplied the wants and amusements of the populace.
The dignity, the freedom, the authority of the senate was
restored; and every virtuous senator might approach the person of
the emperor without a fear and without a blush.
The name of Antoninus, ennobled by the virtues of Pius and
Marcus, had been communicated by adoption to the dissolute Verus,
and by descent to the cruel Commodus. It became the honorable
appellation of the sons of Severus, was bestowed on young
Diadumenianus, and at length prostituted to the infamy of the
high priest of Emesa. Alexander, though pressed by the studied,
and, perhaps, sincere importunity of the senate, nobly refused
the borrowed lustre of a name; whilst in his whole conduct he
labored to restore the glories and felicity of the age of the
genuine Antonines.
In the civil administration of Alexander, wisdom was enforced by
power, and the people, sensible of the public felicity, repaid
their benefactor with their love and gratitude. There still
remained a greater, a more necessary, but a more difficult
enterprise; the reformation of the military order, whose interest
and temper, confirmed by long impunity, rendered them impatient
of the restraints of discipline, and careless of the blessings of
public tranquillity. In the execution of his design, the emperor
affected to display his love, and to conceal his fear of the
army. The most rigid economy in every other branch of the
administration supplied a fund of gold and silver for the
ordinary pay and the extraordinary rewards of the troops. In
their marches he relaxed the severe obligation of carrying
seventeen days’ provision on their shoulders. Ample magazines
were formed along the public roads, and as soon as they entered
the enemy’s country, a numerous train of mules and camels waited
on their haughty laziness. As Alexander despaired of correcting
the luxury of his soldiers, he attempted, at least, to direct it
to objects of martial pomp and ornament, fine horses, splendid
armor, and shields enriched with silver and gold. He shared
whatever fatigues he was obliged to impose, visited, in person,
the sick and wounded, preserved an exact register of their
services and his own gratitude, and expressed on every occasion,
the warmest regard for a body of men, whose welfare, as he
affected to declare, was so closely connected with that of the
state. By the most gentle arts he labored to inspire the fierce
multitude with a sense of duty, and to restore at least a faint
image of that discipline to which the Romans owed their empire
over so many other nations, as warlike and more powerful than
themselves. But his prudence was vain, his courage fatal, and the
attempt towards a reformation served only to inflame the ills it
was meant to cure.
The Prætorian guards were attached to the youth of Alexander.
They loved him as a tender pupil, whom they had saved from a
tyrant’s fury, and placed on the Imperial throne. That amiable
prince was sensible of the obligation; but as his gratitude was
restrained within the limits of reason and justice, they soon
were more dissatisfied with the virtues of Alexander, than they
had ever been with the vices of Elagabalus. Their præfect, the
wise Ulpian, was the friend of the laws and of the people; he was
considered as the enemy of the soldiers, and to his pernicious
counsels every scheme of reformation was imputed. Some trifling
accident blew up their discontent into a furious mutiny; and the
civil war raged, during three days, in Rome, whilst the life of
that excellent minister was defended by the grateful people.
Terrified, at length, by the sight of some houses in flames, and
by the threats of a general conflagration, the people yielded
with a sigh, and left the virtuous but unfortunate Ulpian to his
fate. He was pursued into the Imperial palace, and massacred at
the feet of his master, who vainly strove to cover him with the
purple, and to obtain his pardon from the inexorable soldiers. *
Such was the deplorable weakness of government, that the emperor
was unable to revenge his murdered friend and his insulted
dignity, without stooping to the arts of patience and
dissimulation. Epagathus, the principal leader of the mutiny, was
removed from Rome, by the honorable employment of præfect of
Egypt: from that high rank he was gently degraded to the
government of Crete; and when at length, his popularity among the
guards was effaced by time and absence, Alexander ventured to
inflict the tardy but deserved punishment of his crimes. Under
the reign of a just and virtuous prince, the tyranny of the army
threatened with instant death his most faithful ministers, who
were suspected of an intention to correct their intolerable
disorders. The historian Dion Cassius had commanded the Pannonian
legions with the spirit of ancient discipline. Their brethren of
Rome, embracing the common cause of military license, demanded
the head of the reformer. Alexander, however, instead of yielding
to their seditious clamors, showed a just sense of his merit and
services, by appointing him his colleague in the consulship, and
defraying from his own treasury the expense of that vain dignity:
but as was justly apprehended, that if the soldiers beheld him
with the ensigns of his office, they would revenge the insult in
his blood, the nominal first magistrate of the state retired, by
the emperor’s advice, from the city, and spent the greatest part
of his consulship at his villas in Campania.
Chapter VI: Death Of Severus, Tyranny Of Caracalla, Usurpation Of
Macrinus.—Part IV.
The lenity of the emperor confirmed the insolence of the troops;
the legions imitated the example of the guards, and defended
their prerogative of licentiousness with the same furious
obstinacy. The administration of Alexander was an unavailing
struggle against the corruption of his age. In llyricum, in
Mauritania, in Armenia, in Mesopotamia, in Germany, fresh
mutinies perpetually broke out; his officers were murdered, his
authority was insulted, and his life at last sacrificed to the
fierce discontents of the army. One particular fact well deserves
to be recorded, as it illustrates the manners of the troops, and
exhibits a singular instance of their return to a sense of duty
and obedience. Whilst the emperor lay at Antioch, in his Persian
expedition, the particulars of which we shall hereafter relate,
the punishment of some soldiers, who had been discovered in the
baths of women, excited a sedition in the legion to which they
belonged. Alexander ascended his tribunal, and with a modest
firmness represented to the armed multitude the absolute
necessity, as well as his inflexible resolution, of correcting
the vices introduced by his impure predecessor, and of
maintaining the discipline, which could not be relaxed without
the ruin of the Roman name and empire. Their clamors interrupted
his mild expostulation. “Reserve your shout,” said the undaunted
emperor, “till you take the field against the Persians, the
Germans, and the Sarmatians. Be silent in the presence of your
sovereign and benefactor, who bestows upon you the corn, the
clothing, and the money of the provinces. Be silent, or I shall
no longer style you soldiers , but _citizens_, if those indeed
who disclaim the laws of Rome deserve to be ranked among the
meanest of the people.” His menaces inflamed the fury of the
legion, and their brandished arms already threatened his person.
“Your courage,” resumed the intrepid Alexander, “would be more
nobly displayed in the field of battle; _me_ you may destroy, you
cannot intimidate; and the severe justice of the republic would
punish your crime and revenge my death.” The legion still
persisted in clamorous sedition, when the emperor pronounced,
with a loud voice, the decisive sentence, “_Citizens!_ lay down
your arms, and depart in peace to your respective habitations.”
The tempest was instantly appeased: the soldiers, filled with
grief and shame, silently confessed the justice of their
punishment, and the power of discipline, yielded up their arms
and military ensigns, and retired in confusion, not to their
camp, but to the several inns of the city. Alexander enjoyed,
during thirty days, the edifying spectacle of their repentance;
nor did he restore them to their former rank in the army, till he
had punished with death those tribunes whose connivance had
occasioned the mutiny. The grateful legion served the emperor
whilst living, and revenged him when dead.
The resolutions of the multitude generally depend on a moment;
and the caprice of passion might equally determine the seditious
legion to lay down their arms at the emperor’s feet, or to plunge
them into his breast. Perhaps, if this singular transaction had
been investigated by the penetration of a philosopher, we should
discover the secret causes which on that occasion authorized the
boldness of the prince, and commanded the obedience of the
troops; and perhaps, if it had been related by a judicious
historian, we should find this action, worthy of Cæsar himself,
reduced nearer to the level of probability and the common
standard of the character of Alexander Severus. The abilities of
that amiable prince seem to have been inadequate to the
difficulties of his situation, the firmness of his conduct
inferior to the purity of his intentions. His virtues, as well as
the vices of Elagabalus, contracted a tincture of weakness and
effeminacy from the soft climate of Syria, of which he was a
native; though he blushed at his foreign origin, and listened
with a vain complacency to the flattering genealogists, who
derived his race from the ancient stock of Roman nobility. The
pride and avarice of his mother cast a shade on the glories of
his reign; and by exacting from his riper years the same dutiful
obedience which she had justly claimed from his unexperienced
youth, Mamæa exposed to public ridicule both her son’s character
and her own. The fatigues of the Persian war irritated the
military discontent; the unsuccessful event * degraded the
reputation of the emperor as a general, and even as a soldier.
Every cause prepared, and every circumstance hastened, a
revolution, which distracted the Roman empire with a long series
of intestine calamities.
The dissolute tyranny of Commodus, the civil wars occasioned by
his death, and the new maxims of policy introduced by the house
of Severus, had all contributed to increase the dangerous power
of the army, and to obliterate the faint image of laws and
liberty that was still impressed on the minds of the Romans. The
internal change, which undermined the foundations of the empire,
we have endeavored to explain with some degree of order and
perspicuity. The personal characters of the emperors, their
victories, laws, follies, and fortunes, can interest us no
farther than as they are connected with the general history of
the Decline and Fall of the monarchy. Our constant attention to
that great object will not suffer us to overlook a most important
edict of Antoninus Caracalla, which communicated to all the free
inhabitants of the empire the name and privileges of Roman
citizens. His unbounded liberality flowed not, however, from the
sentiments of a generous mind; it was the sordid result of
avarice, and will naturally be illustrated by some observations
on the finances of that state, from the victorious ages of the
commonwealth to the reign of Alexander Severus.
The siege of Veii in Tuscany, the first considerable enterprise
of the Romans, was protracted to the tenth year, much less by the
strength of the place than by the unskilfulness of the besiegers.
The unaccustomed hardships of so many winter campaigns, at the
distance of near twenty miles from home, required more than
common encouragements; and the senate wisely prevented the
clamors of the people, by the institution of a regular pay for
the soldiers, which was levied by a general tribute, assessed
according to an equitable proportion on the property of the
citizens. During more than two hundred years after the conquest
of Veii, the victories of the republic added less to the wealth
than to the power of Rome. The states of Italy paid their tribute
in military service only, and the vast force, both by sea and
land, which was exerted in the Punic wars, was maintained at the
expense of the Romans themselves. That high-spirited people (such
is often the generous enthusiasm of freedom) cheerfully submitted
to the most excessive but voluntary burdens, in the just
confidence that they should speedily enjoy the rich harvest of
their labors. Their expectations were not disappointed. In the
course of a few years, the riches of Syracuse, of Carthage, of
Macedonia, and of Asia, were brought in triumph to Rome. The
treasures of Perseus alone amounted to near two millions
sterling, and the Roman people, the sovereign of so many nations,
was forever delivered from the weight of taxes. The increasing
revenue of the provinces was found sufficient to defray the
ordinary establishment of war and government, and the superfluous
mass of gold and silver was deposited in the temple of Saturn,
and reserved for any unforeseen emergency of the state.
History has never, perhaps, suffered a greater or more
irreparable injury than in the loss of the curious register *
bequeathed by Augustus to the senate, in which that experienced
prince so accurately balanced the revenues and expenses of the
Roman empire. Deprived of this clear and comprehensive estimate,
we are reduced to collect a few imperfect hints from such of the
ancients as have accidentally turned aside from the splendid to
the more useful parts of history. We are informed that, by the
conquests of Pompey, the tributes of Asia were raised from fifty
to one hundred and thirty-five millions of drachms; or about four
millions and a half sterling. Under the last and most indolent of
the Ptolemies, the revenue of Egypt is said to have amounted to
twelve thousand five hundred talents; a sum equivalent to more
than two millions and a half of our money, but which was
afterwards considerably improved by the more exact economy of the
Romans, and the increase of the trade of Æthiopia and India. Gaul
was enriched by rapine, as Egypt was by commerce, and the
tributes of those two great provinces have been compared as
nearly equal to each other in value. The ten thousand Euboic or
Phœnician talents, about four millions sterling, which vanquished
Carthage was condemned to pay within the term of fifty years,
were a slight acknowledgment of the superiority of Rome, and
cannot bear the least proportion with the taxes afterwards raised
both on the lands and on the persons of the inhabitants, when the
fertile coast of Africa was reduced into a province.
Spain, by a very singular fatality, was the Peru and Mexico of
the old world. The discovery of the rich western continent by the
Phœnicians, and the oppression of the simple natives, who were
compelled to labor in their own mines for the benefit of
strangers, form an exact type of the more recent history of
Spanish America. The Phœnicians were acquainted only with the
sea-coast of Spain; avarice, as well as ambition, carried the
arms of Rome and Carthage into the heart of the country, and
almost every part of the soil was found pregnant with copper,
silver, and gold. * Mention is made of a mine near Carthagena
which yielded every day twenty-five thousand drachmas of silver,
or about three hundred thousand pounds a year. Twenty thousand
pound weight of gold was annually received from the provinces of
Asturia, Gallicia, and Lusitania.
We want both leisure and materials to pursue this curious inquiry
through the many potent states that were annihilated in the Roman
empire. Some notion, however, may be formed of the revenue of the
provinces where considerable wealth had been deposited by nature,
or collected by man, if we observe the severe attention that was
directed to the abodes of solitude and sterility. Augustus once
received a petition from the inhabitants of Gyarus, humbly
praying that they might be relieved from one third of their
excessive impositions. Their whole tax amounted indeed to no more
than one hundred and fifty drachms, or about five pounds: but
Gyarus was a little island, or rather a rock, of the Ægean Sea,
destitute of fresh water and every necessary of life, and
inhabited only by a few wretched fishermen.
From the faint glimmerings of such doubtful and scattered lights,
we should be inclined to believe, 1st, That (with every fair
allowance for the differences of times and circumstances) the
general income of the Roman provinces could seldom amount to less
than fifteen or twenty millions of our money; and, 2dly, That so
ample a revenue must have been fully adequate to all the expenses
of the moderate government instituted by Augustus, whose court
was the modest family of a private senator, and whose military
establishment was calculated for the defence of the frontiers,
without any aspiring views of conquest, or any serious
apprehension of a foreign invasion.
Notwithstanding the seeming probability of both these
conclusions, the latter of them at least is positively disowned
by the language and conduct of Augustus. It is not easy to
determine whether, on this occasion, he acted as the common
father of the Roman world, or as the oppressor of liberty;
whether he wished to relieve the provinces, or to impoverish the
senate and the equestrian order. But no sooner had he assumed the
reins of government, than he frequently intimated the
insufficiency of the tributes, and the necessity of throwing an
equitable proportion of the public burden upon Rome and Italy. In
the prosecution of this unpopular design, he advanced, however,
by cautious and well-weighed steps. The introduction of customs
was followed by the establishment of an excise, and the scheme of
taxation was completed by an artful assessment on the real and
personal property of the Roman citizens, who had been exempted
from any kind of contribution above a century and a half.
I. In a great empire like that of Rome, a natural balance of
money must have gradually established itself. It has been already
observed, that as the wealth of the provinces was attracted to
the capital by the strong hand of conquest and power, so a
considerable part of it was restored to the industrious provinces
by the gentle influence of commerce and arts. In the reign of
Augustus and his successors, duties were imposed on every kind of
merchandise, which through a thousand channels flowed to the
great centre of opulence and luxury; and in whatsoever manner the
law was expressed, it was the Roman purchaser, and not the
provincial merchant, who paid the tax. The rate of the customs
varied from the eighth to the fortieth part of the value of the
commodity; and we have a right to suppose that the variation was
directed by the unalterable maxims of policy; that a higher duty
was fixed on the articles of luxury than on those of necessity,
and that the productions raised or manufactured by the labor of
the subjects of the empire were treated with more indulgence than
was shown to the pernicious, or at least the unpopular, commerce
of Arabia and India. There is still extant a long but imperfect
catalogue of eastern commodities, which about the time of
Alexander Severus were subject to the payment of duties;
cinnamon, myrrh, pepper, ginger, and the whole tribe of
aromatics; a great variety of precious stones, among which the
diamond was the most remarkable for its price, and the emerald
for its beauty; Parthian and Babylonian leather, cottons, silks,
both raw and manufactured, ebony ivory, and eunuchs. We may
observe that the use and value of those effeminate slaves
gradually rose with the decline of the empire.
II. The excise, introduced by Augustus after the civil wars, was
extremely moderate, but it was general. It seldom exceeded one
per cent.; but it comprehended whatever was sold in the markets
or by public auction, from the most considerable purchases of
lands and houses, to those minute objects which can only derive a
value from their infinite multitude and daily consumption. Such a
tax, as it affects the body of the people, has ever been the
occasion of clamor and discontent. An emperor well acquainted
with the wants and resources of the state was obliged to declare,
by a public edict, that the support of the army depended in a
great measure on the produce of the excise.*
III. When Augustus resolved to establish a permanent military
force for the defence of his government against foreign and
domestic enemies, he instituted a peculiar treasury for the pay
of the soldiers, the rewards of the veterans, and the
extra-ordinary expenses of war. The ample revenue of the excise,
though peculiarly appropriated to those uses, was found
inadequate. To supply the deficiency, the emperor suggested a new
tax of five per cent. on all legacies and inheritances. But the
nobles of Rome were more tenacious of property than of freedom.
Their indignant murmurs were received by Augustus with his usual
temper. He candidly referred the whole business to the senate,
and exhorted them to provide for the public service by some other
expedient of a less odious nature. They were divided and
perplexed. He insinuated to them, that their obstinacy would
oblige him to _propose_ a general land tax and capitation. They
acquiesced in silence. The new imposition on legacies and
inheritances was, however, mitigated by some restrictions. It did
not take place unless the object was of a certain value, most
probably of fifty or a hundred pieces of gold; nor could it be
exacted from the nearest of kin on the father’s side. When the
rights of nature and property were thus secured, it seemed
reasonable, that a stranger, or a distant relation, who acquired
an unexpected accession of fortune, should cheerfully resign a
twentieth part of it, for the benefit of the state.
Such a tax, plentiful as it must prove in every wealthy
community, was most happily suited to the situation of the
Romans, who could frame their arbitrary wills, according to the
dictates of reason or caprice, without any restraint from the
modern fetters of entails and settlements. From various causes,
the partiality of paternal affection often lost its influence
over the stern patriots of the commonwealth, and the dissolute
nobles of the empire; and if the father bequeathed to his son the
fourth part of his estate, he removed all ground of legal
complaint. But a rich childish old man was a domestic tyrant, and
his power increased with his years and infirmities. A servile
crowd, in which he frequently reckoned prætors and consuls,
courted his smiles, pampered his avarice, applauded his follies,
served his passions, and waited with impatience for his death.
The arts of attendance and flattery were formed into a most
lucrative science; those who professed it acquired a peculiar
appellation; and the whole city, according to the lively
descriptions of satire, was divided between two parties, the
hunters and their game. Yet, while so many unjust and extravagant
wills were every day dictated by cunning and subscribed by folly,
a few were the result of rational esteem and virtuous gratitude.
Cicero, who had so often defended the lives and fortunes of his
fellow-citizens, was rewarded with legacies to the amount of a
hundred and seventy thousand pounds; nor do the friends of the
younger Pliny seem to have been less generous to that amiable
orator. Whatever was the motive of the testator, the treasury
claimed, without distinction, the twentieth part of his estate:
and in the course of two or three generations, the whole property
of the subject must have gradually passed through the coffers of
the state.
In the first and golden years of the reign of Nero, that prince,
from a desire of popularity, and perhaps from a blind impulse of
benevolence, conceived a wish of abolishing the oppression of the
customs and excise. The wisest senators applauded his
magnanimity: but they diverted him from the execution of a design
which would have dissolved the strength and resources of the
republic. Had it indeed been possible to realize this dream of
fancy, such princes as Trajan and the Antonines would surely have
embraced with ardor the glorious opportunity of conferring so
signal an obligation on mankind. Satisfied, however, with
alleviating the public burden, they attempted not to remove it.
The mildness and precision of their laws ascertained the rule and
measure of taxation, and protected the subject of every rank
against arbitrary interpretations, antiquated claims, and the
insolent vexation of the farmers of the revenue. For it is
somewhat singular, that, in every age, the best and wisest of the
Roman governors persevered in this pernicious method of
collecting the principal branches at least of the excise and
customs.
The sentiments, and, indeed, the situation, of Caracalla were
very different from those of the Antonines. Inattentive, or
rather averse, to the welfare of his people, he found himself
under the necessity of gratifying the insatiate avarice which he
had excited in the army. Of the several impositions introduced by
Augustus, the twentieth on inheritances and legacies was the most
fruitful, as well as the most comprehensive. As its influence was
not confined to Rome or Italy, the produce continually increased
with the gradual extension of the Roman City. The new citizens,
though charged, on equal terms, with the payment of new taxes,
which had not affected them as subjects, derived an ample
compensation from the rank they obtained, the privileges they
acquired, and the fair prospect of honors and fortune that was
thrown open to their ambition. But the favor which implied a
distinction was lost in the prodigality of Caracalla, and the
reluctant provincials were compelled to assume the vain title,
and the real obligations, of Roman citizens. * Nor was the
rapacious son of Severus contented with such a measure of
taxation as had appeared sufficient to his moderate predecessors.
Instead of a twentieth, he exacted a tenth of all legacies and
inheritances; and during his reign (for the ancient proportion
was restored after his death) he crushed alike every part of the
empire under the weight of his iron sceptre.
When all the provincials became liable to the peculiar
impositions of Roman citizens, they seemed to acquire a legal
exemption from the tributes which they had paid in their former
condition of subjects. Such were not the maxims of government
adopted by Caracalla and his pretended son. The old as well as
the new taxes were, at the same time, levied in the provinces. It
was reserved for the virtue of Alexander to relieve them in a
great measure from this intolerable grievance, by reducing the
tributes to a thirteenth part of the sum exacted at the time of
his accession. It is impossible to conjecture the motive that
engaged him to spare so trifling a remnant of the public evil;
but the noxious weed, which had not been totally eradicated,
again sprang up with the most luxuriant growth, and in the
succeeding age darkened the Roman world with its deadly shade. In
the course of this history, we shall be too often summoned to
explain the land tax, the capitation, and the heavy contributions
of corn, wine, oil, and meat, which were exacted from the
provinces for the use of the court, the army, and the capital.
As long as Rome and Italy were respected as the centre of
government, a national spirit was preserved by the ancient, and
insensibly imbibed by the adopted, citizens. The principal
commands of the army were filled by men who had received a
liberal education, were well instructed in the advantages of laws
and letters, and who had risen, by equal steps, through the
regular succession of civil and military honors. To their
influence and example we may partly ascribe the modest obedience
of the legions during the two first centuries of the Imperial
history.
But when the last enclosure of the Roman constitution was
trampled down by Caracalla, the separation of professions
gradually succeeded to the distinction of ranks. The more
polished citizens of the internal provinces were alone qualified
to act as lawyers and magistrates. The rougher trade of arms was
abandoned to the peasants and barbarians of the frontiers, who
knew no country but their camp, no science but that of war, no
civil laws, and scarcely those of military discipline. With
bloody hands, savage manners, and desperate resolutions, they
sometimes guarded, but much oftener subverted, the throne of the
emperors.
Chapter VII: Tyranny Of Maximin, Rebellion, Civil Wars, Death Of
Maximin.—Part I.
The Elevation And Tyranny Of Maximin.—Rebellion In Africa And Italy,
Under The Authority Of The Senate.—Civil Wars And Seditions.—Violent
Deaths Of Maximin And His Son, Of Maximus And Balbinus, And Of The
Three Gordians.—Usurpation And Secular Games Of Philip.
Of the various forms of government which have prevailed in the
world, an hereditary monarchy seems to present the fairest scope
for ridicule. Is it possible to relate without an indignant
smile, that, on the father’s decease, the property of a nation,
like that of a drove of oxen, descends to his infant son, as yet
unknown to mankind and to himself; and that the bravest warriors
and the wisest statesmen, relinquishing their natural right to
empire, approach the royal cradle with bended knees and
protestations of inviolable fidelity? Satire and declamation may
paint these obvious topics in the most dazzling colors, but our
more serious thoughts will respect a useful prejudice, that
establishes a rule of succession, independent of the passions of
mankind; and we shall cheerfully acquiesce in any expedient which
deprives the multitude of the dangerous, and indeed the ideal,
power of giving themselves a master.
In the cool shade of retirement, we may easily devise imaginary
forms of government, in which the sceptre shall be constantly
bestowed on the most worthy, by the free and incorrupt suffrage
of the whole community. Experience overturns these airy fabrics,
and teaches us, that in a large society, the election of a
monarch can never devolve to the wisest, or to the most numerous
part of the people. The army is the only order of men
sufficiently united to concur in the same sentiments, and
powerful enough to impose them on the rest of their
fellow-citizens; but the temper of soldiers, habituated at once
to violence and to slavery, renders them very unfit guardians of
a legal, or even a civil constitution. Justice, humanity, or
political wisdom, are qualities they are too little acquainted
with in themselves, to appreciate them in others. Valor will
acquire their esteem, and liberality will purchase their
suffrage; but the first of these merits is often lodged in the
most savage breasts; the latter can only exert itself at the
expense of the public; and both may be turned against the
possessor of the throne, by the ambition of a daring rival.
The superior prerogative of birth, when it has obtained the
sanction of time and popular opinion, is the plainest and least
invidious of all distinctions among mankind. The acknowledged
right extinguishes the hopes of faction, and the conscious
security disarms the cruelty of the monarch. To the firm
establishment of this idea we owe the peaceful succession and
mild administration of European monarchies. To the defect of it
we must attribute the frequent civil wars, through which an
Asiatic despot is obliged to cut his way to the throne of his
fathers. Yet, even in the East, the sphere of contention is
usually limited to the princes of the reigning house, and as soon
as the more fortunate competitor has removed his brethren by the
sword and the bowstring, he no longer entertains any jealousy of
his meaner subjects. But the Roman empire, after the authority of
the senate had sunk into contempt, was a vast scene of confusion.
The royal, and even noble, families of the provinces had long
since been led in triumph before the car of the haughty
republicans. The ancient families of Rome had successively fallen
beneath the tyranny of the Cæsars; and whilst those princes were
shackled by the forms of a commonwealth, and disappointed by the
repeated failure of their posterity, it was impossible that any
idea of hereditary succession should have taken root in the minds
of their subjects. The right to the throne, which none could
claim from birth, every one assumed from merit. The daring hopes
of ambition were set loose from the salutary restraints of law
and prejudice; and the meanest of mankind might, without folly,
entertain a hope of being raised by valor and fortune to a rank
in the army, in which a single crime would enable him to wrest
the sceptre of the world from his feeble and unpopular master.
After the murder of Alexander Severus, and the elevation of
Maximin, no emperor could think himself safe upon the throne, and
every barbarian peasant of the frontier might aspire to that
august, but dangerous station.
About thirty-two years before that event, the emperor Severus,
returning from an eastern expedition, halted in Thrace, to
celebrate, with military games, the birthday of his younger son,
Geta. The country flocked in crowds to behold their sovereign,
and a young barbarian of gigantic stature earnestly solicited, in
his rude dialect, that he might be allowed to contend for the
prize of wrestling. As the pride of discipline would have been
disgraced in the overthrow of a Roman soldier by a Thracian
peasant, he was matched with the stoutest followers of the camp,
sixteen of whom he successively laid on the ground. His victory
was rewarded by some trifling gifts, and a permission to enlist
in the troops. The next day, the happy barbarian was
distinguished above a crowd of recruits, dancing and exulting
after the fashion of his country. As soon as he perceived that he
had attracted the emperor’s notice, he instantly ran up to his
horse, and followed him on foot, without the least appearance of
fatigue, in a long and rapid career. “Thracian,” said Severus
with astonishment, “art thou disposed to wrestle after thy race?”
“Most willingly, sir,” replied the unwearied youth; and, almost
in a breath, overthrew seven of the strongest soldiers in the
army. A gold collar was the prize of his matchless vigor and
activity, and he was immediately appointed to serve in the
horseguards who always attended on the person of the sovereign.
Maximin, for that was his name, though born on the territories of
the empire, descended from a mixed race of barbarians. His father
was a Goth, and his mother of the nation of the Alani. He
displayed on every occasion a valor equal to his strength; and
his native fierceness was soon tempered or disguised by the
knowledge of the world. Under the reign of Severus and his son,
he obtained the rank of centurion, with the favor and esteem of
both those princes, the former of whom was an excellent judge of
merit. Gratitude forbade Maximin to serve under the assassin of
Caracalla. Honor taught him to decline the effeminate insults of
Elagabalus. On the accession of Alexander he returned to court,
and was placed by that prince in a station useful to the service,
and honorable to himself. The fourth legion, to which he was
appointed tribune, soon became, under his care, the best
disciplined of the whole army. With the general applause of the
soldiers, who bestowed on their favorite hero the names of Ajax
and Hercules, he was successively promoted to the first military
command; and had not he still retained too much of his savage
origin, the emperor might perhaps have given his own sister in
marriage to the son of Maximin.
Instead of securing his fidelity, these favors served only to
inflame the ambition of the Thracian peasant, who deemed his
fortune inadequate to his merit, as long as he was constrained to
acknowledge a superior. Though a stranger to real wisdom, he was
not devoid of a selfish cunning, which showed him that the
emperor had lost the affection of the army, and taught him to
improve their discontent to his own advantage. It is easy for
faction and calumny to shed their poison on the administration of
the best of princes, and to accuse even their virtues by artfully
confounding them with those vices to which they bear the nearest
affinity. The troops listened with pleasure to the emissaries of
Maximin. They blushed at their own ignominious patience, which,
during thirteen years, had supported the vexatious discipline
imposed by an effeminate Syrian, the timid slave of his mother
and of the senate. It was time, they cried, to cast away that
useless phantom of the civil power, and to elect for their prince
and general a real soldier, educated in camps, exercised in war,
who would assert the glory, and distribute among his companions
the treasures, of the empire. A great army was at that time
assembled on the banks of the Rhine, under the command of the
emperor himself, who, almost immediately after his return from
the Persian war, had been obliged to march against the barbarians
of Germany. The important care of training and reviewing the new
levies was intrusted to Maximin. One day, as he entered the field
of exercise, the troops, either from a sudden impulse, or a
formed conspiracy, saluted him emperor, silenced by their loud
acclamations his obstinate refusal, and hastened to consummate
their rebellion by the murder of Alexander Severus.
The circumstances of his death are variously related. The
writers, who suppose that he died in ignorance of the ingratitude
and ambition of Maximin affirm that, after taking a frugal repast
in the sight of the army, he retired to sleep, and that, about
the seventh hour of the day, a part of his own guards broke into
the imperial tent, and, with many wounds, assassinated their
virtuous and unsuspecting prince. If we credit another, and
indeed a more probable account, Maximin was invested with the
purple by a numerous detachment, at the distance of several miles
from the head-quarters; and he trusted for success rather to the
secret wishes than to the public declarations of the great army.
Alexander had sufficient time to awaken a faint sense of loyalty
among the troops; but their reluctant professions of fidelity
quickly vanished on the appearance of Maximin, who declared
himself the friend and advocate of the military order, and was
unanimously acknowledged emperor of the Romans by the applauding
legions. The son of Mamæa, betrayed and deserted, withdrew into
his tent, desirous at least to conceal his approaching fate from
the insults of the multitude. He was soon followed by a tribune
and some centurions, the ministers of death; but instead of
receiving with manly resolution the inevitable stroke, his
unavailing cries and entreaties disgraced the last moments of his
life, and converted into contempt some portion of the just pity
which his innocence and misfortunes must inspire. His mother,
Mamæa, whose pride and avarice he loudly accused as the cause of
his ruin, perished with her son. The most faithful of his friends
were sacrificed to the first fury of the soldiers. Others were
reserved for the more deliberate cruelty of the usurper; and
those who experienced the mildest treatment, were stripped of
their employments, and ignominiously driven from the court and
army.
The former tyrants, Caligula and Nero, Commodus, and Caracalla,
were all dissolute and unexperienced youths, educated in the
purple, and corrupted by the pride of empire, the luxury of Rome,
and the perfidious voice of flattery. The cruelty of Maximin was
derived from a different source, the fear of contempt. Though he
depended on the attachment of the soldiers, who loved him for
virtues like their own, he was conscious that his mean and
barbarian origin, his savage appearance, and his total ignorance
of the arts and institutions of civil life, formed a very
unfavorable contrast with the amiable manners of the unhappy
Alexander. He remembered, that, in his humbler fortune, he had
often waited before the door of the haughty nobles of Rome, and
had been denied admittance by the insolence of their slaves. He
recollected too the friendship of a few who had relieved his
poverty, and assisted his rising hopes. But those who had
spurned, and those who had protected, the Thracian, were guilty
of the same crime, the knowledge of his original obscurity. For
this crime many were put to death; and by the execution of
several of his benefactors, Maximin published, in characters of
blood, the indelible history of his baseness and ingratitude.
The dark and sanguinary soul of the tyrant was open to every
suspicion against those among his subjects who were the most
distinguished by their birth or merit. Whenever he was alarmed
with the sound of treason, his cruelty was unbounded and
unrelenting. A conspiracy against his life was either discovered
or imagined, and Magnus, a consular senator, was named as the
principal author of it. Without a witness, without a trial, and
without an opportunity of defence, Magnus, with four thousand of
his supposed accomplices, was put to death. Italy and the whole
empire were infested with innumerable spies and informers. On the
slightest accusation, the first of the Roman nobles, who had
governed provinces, commanded armies, and been adorned with the
consular and triumphal ornaments, were chained on the public
carriages, and hurried away to the emperor’s presence.
Confiscation, exile, or simple death, were esteemed uncommon
instances of his lenity. Some of the unfortunate sufferers he
ordered to be sewed up in the hides of slaughtered animals,
others to be exposed to wild beasts, others again to be beaten to
death with clubs. During the three years of his reign, he
disdained to visit either Rome or Italy. His camp, occasionally
removed from the banks of the Rhine to those of the Danube, was
the seat of his stern despotism, which trampled on every
principle of law and justice, and was supported by the avowed
power of the sword. No man of noble birth, elegant
accomplishments, or knowledge of civil business, was suffered
near his person; and the court of a Roman emperor revived the
idea of those ancient chiefs of slaves and gladiators, whose
savage power had left a deep impression of terror and
detestation.
As long as the cruelty of Maximin was confined to the illustrious
senators, or even to the bold adventurers, who in the court or
army expose themselves to the caprice of fortune, the body of the
people viewed their sufferings with indifference, or perhaps with
pleasure. But the tyrant’s avarice, stimulated by the insatiate
desires of the soldiers, at length attacked the public property.
Every city of the empire was possessed of an independent revenue,
destined to purchase corn for the multitude, and to supply the
expenses of the games and entertainments. By a single act of
authority, the whole mass of wealth was at once confiscated for
the use of the Imperial treasury. The temples were stripped of
their most valuable offerings of gold and silver, and the statues
of gods, heroes, and emperors, were melted down and coined into
money. These impious orders could not be executed without tumults
and massacres, as in many places the people chose rather to die
in the defence of their altars, than to behold in the midst of
peace their cities exposed to the rapine and cruelty of war. The
soldiers themselves, among whom this sacrilegious plunder was
distributed, received it with a blush; and hardened as they were
in acts of violence, they dreaded the just reproaches of their
friends and relations. Throughout the Roman world a general cry
of indignation was heard, imploring vengeance on the common enemy
of human kind; and at length, by an act of private oppression, a
peaceful and unarmed province was driven into rebellion against
him.
The procurator of Africa was a servant worthy of such a master,
who considered the fines and confiscations of the rich as one of
the most fruitful branches of the Imperial revenue. An iniquitous
sentence had been pronounced against some opulent youths of that
country, the execution of which would have stripped them of far
the greater part of their patrimony. In this extremity, a
resolution that must either complete or prevent their ruin, was
dictated by despair. A respite of three days, obtained with
difficulty from the rapacious treasurer, was employed in
collecting from their estates a great number of slaves and
peasants blindly devoted to the commands of their lords, and
armed with the rustic weapons of clubs and axes. The leaders of
the conspiracy, as they were admitted to the audience of the
procurator, stabbed him with the daggers concealed under their
garments, and, by the assistance of their tumultuary train,
seized on the little town of Thysdrus, and erected the standard
of rebellion against the sovereign of the Roman empire. They
rested their hopes on the hatred of mankind against Maximin, and
they judiciously resolved to oppose to that detested tyrant an
emperor whose mild virtues had already acquired the love and
esteem of the Romans, and whose authority over the province would
give weight and stability to the enterprise. Gordianus, their
proconsul, and the object of their choice, refused, with
unfeigned reluctance, the dangerous honor, and begged with tears,
that they would suffer him to terminate in peace a long and
innocent life, without staining his feeble age with civil blood.
Their menaces compelled him to accept the Imperial purple, his
only refuge, indeed, against the jealous cruelty of Maximin;
since, according to the reasoning of tyrants, those who have been
esteemed worthy of the throne deserve death, and those who
deliberate have already rebelled.
The family of Gordianus was one of the most illustrious of the
Roman senate. On the father’s side he was descended from the
Gracchi; on his mother’s, from the emperor Trajan. A great estate
enabled him to support the dignity of his birth, and in the
enjoyment of it, he displayed an elegant taste and beneficent
disposition. The palace in Rome, formerly inhabited by the great
Pompey, had been, during several generations, in the possession
of Gordian’s family. It was distinguished by ancient trophies of
naval victories, and decorated with the works of modern painting.
His villa on the road to Præneste was celebrated for baths of
singular beauty and extent, for three stately rooms of a hundred
feet in length, and for a magnificent portico, supported by two
hundred columns of the four most curious and costly sorts of
marble. The public shows exhibited at his expense, and in which
the people were entertained with many hundreds of wild beasts and
gladiators, seem to surpass the fortune of a subject; and whilst
the liberality of other magistrates was confined to a few solemn
festivals at Rome, the magnificence of Gordian was repeated, when
he was ædile, every month in the year, and extended, during his
consulship, to the principal cities of Italy. He was twice
elevated to the last-mentioned dignity, by Caracalla and by
Alexander; for he possessed the uncommon talent of acquiring the
esteem of virtuous princes, without alarming the jealousy of
tyrants. His long life was innocently spent in the study of
letters and the peaceful honors of Rome; and, till he was named
proconsul of Africa by the voice of the senate and the
approbation of Alexander, he appears prudently to have declined
the command of armies and the government of provinces. * As long
as that emperor lived, Africa was happy under the administration
of his worthy representative: after the barbarous Maximin had
usurped the throne, Gordianus alleviated the miseries which he
was unable to prevent. When he reluctantly accepted the purple,
he was above fourscore years old; a last and valuable remains of
the happy age of the Antonines, whose virtues he revived in his
own conduct, and celebrated in an elegant poem of thirty books.
With the venerable proconsul, his son, who had accompanied him
into Africa as his lieutenant, was likewise declared emperor. His
manners were less pure, but his character was equally amiable
with that of his father. Twenty-two acknowledged concubines, and
a library of sixty-two thousand volumes, attested the variety of
his inclinations; and from the productions which he left behind
him, it appears that the former as well as the latter were
designed for use rather than for ostentation. The Roman people
acknowledged in the features of the younger Gordian the
resemblance of Scipio Africanus, recollected with pleasure that
his mother was the granddaughter of Antoninus Pius, and rested
the public hope on those latent virtues which had hitherto, as
they fondly imagined, lain concealed in the luxurious indolence
of private life.
As soon as the Gordians had appeased the first tumult of a
popular election, they removed their court to Carthage. They were
received with the acclamations of the Africans, who honored their
virtues, and who, since the visit of Hadrian, had never beheld
the majesty of a Roman emperor. But these vain acclamations
neither strengthened nor confirmed the title of the Gordians.
They were induced by principle, as well as interest, to solicit
the approbation of the senate; and a deputation of the noblest
provincials was sent, without delay, to Rome, to relate and
justify the conduct of their countrymen, who, having long
suffered with patience, were at length resolved to act with
vigor. The letters of the new princes were modest and respectful,
excusing the necessity which had obliged them to accept the
Imperial title; but submitting their election and their fate to
the supreme judgment of the senate.
The inclinations of the senate were neither doubtful nor divided.
The birth and noble alliances of the Gordians had intimately
connected them with the most illustrious houses of Rome. Their
fortune had created many dependants in that assembly, their merit
had acquired many friends. Their mild administration opened the
flattering prospect of the restoration, not only of the civil but
even of the republican government. The terror of military
violence, which had first obliged the senate to forget the murder
of Alexander, and to ratify the election of a barbarian peasant,
now produced a contrary effect, and provoked them to assert the
injured rights of freedom and humanity. The hatred of Maximin
towards the senate was declared and implacable; the tamest
submission had not appeased his fury, the most cautious innocence
would not remove his suspicions; and even the care of their own
safety urged them to share the fortune of an enterprise, of which
(if unsuccessful) they were sure to be the first victims. These
considerations, and perhaps others of a more private nature, were
debated in a previous conference of the consuls and the
magistrates. As soon as their resolution was decided, they
convoked in the temple of Castor the whole body of the senate,
according to an ancient form of secrecy, calculated to awaken
their attention, and to conceal their decrees. “Conscript
fathers,” said the consul Syllanus, “the two Gordians, both of
consular dignity, the one your proconsul, the other your
lieutenant, have been declared emperors by the general consent of
Africa. Let us return thanks,” he boldly continued, “to the youth
of Thysdrus; let us return thanks to the faithful people of
Carthage, our generous deliverers from a horrid monster—Why do
you hear me thus coolly, thus timidly? Why do you cast those
anxious looks on each other? Why hesitate? Maximin is a public
enemy! may his enmity soon expire with him, and may we long enjoy
the prudence and felicity of Gordian the father, the valor and
constancy of Gordian the son!” The noble ardor of the consul
revived the languid spirit of the senate. By a unanimous decree,
the election of the Gordians was ratified, Maximin, his son, and
his adherents, were pronounced enemies of their country, and
liberal rewards were offered to whomsoever had the courage and
good fortune to destroy them.
During the emperor’s absence, a detachment of the Prætorian
guards remained at Rome, to protect, or rather to command, the
capital. The præfect Vitalianus had signalized his fidelity to
Maximin, by the alacrity with which he had obeyed, and even
prevented the cruel mandates of the tyrant. His death alone could
rescue the authority of the senate, and the lives of the senators
from a state of danger and suspense. Before their resolves had
transpired, a quæstor and some tribunes were commissioned to take
his devoted life. They executed the order with equal boldness and
success; and, with their bloody daggers in their hands, ran
through the streets, proclaiming to the people and the soldiers
the news of the happy revolution. The enthusiasm of liberty was
seconded by the promise of a large donative, in lands and money;
the statues of Maximin were thrown down; the capital of the
empire acknowledged, with transport, the authority of the two
Gordians and the senate; and the example of Rome was followed by
the rest of Italy.
A new spirit had arisen in that assembly, whose long patience had
been insulted by wanton despotism and military license. The
senate assumed the reins of government, and, with a calm
intrepidity, prepared to vindicate by arms the cause of freedom.
Among the consular senators recommended by their merit and
services to the favor of the emperor Alexander, it was easy to
select twenty, not unequal to the command of an army, and the
conduct of a war. To these was the defence of Italy intrusted.
Each was appointed to act in his respective department,
authorized to enroll and discipline the Italian youth; and
instructed to fortify the ports and highways, against the
impending invasion of Maximin. A number of deputies, chosen from
the most illustrious of the senatorian and equestrian orders,
were despatched at the same time to the governors of the several
provinces, earnestly conjuring them to fly to the assistance of
their country, and to remind the nations of their ancient ties of
friendship with the Roman senate and people. The general respect
with which these deputies were received, and the zeal of Italy
and the provinces in favor of the senate, sufficiently prove that
the subjects of Maximin were reduced to that uncommon distress,
in which the body of the people has more to fear from oppression
than from resistance. The consciousness of that melancholy truth,
inspires a degree of persevering fury, seldom to be found in
those civil wars which are artificially supported for the benefit
of a few factious and designing leaders.
For while the cause of the Gordians was embraced with such
diffusive ardor, the Gordians themselves were no more. The feeble
court of Carthage was alarmed by the rapid approach of
Capelianus, governor of Mauritania, who, with a small band of
veterans, and a fierce host of barbarians, attacked a faithful,
but unwarlike province. The younger Gordian sallied out to meet
the enemy at the head of a few guards, and a numerous
undisciplined multitude, educated in the peaceful luxury of
Carthage. His useless valor served only to procure him an
honorable death on the field of battle. His aged father, whose
reign had not exceeded thirty-six days, put an end to his life on
the first news of the defeat. Carthage, destitute of defence,
opened her gates to the conqueror, and Africa was exposed to the
rapacious cruelty of a slave, obliged to satisfy his unrelenting
master with a large account of blood and treasure.
The fate of the Gordians filled Rome with just but unexpected
terror. The senate, convoked in the temple of Concord, affected
to transact the common business of the day; and seemed to
decline, with trembling anxiety, the consideration of their own
and the public danger. A silent consternation prevailed in the
assembly, till a senator, of the name and family of Trajan,
awakened his brethren from their fatal lethargy. He represented
to them that the choice of cautious, dilatory measures had been
long since out of their power; that Maximin, implacable by
nature, and exasperated by injuries, was advancing towards Italy,
at the head of the military force of the empire; and that their
only remaining alternative was either to meet him bravely in the
field, or tamely to expect the tortures and ignominious death
reserved for unsuccessful rebellion. “We have lost,” continued
he, “two excellent princes; but unless we desert ourselves, the
hopes of the republic have not perished with the Gordians. Many
are the senators whose virtues have deserved, and whose abilities
would sustain, the Imperial dignity. Let us elect two emperors,
one of whom may conduct the war against the public enemy, whilst
his colleague remains at Rome to direct the civil administration.
I cheerfully expose myself to the danger and envy of the
nomination, and give my vote in favor of Maximus and Balbinus.
Ratify my choice, conscript fathers, or appoint in their place,
others more worthy of the empire.” The general apprehension
silenced the whispers of jealousy; the merit of the candidates
was universally acknowledged; and the house resounded with the
sincere acclamations of “Long life and victory to the emperors
Maximus and Balbinus. You are happy in the judgment of the
senate; may the republic be happy under your administration!”
Chapter VII: Tyranny Of Maximin, Rebellion, Civil Wars, Death Of
Maximin.—Part II.
The virtues and the reputation of the new emperors justified the
most sanguine hopes of the Romans. The various nature of their
talents seemed to appropriate to each his peculiar department of
peace and war, without leaving room for jealous emulation.
Balbinus was an admired orator, a poet of distinguished fame, and
a wise magistrate, who had exercised with innocence and applause
the civil jurisdiction in almost all the interior provinces of
the empire. His birth was noble, his fortune affluent, his
manners liberal and affable. In him the love of pleasure was
corrected by a sense of dignity, nor had the habits of ease
deprived him of a capacity for business. The mind of Maximus was
formed in a rougher mould. By his valor and abilities he had
raised himself from the meanest origin to the first employments
of the state and army. His victories over the Sarmatians and the
Germans, the austerity of his life, and the rigid impartiality of
his justice, while he was a Præfect of the city, commanded the
esteem of a people whose affections were engaged in favor of the
more amiable Balbinus. The two colleagues had both been consuls,
(Balbinus had twice enjoyed that honorable office,) both had been
named among the twenty lieutenants of the senate; and since the
one was sixty and the other seventy-four years old, they had both
attained the full maturity of age and experience.
After the senate had conferred on Maximus and Balbinus an equal
portion of the consular and tribunitian powers, the title of
Fathers of their country, and the joint office of Supreme
Pontiff, they ascended to the Capitol to return thanks to the
gods, protectors of Rome. The solemn rites of sacrifice were
disturbed by a sedition of the people. The licentious multitude
neither loved the rigid Maximus, nor did they sufficiently fear
the mild and humane Balbinus. Their increasing numbers surrounded
the temple of Jupiter; with obstinate clamors they asserted their
inherent right of consenting to the election of their sovereign;
and demanded, with an apparent moderation, that, besides the two
emperors, chosen by the senate, a third should be added of the
family of the Gordians, as a just return of gratitude to those
princes who had sacrificed their lives for the republic. At the
head of the city-guards, and the youth of the equestrian order,
Maximus and Balbinus attempted to cut their way through the
seditious multitude. The multitude, armed with sticks and stones,
drove them back into the Capitol. It is prudent to yield when the
contest, whatever may be the issue of it, must be fatal to both
parties. A boy, only thirteen years of age, the grandson of the
elder, and nephew * of the younger Gordian, was produced to the
people, invested with the ornaments and title of Cæsar. The
tumult was appeased by this easy condescension; and the two
emperors, as soon as they had been peaceably acknowledged in
Rome, prepared to defend Italy against the common enemy.
Whilst in Rome and Africa, revolutions succeeded each other with
such amazing rapidity, that the mind of Maximin was agitated by
the most furious passions. He is said to have received the news
of the rebellion of the Gordians, and of the decree of the senate
against him, not with the temper of a man, but the rage of a wild
beast; which, as it could not discharge itself on the distant
senate, threatened the life of his son, of his friends, and of
all who ventured to approach his person. The grateful
intelligence of the death of the Gordians was quickly followed by
the assurance that the senate, laying aside all hopes of pardon
or accommodation, had substituted in their room two emperors,
with whose merit he could not be unacquainted. Revenge was the
only consolation left to Maximin, and revenge could only be
obtained by arms. The strength of the legions had been assembled
by Alexander from all parts of the empire. Three successful
campaigns against the Germans and the Sarmatians, had raised
their fame, confirmed their discipline, and even increased their
numbers, by filling the ranks with the flower of the barbarian
youth. The life of Maximin had been spent in war, and the candid
severity of history cannot refuse him the valor of a soldier, or
even the abilities of an experienced general. It might naturally
be expected, that a prince of such a character, instead of
suffering the rebellion to gain stability by delay, should
immediately have marched from the banks of the Danube to those of
the Tyber, and that his victorious army, instigated by contempt
for the senate, and eager to gather the spoils of Italy, should
have burned with impatience to finish the easy and lucrative
conquest. Yet as far as we can trust to the obscure chronology of
that period, it appears that the operations of some foreign war
deferred the Italian expedition till the ensuing spring. From the
prudent conduct of Maximin, we may learn that the savage features
of his character have been exaggerated by the pencil of party,
that his passions, however impetuous, submitted to the force of
reason, and that the barbarian possessed something of the
generous spirit of Sylla, who subdued the enemies of Rome before
he suffered himself to revenge his private injuries.
When the troops of Maximin, advancing in excellent order, arrived
at the foot of the Julian Alps, they were terrified by the
silence and desolation that reigned on the frontiers of Italy.
The villages and open towns had been abandoned on their approach
by the inhabitants, the cattle was driven away, the provisions
removed or destroyed, the bridges broken down, nor was any thing
left which could afford either shelter or subsistence to an
invader. Such had been the wise orders of the generals of the
senate: whose design was to protract the war, to ruin the army of
Maximin by the slow operation of famine, and to consume his
strength in the sieges of the principal cities of Italy, which
they had plentifully stored with men and provisions from the
deserted country. Aquileia received and withstood the first shock
of the invasion. The streams that issue from the head of the
Hadriatic Gulf, swelled by the melting of the winter snows,
opposed an unexpected obstacle to the arms of Maximin. At length,
on a singular bridge, constructed with art and difficulty, of
large hogsheads, he transported his army to the opposite bank,
rooted up the beautiful vineyards in the neighborhood of
Aquileia, demolished the suburbs, and employed the timber of the
buildings in the engines and towers, with which on every side he
attacked the city. The walls, fallen to decay during the security
of a long peace, had been hastily repaired on this sudden
emergency: but the firmest defence of Aquileia consisted in the
constancy of the citizens; all ranks of whom, instead of being
dismayed, were animated by the extreme danger, and their
knowledge of the tyrant’s unrelenting temper. Their courage was
supported and directed by Crispinus and Menophilus, two of the
twenty lieutenants of the senate, who, with a small body of
regular troops, had thrown themselves into the besieged place.
The army of Maximin was repulsed in repeated attacks, his
machines destroyed by showers of artificial fire; and the
generous enthusiasm of the Aquileians was exalted into a
confidence of success, by the opinion that Belenus, their tutelar
deity, combated in person in the defence of his distressed
worshippers.
The emperor Maximus, who had advanced as far as Ravenna, to
secure that important place, and to hasten the military
preparations, beheld the event of the war in the more faithful
mirror of reason and policy. He was too sensible, that a single
town could not resist the persevering efforts of a great army;
and he dreaded, lest the enemy, tired with the obstinate
resistance of Aquileia, should on a sudden relinquish the
fruitless siege, and march directly towards Rome. The fate of the
empire and the cause of freedom must then be committed to the
chance of a battle; and what arms could he oppose to the veteran
legions of the Rhine and Danube? Some troops newly levied among
the generous but enervated youth of Italy; and a body of German
auxiliaries, on whose firmness, in the hour of trial, it was
dangerous to depend. In the midst of these just alarms, the
stroke of domestic conspiracy punished the crimes of Maximin, and
delivered Rome and the senate from the calamities that would
surely have attended the victory of an enraged barbarian.
The people of Aquileia had scarcely experienced any of the common
miseries of a siege; their magazines were plentifully supplied,
and several fountains within the walls assured them of an
inexhaustible resource of fresh water. The soldiers of Maximin
were, on the contrary, exposed to the inclemency of the season,
the contagion of disease, and the horrors of famine. The open
country was ruined, the rivers filled with the slain, and
polluted with blood. A spirit of despair and disaffection began
to diffuse itself among the troops; and as they were cut off from
all intelligence, they easily believed that the whole empire had
embraced the cause of the senate, and that they were left as
devoted victims to perish under the impregnable walls of
Aquileia. The fierce temper of the tyrant was exasperated by
disappointments, which he imputed to the cowardice of his army;
and his wanton and ill-timed cruelty, instead of striking terror,
inspired hatred, and a just desire of revenge. A party of
Prætorian guards, who trembled for their wives and children in
the camp of Alba, near Rome, executed the sentence of the senate.
Maximin, abandoned by his guards, was slain in his tent, with his
son (whom he had associated to the honors of the purple),
Anulinus the præfect, and the principal ministers of his tyranny.
The sight of their heads, borne on the point of spears, convinced
the citizens of Aquileia that the siege was at an end; the gates
of the city were thrown open, a liberal market was provided for
the hungry troops of Maximin, and the whole army joined in solemn
protestations of fidelity to the senate and the people of Rome,
and to their lawful emperors Maximus and Balbinus. Such was the
deserved fate of a brutal savage, destitute, as he has generally
been represented, of every sentiment that distinguishes a
civilized, or even a human being. The body was suited to the
soul. The stature of Maximin exceeded the measure of eight feet,
and circumstances almost incredible are related of his matchless
strength and appetite. Had he lived in a less enlightened age,
tradition and poetry might well have described him as one of
those monstrous giants, whose supernatural power was constantly
exerted for the destruction of mankind.
It is easier to conceive than to describe the universal joy of
the Roman world on the fall of the tyrant, the news of which is
said to have been carried in four days from Aquileia to Rome. The
return of Maximus was a triumphal procession; his colleague and
young Gordian went out to meet him, and the three princes made
their entry into the capital, attended by the ambassadors of
almost all the cities of Italy, saluted with the splendid
offerings of gratitude and superstition, and received with the
unfeigned acclamations of the senate and people, who persuaded
themselves that a golden age would succeed to an age of iron. The
conduct of the two emperors corresponded with these expectations.
They administered justice in person; and the rigor of the one was
tempered by the other’s clemency. The oppressive taxes with which
Maximin had loaded the rights of inheritance and succession, were
repealed, or at least moderated. Discipline was revived, and with
the advice of the senate many wise laws were enacted by their
imperial ministers, who endeavored to restore a civil
constitution on the ruins of military tyranny. “What reward may
we expect for delivering Rome from a monster?” was the question
asked by Maximus, in a moment of freedom and confidence. Balbinus
answered it without hesitation—“The love of the senate, of the
people, and of all mankind.” “Alas!” replied his more penetrating
colleague—“alas! I dread the hatred of the soldiers, and the
fatal effects of their resentment.” His apprehensions were but
too well justified by the event.
Whilst Maximus was preparing to defend Italy against the common
foe, Balbinus, who remained at Rome, had been engaged in scenes
of blood and intestine discord. Distrust and jealousy reigned in
the senate; and even in the temples where they assembled, every
senator carried either open or concealed arms. In the midst of
their deliberations, two veterans of the guards, actuated either
by curiosity or a sinister motive, audaciously thrust themselves
into the house, and advanced by degrees beyond the altar of
Victory. Gallicanus, a consular, and Mæcenas, a Prætorian
senator, viewed with indignation their insolent intrusion:
drawing their daggers, they laid the spies (for such they deemed
them) dead at the foot of the altar, and then, advancing to the
door of the senate, imprudently exhorted the multitude to
massacre the Prætorians, as the secret adherents of the tyrant.
Those who escaped the first fury of the tumult took refuge in the
camp, which they defended with superior advantage against the
reiterated attacks of the people, assisted by the numerous bands
of gladiators, the property of opulent nobles. The civil war
lasted many days, with infinite loss and confusion on both sides.
When the pipes were broken that supplied the camp with water, the
Prætorians were reduced to intolerable distress; but in their
turn they made desperate sallies into the city, set fire to a
great number of houses, and filled the streets with the blood of
the inhabitants. The emperor Balbinus attempted, by ineffectual
edicts and precarious truces, to reconcile the factions at Rome.
But their animosity, though smothered for a while, burnt with
redoubled violence. The soldiers, detesting the senate and the
people, despised the weakness of a prince, who wanted either the
spirit or the power to command the obedience of his subjects.
After the tyrant’s death, his formidable army had acknowledged,
from necessity rather than from choice, the authority of Maximus,
who transported himself without delay to the camp before
Aquileia. As soon as he had received their oath of fidelity, he
addressed them in terms full of mildness and moderation;
lamented, rather than arraigned the wild disorders of the times,
and assured the soldiers, that of all their past conduct the
senate would remember only their generous desertion of the
tyrant, and their voluntary return to their duty. Maximus
enforced his exhortations by a liberal donative, purified the
camp by a solemn sacrifice of expiation, and then dismissed the
legions to their several provinces, impressed, as he hoped, with
a lively sense of gratitude and obedience. But nothing could
reconcile the haughty spirit of the Prætorians. They attended the
emperors on the memorable day of their public entry into Rome;
but amidst the general acclamations, the sullen, dejected
countenance of the guards sufficiently declared that they
considered themselves as the object, rather than the partners, of
the triumph. When the whole body was united in their camp, those
who had served under Maximin, and those who had remained at Rome,
insensibly communicated to each other their complaints and
apprehensions. The emperors chosen by the army had perished with
ignominy; those elected by the senate were seated on the throne.
The long discord between the civil and military powers was
decided by a war, in which the former had obtained a complete
victory. The soldiers must now learn a new doctrine of submission
to the senate; and whatever clemency was affected by that politic
assembly, they dreaded a slow revenge, colored by the name of
discipline, and justified by fair pretences of the public good.
But their fate was still in their own hands; and if they had
courage to despise the vain terrors of an impotent republic, it
was easy to convince the world, that those who were masters of
the arms, were masters of the authority, of the state.
When the senate elected two princes, it is probable that, besides
the declared reason of providing for the various emergencies of
peace and war, they were actuated by the secret desire of
weakening by division the despotism of the supreme magistrate.
Their policy was effectual, but it proved fatal both to their
emperors and to themselves. The jealousy of power was soon
exasperated by the difference of character. Maximus despised
Balbinus as a luxurious noble, and was in his turn disdained by
his colleague as an obscure soldier. Their silent discord was
understood rather than seen; but the mutual consciousness
prevented them from uniting in any vigorous measures of defence
against their common enemies of the Prætorian camp. The whole
city was employed in the Capitoline games, and the emperors were
left almost alone in the palace. On a sudden, they were alarmed
by the approach of a troop of desperate assassins. Ignorant of
each other’s situation or designs (for they already occupied very
distant apartments), afraid to give or to receive assistance,
they wasted the important moments in idle debates and fruitless
recriminations. The arrival of the guards put an end to the vain
strife. They seized on these emperors of the senate, for such
they called them with malicious contempt, stripped them of their
garments, and dragged them in insolent triumph through the
streets of Rome, with the design of inflicting a slow and cruel
death on these unfortunate princes. The fear of a rescue from the
faithful Germans of the Imperial guards shortened their tortures;
and their bodies, mangled with a thousand wounds, were left
exposed to the insults or to the pity of the populace.
In the space of a few months, six princes had been cut off by the
sword. Gordian, who had already received the title of Cæsar, was
the only person that occurred to the soldiers as proper to fill
the vacant throne. They carried him to the camp, and unanimously
saluted him Augustus and Emperor. His name was dear to the senate
and people; his tender age promised a long impunity of military
license; and the submission of Rome and the provinces to the
choice of the Prætorian guards saved the republic, at the expense
indeed of its freedom and dignity, from the horrors of a new
civil war in the heart of the capital.
As the third Gordian was only nineteen years of age at the time
of his death, the history of his life, were it known to us with
greater accuracy than it really is, would contain little more
than the account of his education, and the conduct of the
ministers, who by turns abused or guided the simplicity of his
unexperienced youth. Immediately after his accession, he fell
into the hands of his mother’s eunuchs, that pernicious vermin of
the East, who, since the days of Elagabalus, had infested the
Roman palace. By the artful conspiracy of these wretches, an
impenetrable veil was drawn between an innocent prince and his
oppressed subjects, the virtuous disposition of Gordian was
deceived, and the honors of the empire sold without his
knowledge, though in a very public manner, to the most worthless
of mankind. We are ignorant by what fortunate accident the
emperor escaped from this ignominious slavery, and devolved his
confidence on a minister, whose wise counsels had no object
except the glory of his sovereign and the happiness of the
people. It should seem that love and learning introduced
Misitheus to the favor of Gordian. The young prince married the
daughter of his master of rhetoric, and promoted his
father-in-law to the first offices of the empire. Two admirable
letters that passed between them are still extant. The minister,
with the conscious dignity of virtue, congratulates Gordian that
he is delivered from the tyranny of the eunuchs, and still more
that he is sensible of his deliverance. The emperor acknowledges,
with an amiable confusion, the errors of his past conduct; and
laments, with singular propriety, the misfortune of a monarch
from whom a venal tribe of courtiers perpetually labor to conceal
the truth.
The life of Misitheus had been spent in the profession of
letters, not of arms; yet such was the versatile genius of that
great man, that, when he was appointed Prætorian Præfect, he
discharged the military duties of his place with vigor and
ability. The Persians had invaded Mesopotamia, and threatened
Antioch. By the persuasion of his father-in-law, the young
emperor quitted the luxury of Rome, opened, for the last time
recorded in history, the temple of Janus, and marched in person
into the East. On his approach, with a great army, the Persians
withdrew their garrisons from the cities which they had already
taken, and retired from the Euphrates to the Tigris. Gordian
enjoyed the pleasure of announcing to the senate the first
success of his arms, which he ascribed, with a becoming modesty
and gratitude, to the wisdom of his father and Præfect. During
the whole expedition, Misitheus watched over the safety and
discipline of the army; whilst he prevented their dangerous
murmurs by maintaining a regular plenty in the camp, and by
establishing ample magazines of vinegar, bacon, straw, barley,
and wheat in all the cities of the frontier. But the prosperity
of Gordian expired with Misitheus, who died of a flux, not
without very strong suspicions of poison. Philip, his successor
in the præfecture, was an Arab by birth, and consequently, in the
earlier part of his life, a robber by profession. His rise from
so obscure a station to the first dignities of the empire, seems
to prove that he was a bold and able leader. But his boldness
prompted him to aspire to the throne, and his abilities were
employed to supplant, not to serve, his indulgent master. The
minds of the soldiers were irritated by an artificial scarcity,
created by his contrivance in the camp; and the distress of the
army was attributed to the youth and incapacity of the prince. It
is not in our power to trace the successive steps of the secret
conspiracy and open sedition, which were at length fatal to
Gordian. A sepulchral monument was erected to his memory on the
spot where he was killed, near the conflux of the Euphrates with
the little river Aboras. The fortunate Philip, raised to the
empire by the votes of the soldiers, found a ready obedience from
the senate and the provinces.
We cannot forbear transcribing the ingenious, though somewhat
fanciful description, which a celebrated writer of our own times
has traced of the military government of the Roman empire. “What
in that age was called the Roman empire, was only an irregular
republic, not unlike the aristocracy of Algiers, where the
militia, possessed of the sovereignty, creates and deposes a
magistrate, who is styled a Dey. Perhaps, indeed, it may be laid
down as a general rule, that a military government is, in some
respects, more republican than monarchical. Nor can it be said
that the soldiers only partook of the government by their
disobedience and rebellions. The speeches made to them by the
emperors, were they not at length of the same nature as those
formerly pronounced to the people by the consuls and the
tribunes? And although the armies had no regular place or forms
of assembly; though their debates were short, their action
sudden, and their resolves seldom the result of cool reflection,
did they not dispose, with absolute sway, of the public fortune?
What was the emperor, except the minister of a violent
government, elected for the private benefit of the soldiers?
“When the army had elected Philip, who was Prætorian præfect to
the third Gordian, the latter demanded that he might remain sole
emperor; he was unable to obtain it. He requested that the power
might be equally divided between them; the army would not listen
to his speech. He consented to be degraded to the rank of Cæsar;
the favor was refused him. He desired, at least, he might be
appointed Prætorian præfect; his prayer was rejected. Finally, he
pleaded for his life. The army, in these several judgments,
exercised the supreme magistracy.” According to the historian,
whose doubtful narrative the President De Montesquieu has
adopted, Philip, who, during the whole transaction, had preserved
a sullen silence, was inclined to spare the innocent life of his
benefactor; till, recollecting that his innocence might excite a
dangerous compassion in the Roman world, he commanded, without
regard to his suppliant cries, that he should be seized,
stripped, and led away to instant death. After a moment’s pause,
the inhuman sentence was executed.
Chapter VII: Tyranny Of Maximin, Rebellion, Civil Wars, Death Of
Maximin.—Part III.
On his return from the East to Rome, Philip, desirous of
obliterating the memory of his crimes, and of captivating the
affections of the people, solemnized the secular games with
infinite pomp and magnificence. Since their institution or
revival by Augustus, they had been celebrated by Claudius, by
Domitian, and by Severus, and were now renewed the fifth time, on
the accomplishment of the full period of a thousand years from
the foundation of Rome. Every circumstance of the secular games
was skillfully adapted to inspire the superstitious mind with
deep and solemn reverence. The long interval between them
exceeded the term of human life; and as none of the spectators
had already seen them, none could flatter themselves with the
expectation of beholding them a second time. The mystic
sacrifices were performed, during three nights, on the banks of
the Tyber; and the Campus Martius resounded with music and
dances, and was illuminated with innumerable lamps and torches.
Slaves and strangers were excluded from any participation in
these national ceremonies. A chorus of twenty-seven youths, and
as many virgins, of noble families, and whose parents were both
alive, implored the propitious gods in favor of the present, and
for the hope of the rising generation; requesting, in religious
hymns, that according to the faith of their ancient oracles, they
would still maintain the virtue, the felicity, and the empire of
the Roman people. The magnificence of Philip’s shows and
entertainments dazzled the eyes of the multitude. The devout were
employed in the rites of superstition, whilst the reflecting few
revolved in their anxious minds the past history and the future
fate of the empire.
Since Romulus, with a small band of shepherds and outlaws,
fortified himself on the hills near the Tyber, ten centuries had
already elapsed. During the four first ages, the Romans, in the
laborious school of poverty, had acquired the virtues of war and
government: by the vigorous exertion of those virtues, and by the
assistance of fortune, they had obtained, in the course of the
three succeeding centuries, an absolute empire over many
countries of Europe, Asia, and Africa. The last three hundred
years had been consumed in apparent prosperity and internal
decline. The nation of soldiers, magistrates, and legislators,
who composed the thirty-five tribes of the Roman people, were
dissolved into the common mass of mankind, and confounded with
the millions of servile provincials, who had received the name,
without adopting the spirit, of Romans. A mercenary army, levied
among the subjects and barbarians of the frontier, was the only
order of men who preserved and abused their independence. By
their tumultuary election, a Syrian, a Goth, or an Arab, was
exalted to the throne of Rome, and invested with despotic power
over the conquests and over the country of the Scipios.
The limits of the Roman empire still extended from the Western
Ocean to the Tigris, and from Mount Atlas to the Rhine and the
Danube. To the undiscerning eye of the vulgar, Philip appeared a
monarch no less powerful than Hadrian or Augustus had formerly
been. The form was still the same, but the animating health and
vigor were fled. The industry of the people was discouraged and
exhausted by a long series of oppression. The discipline of the
legions, which alone, after the extinction of every other virtue,
had propped the greatness of the state, was corrupted by the
ambition, or relaxed by the weakness, of the emperors. The
strength of the frontiers, which had always consisted in arms
rather than in fortifications, was insensibly undermined; and the
fairest provinces were left exposed to the rapaciousness or
ambition of the barbarians, who soon discovered the decline of
the Roman empire.
Chapter VIII: State Of Persia And Restoration Of The
Monarchy.—Part I.
Of The State Of Persia After The Restoration Of The Monarchy By
Artaxerxes.
Whenever Tacitus indulges himself in those beautiful episodes, in
which he relates some domestic transaction of the Germans or of
the Parthians, his principal object is to relieve the attention
of the reader from a uniform scene of vice and misery. From the
reign of Augustus to the time of Alexander Severus, the enemies
of Rome were in her bosom—the tyrants and the soldiers; and her
prosperity had a very distant and feeble interest in the
revolutions that might happen beyond the Rhine and the Euphrates.
But when the military order had levelled, in wild anarchy, the
power of the prince, the laws of the senate, and even the
discipline of the camp, the barbarians of the North and of the
East, who had long hovered on the frontier, boldly attacked the
provinces of a declining monarchy. Their vexatious inroads were
changed into formidable irruptions, and, after a long vicissitude
of mutual calamities, many tribes of the victorious invaders
established themselves in the provinces of the Roman Empire. To
obtain a clearer knowledge of these great events, we shall
endeavor to form a previous idea of the character, forces, and
designs of those nations who avenged the cause of Hannibal and
Mithridates.
In the more early ages of the world, whilst the forest that
covered Europe afforded a retreat to a few wandering savages, the
inhabitants of Asia were already collected into populous cities,
and reduced under extensive empires the seat of the arts, of
luxury, and of despotism. The Assyrians reigned over the East,
till the sceptre of Ninus and Semiramis dropped from the hands of
their enervated successors. The Medes and the Babylonians divided
their power, and were themselves swallowed up in the monarchy of
the Persians, whose arms could not be confined within the narrow
limits of Asia. Followed, as it is said, by two millions of men,
Xerxes, the descendant of Cyrus, invaded Greece. Thirty thousand
soldiers, under the command of Alexander, the son of Philip, who
was intrusted by the Greeks with their glory and revenge, were
sufficient to subdue Persia. The princes of the house of Seleucus
usurped and lost the Macedonian command over the East. About the
same time, that, by an ignominious treaty, they resigned to the
Romans the country on this side Mount Tarus, they were driven by
the Parthians, * an obscure horde of Scythian origin, from all
the provinces of Upper Asia. The formidable power of the
Parthians, which spread from India to the frontiers of Syria, was
in its turn subverted by Ardshir, or Artaxerxes; the founder of a
new dynasty, which, under the name of Sassanides, governed Persia
till the invasion of the Arabs. This great revolution, whose
fatal influence was soon experienced by the Romans, happened in
the fourth year of Alexander Severus, two hundred and twenty-six
years after the Christian era.
Artaxerxes had served with great reputation in the armies of
Artaban, the last king of the Parthians, and it appears that he
was driven into exile and rebellion by royal ingratitude, the
customary reward for superior merit. His birth was obscure, and
the obscurity equally gave room to the aspersions of his enemies,
and the flattery of his adherents. If we credit the scandal of
the former, Artaxerxes sprang from the illegitimate commerce of a
tanner’s wife with a common soldier. The latter represent him as
descended from a branch of the ancient kings of Persia, though
time and misfortune had gradually reduced his ancestors to the
humble station of private citizens. As the lineal heir of the
monarchy, he asserted his right to the throne, and challenged the
noble task of delivering the Persians from the oppression under
which they groaned above five centuries since the death of
Darius. The Parthians were defeated in three great battles. * In
the last of these their king Artaban was slain, and the spirit of
the nation was forever broken. The authority of Artaxerxes was
solemnly acknowledged in a great assembly held at Balch in
Khorasan. Two younger branches of the royal house of Arsaces were
confounded among the prostrate satraps. A third, more mindful of
ancient grandeur than of present necessity, attempted to retire,
with a numerous train of vessels, towards their kinsman, the king
of Armenia; but this little army of deserters was intercepted,
and cut off, by the vigilance of the conqueror, who boldly
assumed the double diadem, and the title of King of Kings, which
had been enjoyed by his predecessor. But these pompous titles,
instead of gratifying the vanity of the Persian, served only to
admonish him of his duty, and to inflame in his soul the ambition
of restoring in their full splendor, the religion and empire of
Cyrus.
I. During the long servitude of Persia under the Macedonian and
the Parthian yoke, the nations of Europe and Asia had mutually
adopted and corrupted each other’s superstitions. The Arsacides,
indeed, practised the worship of the Magi; but they disgraced and
polluted it with a various mixture of foreign idolatry. * The
memory of Zoroaster, the ancient prophet and philosopher of the
Persians, was still revered in the East; but the obsolete and
mysterious language, in which the Zendavesta was composed, opened
a field of dispute to seventy sects, who variously explained the
fundamental doctrines of their religion, and were all
indifferently derided by a crowd of infidels, who rejected the
divine mission and miracles of the prophet. To suppress the
idolaters, reunite the schismatics, and confute the unbelievers,
by the infallible decision of a general council, the pious
Artaxerxes summoned the Magi from all parts of his dominions.
These priests, who had so long sighed in contempt and obscurity
obeyed the welcome summons; and, on the appointed day, appeared,
to the number of about eighty thousand. But as the debates of so
tumultuous an assembly could not have been directed by the
authority of reason, or influenced by the art of policy, the
Persian synod was reduced, by successive operations, to forty
thousand, to four thousand, to four hundred, to forty, and at
last to seven Magi, the most respected for their learning and
piety. One of these, Erdaviraph, a young but holy prelate,
received from the hands of his brethren three cups of
soporiferous wine. He drank them off, and instantly fell into a
long and profound sleep. As soon as he waked, he related to the
king and to the believing multitude, his journey to heaven, and
his intimate conferences with the Deity. Every doubt was silenced
by this supernatural evidence; and the articles of the faith of
Zoroaster were fixed with equal authority and precision. A short
delineation of that celebrated system will be found useful, not
only to display the character of the Persian nation, but to
illustrate many of their most important transactions, both in
peace and war, with the Roman empire.
The great and fundamental article of the system was the
celebrated doctrine of the two principles; a bold and injudicious
attempt of Eastern philosophy to reconcile the existence of moral
and physical evil with the attributes of a beneficent Creator and
Governor of the world. The first and original Being, in whom, or
by whom, the universe exists, is denominated in the writings of
Zoroaster, _Time without bounds_; but it must be confessed, that
this infinite substance seems rather a metaphysical abstraction
of the mind than a real object endowed with self-consciousness,
or possessed of moral perfections. From either the blind or the
intelligent operation of this infinite Time, which bears but too
near an affinity with the chaos of the Greeks, the two secondary
but active principles of the universe were from all eternity
produced, Ormusd and Ahriman, each of them possessed of the
powers of creation, but each disposed, by his invariable nature,
to exercise them with different designs. * The principle of good
is eternally absorbed in light; the principle of evil eternally
buried in darkness. The wise benevolence of Ormusd formed man
capable of virtue, and abundantly provided his fair habitation
with the materials of happiness. By his vigilant providence, the
motion of the planets, the order of the seasons, and the
temperate mixture of the elements, are preserved. But the malice
of Ahriman has long since pierced _Ormusd’s egg_; or, in other
words, has violated the harmony of his works. Since that fatal
eruption, the most minute articles of good and evil are
intimately intermingled and agitated together; the rankest
poisons spring up amidst the most salutary plants; deluges,
earthquakes, and conflagrations attest the conflict of Nature,
and the little world of man is perpetually shaken by vice and
misfortune. Whilst the rest of human kind are led away captives
in the chains of their infernal enemy, the faithful Persian alone
reserves his religious adoration for his friend and protector
Ormusd, and fights under his banner of light, in the full
confidence that he shall, in the last day, share the glory of his
triumph. At that decisive period, the enlightened wisdom of
goodness will render the power of Ormusd superior to the furious
malice of his rival. Ahriman and his followers, disarmed and
subdued, will sink into their native darkness; and virtue will
maintain the eternal peace and harmony of the universe.
Chapter VIII: State Of Persia And Restoration Of The
Monarchy.—Part II.
The theology of Zoroaster was darkly comprehended by foreigners,
and even by the far greater number of his disciples; but the most
careless observers were struck with the philosophic simplicity of
the Persian worship. “That people,” said Herodotus, “rejects the
use of temples, of altars, and of statues, and smiles at the
folly of those nations who imagine that the gods are sprung from,
or bear any affinity with, the human nature. The tops of the
highest mountains are the places chosen for sacrifices. Hymns and
prayers are the principal worship; the Supreme God, who fills the
wide circle of heaven, is the object to whom they are addressed.”
Yet, at the same time, in the true spirit of a polytheist, he
accuseth them of adoring Earth, Water, Fire, the Winds, and the
Sun and Moon. But the Persians of every age have denied the
charge, and explained the equivocal conduct, which might appear
to give a color to it. The elements, and more particularly Fire,
Light, and the Sun, whom they called Mithra, were the objects of
their religious reverence because they considered them as the
purest symbols, the noblest productions, and the most powerful
agents of the Divine Power and Nature.
Every mode of religion, to make a deep and lasting impression on
the human mind, must exercise our obedience, by enjoining
practices of devotion, for which we can assign no reason; and
must acquire our esteem, by inculcating moral duties analogous to
the dictates of our own hearts. The religion of Zoroaster was
abundantly provided with the former and possessed a sufficient
portion of the latter. At the age of puberty, the faithful
Persian was invested with a mysterious girdle, the badge of the
divine protection; and from that moment all the actions of his
life, even the most indifferent, or the most necessary, were
sanctified by their peculiar prayers, ejaculations, or
genuflections; the omission of which, under any circumstances,
was a grievous sin, not inferior in guilt to the violation of the
moral duties. The moral duties, however, of justice, mercy,
liberality, &c., were in their turn required of the disciple of
Zoroaster, who wished to escape the persecution of Ahriman, and
to live with Ormusd in a blissful eternity, where the degree of
felicity will be exactly proportioned to the degree of virtue and
piety.
But there are some remarkable instances in which Zoroaster lays
aside the prophet, assumes the legislator, and discovers a
liberal concern for private and public happiness, seldom to be
found among the grovelling or visionary schemes of superstition.
Fasting and celibacy, the common means of purchasing the divine
favor, he condemns with abhorrence as a criminal rejection of the
best gifts of Providence. The saint, in the Magian religion, is
obliged to beget children, to plant useful trees, to destroy
noxious animals, to convey water to the dry lands of Persia, and
to work out his salvation by pursuing all the labors of
agriculture. * We may quote from the Zendavesta a wise and
benevolent maxim, which compensates for many an absurdity. “He
who sows the ground with care and diligence acquires a greater
stock of religious merit than he could gain by the repetition of
ten thousand prayers.” In the spring of every year a festival was
celebrated, destined to represent the primitive equality, and the
present connection, of mankind. The stately kings of Persia,
exchanging their vain pomp for more genuine greatness, freely
mingled with the humblest but most useful of their subjects. On
that day the husbandmen were admitted, without distinction, to
the table of the king and his satraps. The monarch accepted their
petitions, inquired into their grievances, and conversed with
them on the most equal terms. “From your labors,” was he
accustomed to say, (and to say with truth, if not with
sincerity,) “from your labors we receive our subsistence; you
derive your tranquillity from our vigilance: since, therefore, we
are mutually necessary to each other, let us live together like
brothers in concord and love.” Such a festival must indeed have
degenerated, in a wealthy and despotic empire, into a theatrical
representation; but it was at least a comedy well worthy of a
royal audience, and which might sometimes imprint a salutary
lesson on the mind of a young prince.
Had Zoroaster, in all his institutions, invariably supported this
exalted character, his name would deserve a place with those of
Numa and Confucius, and his system would be justly entitled to
all the applause, which it has pleased some of our divines, and
even some of our philosophers, to bestow on it. But in that
motley composition, dictated by reason and passion, by enthusiasm
and by selfish motives, some useful and sublime truths were
disgraced by a mixture of the most abject and dangerous
superstition. The Magi, or sacerdotal order, were extremely
numerous, since, as we have already seen, fourscore thousand of
them were convened in a general council. Their forces were
multiplied by discipline. A regular hierarchy was diffused
through all the provinces of Persia; and the Archimagus, who
resided at Balch, was respected as the visible head of the
church, and the lawful successor of Zoroaster. The property of
the Magi was very considerable. Besides the less invidious
possession of a large tract of the most fertile lands of Media,
they levied a general tax on the fortunes and the industry of the
Persians. “Though your good works,” says the interested prophet,
“exceed in number the leaves of the trees, the drops of rain, the
stars in the heaven, or the sands on the sea-shore, they will all
be unprofitable to you, unless they are accepted by the
_destour_, or priest. To obtain the acceptation of this guide to
salvation, you must faithfully pay him _tithes_ of all you
possess, of your goods, of your lands, and of your money. If the
destour be satisfied, your soul will escape hell tortures; you
will secure praise in this world and happiness in the next. For
the destours are the teachers of religion; they know all things,
and they deliver all men.” *
These convenient maxims of reverence and implicit faith were
doubtless imprinted with care on the tender minds of youth; since
the Magi were the masters of education in Persia, and to their
hands the children even of the royal family were intrusted. The
Persian priests, who were of a speculative genius, preserved and
investigated the secrets of Oriental philosophy; and acquired,
either by superior knowledge, or superior art, the reputation of
being well versed in some occult sciences, which have derived
their appellation from the Magi. Those of more active
dispositions mixed with the world in courts and cities; and it is
observed, that the administration of Artaxerxes was in a great
measure directed by the counsels of the sacerdotal order, whose
dignity, either from policy or devotion, that prince restored to
its ancient splendor.
The first counsel of the Magi was agreeable to the unsociable
genius of their faith, to the practice of ancient kings, and even
to the example of their legislator, who had fallen a victim to a
religious war, excited by his own intolerant zeal. By an edict of
Artaxerxes, the exercise of every worship, except that of
Zoroaster, was severely prohibited. The temples of the Parthians,
and the statues of their deified monarchs, were thrown down with
ignominy. The sword of Aristotle (such was the name given by the
Orientals to the polytheism and philosophy of the Greeks) was
easily broken; the flames of persecution soon reached the more
stubborn Jews and Christians; nor did they spare the heretics of
their own nation and religion. The majesty of Ormusd, who was
jealous of a rival, was seconded by the despotism of Artaxerxes,
who could not suffer a rebel; and the schismatics within his vast
empire were soon reduced to the inconsiderable number of eighty
thousand. * This spirit of persecution reflects dishonor on the
religion of Zoroaster; but as it was not productive of any civil
commotion, it served to strengthen the new monarchy, by uniting
all the various inhabitants of Persia in the bands of religious
zeal.
II. Artaxerxes, by his valor and conduct, had wrested the sceptre
of the East from the ancient royal family of Parthia. There still
remained the more difficult task of establishing, throughout the
vast extent of Persia, a uniform and vigorous administration. The
weak indulgence of the Arsacides had resigned to their sons and
brothers the principal provinces, and the greatest offices of the
kingdom in the nature of hereditary possessions. The _vitaxæ_, or
eighteen most powerful satraps, were permitted to assume the
regal title; and the vain pride of the monarch was delighted with
a nominal dominion over so many vassal kings. Even tribes of
barbarians in their mountains, and the Greek cities of Upper
Asia, within their walls, scarcely acknowledged, or seldom
obeyed, any superior; and the Parthian empire exhibited, under
other names, a lively image of the feudal system which has since
prevailed in Europe. But the active victor, at the head of a
numerous and disciplined army, visited in person every province
of Persia. The defeat of the boldest rebels, and the reduction of
the strongest fortifications, diffused the terror of his arms,
and prepared the way for the peaceful reception of his authority.
An obstinate resistance was fatal to the chiefs; but their
followers were treated with lenity. A cheerful submission was
rewarded with honors and riches, but the prudent Artaxerxes,
suffering no person except himself to assume the title of king,
abolished every intermediate power between the throne and the
people. His kingdom, nearly equal in extent to modern Persia,
was, on every side, bounded by the sea, or by great rivers; by
the Euphrates, the Tigris, the Araxes, the Oxus, and the Indus,
by the Caspian Sea, and the Gulf of Persia. That country was
computed to contain, in the last century, five hundred and
fifty-four cities, sixty thousand villages, and about forty
millions of souls. If we compare the administration of the house
of Sassan with that of the house of Sefi, the political influence
of the Magian with that of the Mahometan religion, we shall
probably infer, that the kingdom of Artaxerxes contained at least
as great a number of cities, villages, and inhabitants. But it
must likewise be confessed, that in every age the want of harbors
on the sea-coast, and the scarcity of fresh water in the inland
provinces, have been very unfavorable to the commerce and
agriculture of the Persians; who, in the calculation of their
numbers, seem to have indulged one of the meanest, though most
common, artifices of national vanity.
As soon as the ambitious mind of Artaxerxes had triumphed ever
the resistance of his vassals, he began to threaten the
neighboring states, who, during the long slumber of his
predecessors, had insulted Persia with impunity. He obtained some
easy victories over the wild Scythians and the effeminate
Indians; but the Romans were an enemy, who, by their past
injuries and present power, deserved the utmost efforts of his
arms. A forty years’ tranquillity, the fruit of valor and
moderation, had succeeded the victories of Trajan. During the
period that elapsed from the accession of Marcus to the reign of
Alexander, the Roman and the Parthian empires were twice engaged
in war; and although the whole strength of the Arsacides
contended with a part only of the forces of Rome, the event was
most commonly in favor of the latter. Macrinus, indeed, prompted
by his precarious situation and pusillanimous temper, purchased a
peace at the expense of near two millions of our money; but the
generals of Marcus, the emperor Severus, and his son, erected
many trophies in Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Assyria. Among their
exploits, the imperfect relation of which would have unseasonably
interrupted the more important series of domestic revolutions, we
shall only mention the repeated calamities of the two great
cities of Seleucia and Ctesiphon.
Seleucia, on the western bank of the Tigris, about forty-five
miles to the north of ancient Babylon, was the capital of the
Macedonian conquests in Upper Asia. Many ages after the fall of
their empire, Seleucia retained the genuine characters of a
Grecian colony, arts, military virtue, and the love of freedom.
The independent republic was governed by a senate of three
hundred nobles; the people consisted of six hundred thousand
citizens; the walls were strong, and as long as concord prevailed
among the several orders of the state, they viewed with contempt
the power of the Parthian: but the madness of faction was
sometimes provoked to implore the dangerous aid of the common
enemy, who was posted almost at the gates of the colony. The
Parthian monarchs, like the Mogul sovereigns of Hindostan,
delighted in the pastoral life of their Scythian ancestors; and
the Imperial camp was frequently pitched in the plain of
Ctesiphon, on the eastern bank of the Tigris, at the distance of
only three miles from Seleucia. The innumerable attendants on
luxury and despotism resorted to the court, and the little
village of Ctesiphon insensibly swelled into a great city. Under
the reign of Marcus, the Roman generals penetrated as far as
Ctesiphon and Seleucia. They were received as friends by the
Greek colony; they attacked as enemies the seat of the Parthian
kings; yet both cities experienced the same treatment. The sack
and conflagration of Seleucia, with the massacre of three hundred
thousand of the inhabitants, tarnished the glory of the Roman
triumph. Seleucia, already exhausted by the neighborhood of a too
powerful rival, sunk under the fatal blow; but Ctesiphon, in
about thirty-three years, had sufficiently recovered its strength
to maintain an obstinate siege against the emperor Severus. The
city was, however, taken by assault; the king, who defended it in
person, escaped with precipitation; a hundred thousand captives,
and a rich booty, rewarded the fatigues of the Roman soldiers.
Notwithstanding these misfortunes, Ctesiphon succeeded to Babylon
and to Seleucia, as one of the great capitals of the East. In
summer, the monarch of Persia enjoyed at Ecbatana the cool
breezes of the mountains of Media; but the mildness of the
climate engaged him to prefer Ctesiphon for his winter residence.
From these successful inroads the Romans derived no real or
lasting benefit; nor did they attempt to preserve such distant
conquests, separated from the provinces of the empire by a large
tract of intermediate desert. The reduction of the kingdom of
Osrhoene was an acquisition of less splendor indeed, but of a far
more solid advantage. That little state occupied the northern and
most fertile part of Mesopotamia, between the Euphrates and the
Tigris. Edessa, its capital, was situated about twenty miles
beyond the former of those rivers; and the inhabitants, since the
time of Alexander, were a mixed race of Greeks, Arabs, Syrians,
and Armenians. The feeble sovereigns of Osrhoene, placed on the
dangerous verge of two contending empires, were attached from
inclination to the Parthian cause; but the superior power of Rome
exacted from them a reluctant homage, which is still attested by
their medals. After the conclusion of the Parthian war under
Marcus, it was judged prudent to secure some substantial pledges
of their doubtful fidelity. Forts were constructed in several
parts of the country, and a Roman garrison was fixed in the
strong town of Nisibis. During the troubles that followed the
death of Commodus, the princes of Osrhoene attempted to shake off
the yoke; but the stern policy of Severus confirmed their
dependence, and the perfidy of Caracalla completed the easy
conquest. Abgarus, the last king of Edessa, was sent in chains to
Rome, his dominions reduced into a province, and his capital
dignified with the rank of colony; and thus the Romans, about ten
years before the fall of the Parthian monarchy, obtained a firm
and permanent establishment beyond the Euphrates.
Prudence as well as glory might have justified a war on the side
of Artaxerxes, had his views been confined to the defence or
acquisition of a useful frontier. but the ambitious Persian
openly avowed a far more extensive design of conquest; and he
thought himself able to support his lofty pretensions by the arms
of reason as well as by those of power. Cyrus, he alleged, had
first subdued, and his successors had for a long time possessed,
the whole extent of Asia, as far as the Propontis and the Ægean
Sea; the provinces of Caria and Ionia, under their empire, had
been governed by Persian satraps, and all Egypt, to the confines
of Æthiopia, had acknowledged their sovereignty. Their rights had
been suspended, but not destroyed, by a long usurpation; and as
soon as he received the Persian diadem, which birth and
successful valor had placed upon his head, the first great duty
of his station called upon him to restore the ancient limits and
splendor of the monarchy. The Great King, therefore, (such was
the haughty style of his embassies to the emperor Alexander,)
commanded the Romans instantly to depart from all the provinces
of his ancestors, and, yielding to the Persians the empire of
Asia, to content themselves with the undisturbed possession of
Europe. This haughty mandate was delivered by four hundred of the
tallest and most beautiful of the Persians; who, by their fine
horses, splendid arms, and rich apparel, displayed the pride and
greatness of their master. Such an embassy was much less an offer
of negotiation than a declaration of war. Both Alexander Severus
and Artaxerxes, collecting the military force of the Roman and
Persian monarchies, resolved in this important contest to lead
their armies in person.
If we credit what should seem the most authentic of all records,
an oration, still extant, and delivered by the emperor himself to
the senate, we must allow that the victory of Alexander Severus
was not inferior to any of those formerly obtained over the
Persians by the son of Philip. The army of the Great King
consisted of one hundred and twenty thousand horse, clothed in
complete armor of steel; of seven hundred elephants, with towers
filled with archers on their backs, and of eighteen hundred
chariots armed with scythes. This formidable host, the like of
which is not to be found in eastern history, and has scarcely
been imagined in eastern romance, was discomfited in a great
battle, in which the Roman Alexander proved himself an intrepid
soldier and a skilful general. The Great King fled before his
valor; an immense booty, and the conquest of Mesopotamia, were
the immediate fruits of this signal victory. Such are the
circumstances of this ostentatious and improbable relation,
dictated, as it too plainly appears, by the vanity of the
monarch, adorned by the unblushing servility of his flatterers,
and received without contradiction by a distant and obsequious
senate. Far from being inclined to believe that the arms of
Alexander obtained any memorable advantage over the Persians, we
are induced to suspect that all this blaze of imaginary glory was
designed to conceal some real disgrace.
Our suspicions are confirmed by the authority of a contemporary
historian, who mentions the virtues of Alexander with respect,
and his faults with candor. He describes the judicious plan which
had been formed for the conduct of the war. Three Roman armies
were destined to invade Persia at the same time, and by different
roads. But the operations of the campaign, though wisely
concerted, were not executed either with ability or success. The
first of these armies, as soon as it had entered the marshy
plains of Babylon, towards the artificial conflux of the
Euphrates and the Tigris, was encompassed by the superior
numbers, and destroyed by the arrows of the enemy. The alliance
of Chosroes, king of Armenia, and the long tract of mountainous
country, in which the Persian cavalry was of little service,
opened a secure entrance into the heart of Media, to the second
of the Roman armies. These brave troops laid waste the adjacent
provinces, and by several successful actions against Artaxerxes,
gave a faint color to the emperor’s vanity. But the retreat of
this victorious army was imprudent, or at least unfortunate. In
repassing the mountains, great numbers of soldiers perished by
the badness of the roads, and the severity of the winter season.
It had been resolved, that whilst these two great detachments
penetrated into the opposite extremes of the Persian dominions,
the main body, under the command of Alexander himself, should
support their attack, by invading the centre of the kingdom. But
the unexperienced youth, influenced by his mother’s counsels, and
perhaps by his own fears, deserted the bravest troops, and the
fairest prospect of victory; and after consuming in Mesopotamia
an inactive and inglorious summer, he led back to Antioch an army
diminished by sickness, and provoked by disappointment. The
behavior of Artaxerxes had been very different. Flying with
rapidity from the hills of Media to the marshes of the Euphrates,
he had everywhere opposed the invaders in person; and in either
fortune had united with the ablest conduct the most undaunted
resolution. But in several obstinate engagements against the
veteran legions of Rome, the Persian monarch had lost the flower
of his troops. Even his victories had weakened his power. The
favorable opportunities of the absence of Alexander, and of the
confusions that followed that emperor’s death, presented
themselves in vain to his ambition. Instead of expelling the
Romans, as he pretended, from the continent of Asia, he found
himself unable to wrest from their hands the little province of
Mesopotamia.
The reign of Artaxerxes, which, from the last defeat of the
Parthians, lasted only fourteen years, forms a memorable æra in
the history of the East, and even in that of Rome. His character
seems to have been marked by those bold and commanding features,
that generally distinguish the princes who conquer, from those
who inherit, an empire. Till the last period of the Persian
monarchy, his code of laws was respected as the groundwork of
their civil and religious policy. Several of his sayings are
preserved. One of them in particular discovers a deep insight
into the constitution of government. “The authority of the
prince,” said Artaxerxes, “must be defended by a military force;
that force can only be maintained by taxes; all taxes must, at
last, fall upon agriculture; and agriculture can never flourish
except under the protection of justice and moderation.”
Artaxerxes bequeathed his new empire, and his ambitious designs
against the Romans, to Sapor, a son not unworthy of his great
father; but those designs were too extensive for the power of
Persia, and served only to involve both nations in a long series
of destructive wars and reciprocal calamities.
The Persians, long since civilized and corrupted, were very far
from possessing the martial independence, and the intrepid
hardiness, both of mind and body, which have rendered the
northern barbarians masters of the world. The science of war,
that constituted the more rational force of Greece and Rome, as
it now does of Europe, never made any considerable progress in
the East. Those disciplined evolutions which harmonize and
animate a confused multitude, were unknown to the Persians. They
were equally unskilled in the arts of constructing, besieging, or
defending regular fortifications. They trusted more to their
numbers than to their courage; more to their courage than to
their discipline. The infantry was a half-armed, spiritless crowd
of peasants, levied in haste by the allurements of plunder, and
as easily dispersed by a victory as by a defeat. The monarch and
his nobles transported into the camp the pride and luxury of the
seraglio. Their military operations were impeded by a useless
train of women, eunuchs, horses, and camels; and in the midst of
a successful campaign, the Persian host was often separated or
destroyed by an unexpected famine.
But the nobles of Persia, in the bosom of luxury and despotism,
preserved a strong sense of personal gallantry and national
honor. From the age of seven years they were taught to speak
truth, to shoot with the bow, and to ride; and it was universally
confessed that in the two last of these arts they had made a more
than common proficiency. The most distinguished youth were
educated under the monarch’s eye, practised their exercises in
the gate of his palace, and were severely trained up to the
habits of temperance and obedience, in their long and laborious
parties of hunting. In every province, the satrap maintained a
like school of military virtue. The Persian nobles (so natural is
the idea of feudal tenures) received from the king’s bounty lands
and houses, on the condition of their service in war. They were
ready on the first summons to mount on horseback, with a martial
and splendid train of followers, and to join the numerous bodies
of guards, who were carefully selected from among the most robust
slaves, and the bravest adventurers of Asia. These armies, both
of light and of heavy cavalry, equally formidable by the
impetuosity of their charge and the rapidity of their motions,
threatened, as an impending cloud, the eastern provinces of the
declining empire of Rome.
Chapter IX: State Of Germany Until The Barbarians.—Part I.
The State Of Germany Till The Invasion Of The Barbarians In The Time Of
The Emperor Decius.
The government and religion of Persia have deserved some notice,
from their connection with the decline and fall of the Roman
empire. We shall occasionally mention the Scythian or Sarmatian
tribes, * which, with their arms and horses, their flocks and
herds, their wives and families, wandered over the immense plains
which spread themselves from the Caspian Sea to the Vistula, from
the confines of Persia to those of Germany. But the warlike
Germans, who first resisted, then invaded, and at length
overturned the Western monarchy of Rome, will occupy a much more
important place in this history, and possess a stronger, and, if
we may use the expression, a more domestic, claim to our
attention and regard. The most civilized nations of modern Europe
issued from the woods of Germany; and in the rude institutions of
those barbarians we may still distinguish the original principles
of our present laws and manners. In their primitive state of
simplicity and independence, the Germans were surveyed by the
discerning eye, and delineated by the masterly pencil, of
Tacitus, the first of historians who applied the science of
philosophy to the study of facts. The expressive conciseness of
his descriptions has served to exercise the diligence of
innumerable antiquarians, and to excite the genius and
penetration of the philosophic historians of our own times. The
subject, however various and important, has already been so
frequently, so ably, and so successfully discussed, that it is
now grown familiar to the reader, and difficult to the writer. We
shall therefore content ourselves with observing, and indeed with
repeating, some of the most important circumstances of climate,
of manners, and of institutions, which rendered the wild
barbarians of Germany such formidable enemies to the Roman power.
Ancient Germany, excluding from its independent limits the
province westward of the Rhine, which had submitted to the Roman
yoke, extended itself over a third part of Europe. Almost the
whole of modern Germany, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland,
Livonia, Prussia, and the greater part of Poland, were peopled by
the various tribes of one great nation, whose complexion,
manners, and language denoted a common origin, and preserved a
striking resemblance. On the west, ancient Germany was divided by
the Rhine from the Gallic, and on the south, by the Danube, from
the Illyrian, provinces of the empire. A ridge of hills, rising
from the Danube, and called the Carpathian Mountains, covered
Germany on the side of Dacia or Hungary. The eastern frontier was
faintly marked by the mutual fears of the Germans and the
Sarmatians, and was often confounded by the mixture of warring
and confederating tribes of the two nations. In the remote
darkness of the north, the ancients imperfectly descried a frozen
ocean that lay beyond the Baltic Sea, and beyond the Peninsula,
or islands of Scandinavia.
Some ingenious writers have suspected that Europe was much colder
formerly than it is at present; and the most ancient descriptions
of the climate of Germany tend exceedingly to confirm their
theory. The general complaints of intense frost and eternal
winter are perhaps little to be regarded, since we have no method
of reducing to the accurate standard of the thermometer, the
feelings, or the expressions, of an orator born in the happier
regions of Greece or Asia. But I shall select two remarkable
circumstances of a less equivocal nature. 1. The great rivers
which covered the Roman provinces, the Rhine and the Danube, were
frequently frozen over, and capable of supporting the most
enormous weights. The barbarians, who often chose that severe
season for their inroads, transported, without apprehension or
danger, their numerous armies, their cavalry, and their heavy
wagons, over a vast and solid bridge of ice. Modern ages have not
presented an instance of a like phenomenon. 2. The reindeer, that
useful animal, from whom the savage of the North derives the best
comforts of his dreary life, is of a constitution that supports,
and even requires, the most intense cold. He is found on the rock
of Spitzberg, within ten degrees of the Pole; he seems to delight
in the snows of Lapland and Siberia: but at present he cannot
subsist, much less multiply, in any country to the south of the
Baltic. In the time of Cæsar the reindeer, as well as the elk and
the wild bull, was a native of the Hercynian forest, which then
overshadowed a great part of Germany and Poland. The modern
improvements sufficiently explain the causes of the diminution of
the cold. These immense woods have been gradually cleared, which
intercepted from the earth the rays of the sun. The morasses have
been drained, and, in proportion as the soil has been cultivated,
the air has become more temperate. Canada, at this day, is an
exact picture of ancient Germany. Although situated in the same
parallel with the finest provinces of France and England, that
country experiences the most rigorous cold. The reindeer are very
numerous, the ground is covered with deep and lasting snow, and
the great river of St. Lawrence is regularly frozen, in a season
when the waters of the Seine and the Thames are usually free from
ice.
It is difficult to ascertain, and easy to exaggerate, the
influence of the climate of ancient Germany over the minds and
bodies of the natives. Many writers have supposed, and most have
allowed, though, as it should seem, without any adequate proof,
that the rigorous cold of the North was favorable to long life
and generative vigor, that the women were more fruitful, and the
human species more prolific, than in warmer or more temperate
climates. We may assert, with greater confidence, that the keen
air of Germany formed the large and masculine limbs of the
natives, who were, in general, of a more lofty stature than the
people of the South, gave them a kind of strength better adapted
to violent exertions than to patient labor, and inspired them
with constitutional bravery, which is the result of nerves and
spirits. The severity of a winter campaign, that chilled the
courage of the Roman troops, was scarcely felt by these hardy
children of the North, who, in their turn, were unable to resist
the summer heats, and dissolved away in languor and sickness
under the beams of an Italian sun.
Chapter IX: State Of Germany Until The Barbarians.—Part II.
There is not anywhere upon the globe a large tract of country,
which we have discovered destitute of inhabitants, or whose first
population can be fixed with any degree of historical certainty.
And yet, as the most philosophic minds can seldom refrain from
investigating the infancy of great nations, our curiosity
consumes itself in toilsome and disappointed efforts. When
Tacitus considered the purity of the German blood, and the
forbidding aspect of the country, he was disposed to pronounce
those barbarians _Indigenæ_, or natives of the soil. We may allow
with safety, and perhaps with truth, that ancient Germany was not
originally peopled by any foreign colonies already formed into a
political society; but that the name and nation received their
existence from the gradual union of some wandering savages of the
Hercynian woods. To assert those savages to have been the
spontaneous production of the earth which they inhabited would be
a rash inference, condemned by religion, and unwarranted by
reason.
Such rational doubt is but ill suited with the genius of popular
vanity. Among the nations who have adopted the Mosaic history of
the world, the ark of Noah has been of the same use, as was
formerly to the Greeks and Romans the siege of Troy. On a narrow
basis of acknowledged truth, an immense but rude superstructure
of fable has been erected; and the wild Irishman, as well as the
wild Tartar, could point out the individual son of Japhet, from
whose loins his ancestors were lineally descended. The last
century abounded with antiquarians of profound learning and easy
faith, who, by the dim light of legends and traditions, of
conjectures and etymologies, conducted the great grandchildren of
Noah from the Tower of Babel to the extremities of the globe. Of
these judicious critics, one of the most entertaining was Olaus
Rudbeck, professor in the university of Upsal. Whatever is
celebrated either in history or fable this zealous patriot
ascribes to his country. From Sweden (which formed so
considerable a part of ancient Germany) the Greeks themselves
derived their alphabetical characters, their astronomy, and their
religion. Of that delightful region (for such it appeared to the
eyes of a native) the Atlantis of Plato, the country of the
Hyperboreans, the gardens of the Hesperides, the Fortunate
Islands, and even the Elysian Fields, were all but faint and
imperfect transcripts. A clime so profusely favored by Nature
could not long remain desert after the flood. The learned Rudbeck
allows the family of Noah a few years to multiply from eight to
about twenty thousand persons. He then disperses them into small
colonies to replenish the earth, and to propagate the human
species. The German or Swedish detachment (which marched, if I am
not mistaken, under the command of Askenaz, the son of Gomer, the
son of Japhet) distinguished itself by a more than common
diligence in the prosecution of this great work. The northern
hive cast its swarms over the greatest part of Europe, Africa,
and Asia; and (to use the author’s metaphor) the blood circulated
from the extremities to the heart.
But all this well-labored system of German antiquities is
annihilated by a single fact, too well attested to admit of any
doubt, and of too decisive a nature to leave room for any reply.
The Germans, in the age of Tacitus, were unacquainted with the
use of letters; and the use of letters is the principal
circumstance that distinguishes a civilized people from a herd of
savages incapable of knowledge or reflection. Without that
artificial help, the human memory soon dissipates or corrupts the
ideas intrusted to her charge; and the nobler faculties of the
mind, no longer supplied with models or with materials, gradually
forget their powers; the judgment becomes feeble and lethargic,
the imagination languid or irregular. Fully to apprehend this
important truth, let us attempt, in an improved society, to
calculate the immense distance between the man of learning and
the _illiterate_ peasant. The former, by reading and reflection,
multiplies his own experience, and lives in distant ages and
remote countries; whilst the latter, rooted to a single spot, and
confined to a few years of existence, surpasses but very little
his fellow-laborer, the ox, in the exercise of his mental
faculties. The same, and even a greater, difference will be found
between nations than between individuals; and we may safely
pronounce, that without some species of writing, no people has
ever preserved the faithful annals of their history, ever made
any considerable progress in the abstract sciences, or ever
possessed, in any tolerable degree of perfection, the useful and
agreeable arts of life.
Of these arts, the ancient Germans were wretchedly destitute.
They passed their lives in a state of ignorance and poverty,
which it has pleased some declaimers to dignify with the
appellation of virtuous simplicity. * Modern Germany is said to
contain about two thousand three hundred walled towns. In a much
wider extent of country, the geographer Ptolemy could discover no
more than ninety places which he decorates with the name of
cities; though, according to our ideas, they would but ill
deserve that splendid title. We can only suppose them to have
been rude fortifications, constructed in the centre of the woods,
and designed to secure the women, children, and cattle, whilst
the warriors of the tribe marched out to repel a sudden invasion.
But Tacitus asserts, as a well-known fact, that the Germans, in
his time, had _no_ cities; and that they affected to despise the
works of Roman industry, as places of confinement rather than of
security. Their edifices were not even contiguous, or formed into
regular villas; each barbarian fixed his independent dwelling on
the spot to which a plain, a wood, or a stream of fresh water,
had induced him to give the preference. Neither stone, nor brick,
nor tiles, were employed in these slight habitations. They were
indeed no more than low huts, of a circular figure, built of
rough timber, thatched with straw, and pierced at the top to
leave a free passage for the smoke. In the most inclement winter,
the hardy German was satisfied with a scanty garment made of the
skin of some animal. The nations who dwelt towards the North
clothed themselves in furs; and the women manufactured for their
own use a coarse kind of linen. The game of various sorts, with
which the forests of Germany were plentifully stocked, supplied
its inhabitants with food and exercise. Their monstrous herds of
cattle, less remarkable indeed for their beauty than for their
utility, formed the principal object of their wealth. A small
quantity of corn was the only produce exacted from the earth; the
use of orchards or artificial meadows was unknown to the Germans;
nor can we expect any improvements in agriculture from a people,
whose prosperity every year experienced a general change by a new
division of the arable lands, and who, in that strange operation,
avoided disputes, by suffering a great part of their territory to
lie waste and without tillage.
Gold, silver, and iron, were extremely scarce in Germany. Its
barbarous inhabitants wanted both skill and patience to
investigate those rich veins of silver, which have so liberally
rewarded the attention of the princes of Brunswick and Saxony.
Sweden, which now supplies Europe with iron, was equally ignorant
of its own riches; and the appearance of the arms of the Germans
furnished a sufficient proof how little iron they were able to
bestow on what they must have deemed the noblest use of that
metal. The various transactions of peace and war had introduced
some Roman coins (chiefly silver) among the borderers of the
Rhine and Danube; but the more distant tribes were absolutely
unacquainted with the use of money, carried on their confined
traffic by the exchange of commodities, and prized their rude
earthen vessels as of equal value with the silver vases, the
presents of Rome to their princes and ambassadors. To a mind
capable of reflection, such leading facts convey more
instruction, than a tedious detail of subordinate circumstances.
The value of money has been settled by general consent to express
our wants and our property, as letters were invented to express
our ideas; and both these institutions, by giving a more active
energy to the powers and passions of human nature, have
contributed to multiply the objects they were designed to
represent. The use of gold and silver is in a great measure
factitious; but it would be impossible to enumerate the important
and various services which agriculture, and all the arts, have
received from iron, when tempered and fashioned by the operation
of fire and the dexterous hand of man. Money, in a word, is the
most universal incitement, iron the most powerful instrument, of
human industry; and it is very difficult to conceive by what
means a people, neither actuated by the one, nor seconded by the
other, could emerge from the grossest barbarism.
If we contemplate a savage nation in any part of the globe, a
supine indolence and a carelessness of futurity will be found to
constitute their general character. In a civilized state every
faculty of man is expanded and exercised; and the great chain of
mutual dependence connects and embraces the several members of
society. The most numerous portion of it is employed in constant
and useful labor. The select few, placed by fortune above that
necessity, can, however, fill up their time by the pursuits of
interest or glory, by the improvement of their estate or of their
understanding, by the duties, the pleasures, and even the follies
of social life. The Germans were not possessed of these varied
resources. The care of the house and family, the management of
the land and cattle, were delegated to the old and the infirm, to
women and slaves. The lazy warrior, destitute of every art that
might employ his leisure hours, consumed his days and nights in
the animal gratifications of sleep and food. And yet, by a
wonderful diversity of nature, (according to the remark of a
writer who had pierced into its darkest recesses,) the same
barbarians are by turns the most indolent and the most restless
of mankind. They delight in sloth, they detest tranquility. The
languid soul, oppressed with its own weight, anxiously required
some new and powerful sensation; and war and danger were the only
amusements adequate to its fierce temper. The sound that summoned
the German to arms was grateful to his ear. It roused him from
his uncomfortable lethargy, gave him an active pursuit, and, by
strong exercise of the body, and violent emotions of the mind,
restored him to a more lively sense of his existence. In the dull
intervals of peace, these barbarians were immoderately addicted
to deep gaming and excessive drinking; both of which, by
different means, the one by inflaming their passions, the other
by extinguishing their reason, alike relieved them from the pain
of thinking. They gloried in passing whole days and nights at
table; and the blood of friends and relations often stained their
numerous and drunken assemblies. Their debts of honor (for in
that light they have transmitted to us those of play) they
discharged with the most romantic fidelity. The desperate
gamester, who had staked his person and liberty on a last throw
of the dice, patiently submitted to the decision of fortune, and
suffered himself to be bound, chastised, and sold into remote
slavery, by his weaker but more lucky antagonist.
Strong beer, a liquor extracted with very little art from wheat
or barley, and _corrupted_ (as it is strongly expressed by
Tacitus) into a certain semblance of wine, was sufficient for the
gross purposes of German debauchery. But those who had tasted the
rich wines of Italy, and afterwards of Gaul, sighed for that more
delicious species of intoxication. They attempted not, however,
(as has since been executed with so much success,) to naturalize
the vine on the banks of the Rhine and Danube; nor did they
endeavor to procure by industry the materials of an advantageous
commerce. To solicit by labor what might be ravished by arms, was
esteemed unworthy of the German spirit. The intemperate thirst of
strong liquors often urged the barbarians to invade the provinces
on which art or nature had bestowed those much envied presents.
The Tuscan who betrayed his country to the Celtic nations,
attracted them into Italy by the prospect of the rich fruits and
delicious wines, the productions of a happier climate. And in the
same manner the German auxiliaries, invited into France during
the civil wars of the sixteenth century, were allured by the
promise of plenteous quarters in the provinces of Champaigne and
Burgundy. Drunkenness, the most illiberal, but not the most
dangerous of our _vices_, was sometimes capable, in a less
civilized state of mankind, of occasioning a battle, a war, or a
revolution.
The climate of ancient Germany has been modified, and the soil
fertilized, by the labor of ten centuries from the time of
Charlemagne. The same extent of ground which at present
maintains, in ease and plenty, a million of husbandmen and
artificers, was unable to supply a hundred thousand lazy warriors
with the simple necessaries of life. The Germans abandoned their
immense forests to the exercise of hunting, employed in pasturage
the most considerable part of their lands, bestowed on the small
remainder a rude and careless cultivation, and then accused the
scantiness and sterility of a country that refused to maintain
the multitude of its inhabitants. When the return of famine
severely admonished them of the importance of the arts, the
national distress was sometimes alleviated by the emigration of a
third, perhaps, or a fourth part of their youth. The possession
and the enjoyment of property are the pledges which bind a
civilized people to an improved country. But the Germans, who
carried with them what they most valued, their arms, their
cattle, and their women, cheerfully abandoned the vast silence of
their woods for the unbounded hopes of plunder and conquest. The
innumerable swarms that issued, or seemed to issue, from the
great storehouse of nations, were multiplied by the fears of the
vanquished, and by the credulity of succeeding ages. And from
facts thus exaggerated, an opinion was gradually established, and
has been supported by writers of distinguished reputation, that,
in the age of Cæsar and Tacitus, the inhabitants of the North
were far more numerous than they are in our days. A more serious
inquiry into the causes of population seems to have convinced
modern philosophers of the falsehood, and indeed the
impossibility, of the supposition. To the names of Mariana and of
Machiavel, we can oppose the equal names of Robertson and Hume.
A warlike nation like the Germans, without either cities,
letters, arts, or money, found some compensation for this savage
state in the enjoyment of liberty. Their poverty secured their
freedom, since our desires and our possessions are the strongest
fetters of despotism. “Among the Suiones (says Tacitus) riches
are held in honor. They are _therefore_ subject to an absolute
monarch, who, instead of intrusting his people with the free use
of arms, as is practised in the rest of Germany, commits them to
the safe custody, not of a citizen, or even of a freedman, but of
a slave. The neighbors of the Suiones, the Sitones, are sunk even
below servitude; they obey a woman.” In the mention of these
exceptions, the great historian sufficiently acknowledges the
general theory of government. We are only at a loss to conceive
by what means riches and despotism could penetrate into a remote
corner of the North, and extinguish the generous flame that
blazed with such fierceness on the frontier of the Roman
provinces, or how the ancestors of those Danes and Norwegians, so
distinguished in latter ages by their unconquered spirit, could
thus tamely resign the great character of German liberty. Some
tribes, however, on the coast of the Baltic, acknowledged the
authority of kings, though without relinquishing the rights of
men, but in the far greater part of Germany, the form of
government was a democracy, tempered, indeed, and controlled, not
so much by general and positive laws, as by the occasional
ascendant of birth or valor, of eloquence or superstition.
Civil governments, in their first institution, are voluntary
associations for mutual defence. To obtain the desired end, it is
absolutely necessary that each individual should conceive himself
obliged to submit his private opinions and actions to the
judgment of the greater number of his associates. The German
tribes were contented with this rude but liberal outline of
political society. As soon as a youth, born of free parents, had
attained the age of manhood, he was introduced into the general
council of his countrymen, solemnly invested with a shield and
spear, and adopted as an equal and worthy member of the military
commonwealth. The assembly of the warriors of the tribe was
convened at stated seasons, or on sudden emergencies. The trial
of public offences, the election of magistrates, and the great
business of peace and war, were determined by its independent
voice. Sometimes indeed, these important questions were
previously considered and prepared in a more select council of
the principal chieftains. The magistrates might deliberate and
persuade, the people only could resolve and execute; and the
resolutions of the Germans were for the most part hasty and
violent. Barbarians accustomed to place their freedom in
gratifying the present passion, and their courage in overlooking
all future consequences, turned away with indignant contempt from
the remonstrances of justice and policy, and it was the practice
to signify by a hollow murmur their dislike of such timid
counsels. But whenever a more popular orator proposed to
vindicate the meanest citizen from either foreign or domestic
injury, whenever he called upon his fellow-countrymen to assert
the national honor, or to pursue some enterprise full of danger
and glory, a loud clashing of shields and spears expressed the
eager applause of the assembly. For the Germans always met in
arms, and it was constantly to be dreaded, lest an irregular
multitude, inflamed with faction and strong liquors, should use
those arms to enforce, as well as to declare, their furious
resolves. We may recollect how often the diets of Poland have
been polluted with blood, and the more numerous party has been
compelled to yield to the more violent and seditious.
A general of the tribe was elected on occasions of danger; and,
if the danger was pressing and extensive, several tribes
concurred in the choice of the same general. The bravest warrior
was named to lead his countrymen into the field, by his example
rather than by his commands. But this power, however limited, was
still invidious. It expired with the war, and in time of peace
the German tribes acknowledged not any supreme chief. Princes
were, however, appointed, in the general assembly, to administer
justice, or rather to compose differences, in their respective
districts. In the choice of these magistrates, as much regard was
shown to birth as to merit. To each was assigned, by the public,
a guard, and a council of a hundred persons, and the first of the
princes appears to have enjoyed a preeminence of rank and honor
which sometimes tempted the Romans to compliment him with the
regal title.
The comparative view of the powers of the magistrates, in two
remarkable instances, is alone sufficient to represent the whole
system of German manners. The disposal of the landed property
within their district was absolutely vested in their hands, and
they distributed it every year according to a new division. At
the same time they were not authorized to punish with death, to
imprison, or even to strike a private citizen. A people thus
jealous of their persons, and careless of their possessions, must
have been totally destitute of industry and the arts, but
animated with a high sense of honor and independence.
Chapter IX: State Of Germany Until The Barbarians.—Part III.
The Germans respected only those duties which they imposed on
themselves. The most obscure soldier resisted with disdain the
authority of the magistrates. ”The noblest youths blushed not to
be numbered among the faithful companions of some renowned chief,
to whom they devoted their arms and service. A noble emulation
prevailed among the companions to obtain the first place in the
esteem of their chief; amongst the chiefs, to acquire the
greatest number of valiant companions. To be ever surrounded by a
band of select youths was the pride and strength of the chiefs,
their ornament in peace, their defence in war. The glory of such
distinguished heroes diffused itself beyond the narrow limits of
their own tribe. Presents and embassies solicited their
friendship, and the fame of their arms often insured victory to
the party which they espoused. In the hour of danger it was
shameful for the chief to be surpassed in valor by his
companions; shameful for the companions not to equal the valor of
their chief. To survive his fall in battle was indelible infamy.
To protect his person, and to adorn his glory with the trophies
of their own exploits, were the most sacred of their duties. The
chiefs combated for victory, the companions for the chief. The
noblest warriors, whenever their native country was sunk into the
laziness of peace, maintained their numerous bands in some
distant scene of action, to exercise their restless spirit, and
to acquire renown by voluntary dangers. Gifts worthy of
soldiers—the warlike steed, the bloody and ever victorious
lance—were the rewards which the companions claimed from the
liberality of their chief. The rude plenty of his hospitable
board was the only pay that _he_could bestow, or _they_ would
accept. War, rapine, and the free-will offerings of his friends,
supplied the materials of this munificence.” This institution,
however it might accidentally weaken the several republics,
invigorated the general character of the Germans, and even
ripened amongst them all the virtues of which barbarians are
susceptible; the faith and valor, the hospitality and the
courtesy, so conspicuous long afterwards in the ages of chivalry.
The honorable gifts, bestowed by the chief on his brave
companions, have been supposed, by an ingenious writer, to
contain the first rudiments of the fiefs, distributed after the
conquest of the Roman provinces, by the barbarian lords among
their vassals, with a similar duty of homage and military
service. These conditions are, however, very repugnant to the
maxims of the ancient Germans, who delighted in mutual presents,
but without either imposing, or accepting, the weight of
obligations.
“In the days of chivalry, or more properly of romance, all the
men were brave and all the women were chaste;” and
notwithstanding the latter of these virtues is acquired and
preserved with much more difficulty than the former, it is
ascribed, almost without exception, to the wives of the ancient
Germans. Polygamy was not in use, except among the princes, and
among them only for the sake of multiplying their alliances.
Divorces were prohibited by manners rather than by laws.
Adulteries were punished as rare and inexpiable crimes; nor was
seduction justified by example and fashion. We may easily
discover that Tacitus indulges an honest pleasure in the contrast
of barbarian virtue with the dissolute conduct of the Roman
ladies; yet there are some striking circumstances that give an
air of truth, or at least probability, to the conjugal faith and
chastity of the Germans.
Although the progress of civilization has undoubtedly contributed
to assuage the fiercer passions of human nature, it seems to have
been less favorable to the virtue of chastity, whose most
dangerous enemy is the softness of the mind. The refinements of
life corrupt while they polish the intercourse of the sexes. The
gross appetite of love becomes most dangerous when it is
elevated, or rather, indeed, disguised by sentimental passion.
The elegance of dress, of motion, and of manners, gives a lustre
to beauty, and inflames the senses through the imagination.
Luxurious entertainments, midnight dances, and licentious
spectacles, present at once temptation and opportunity to female
frailty. From such dangers the unpolished wives of the barbarians
were secured by poverty, solitude, and the painful cares of a
domestic life. The German huts, open, on every side, to the eye
of indiscretion or jealousy, were a better safeguard of conjugal
fidelity than the walls, the bolts, and the eunuchs of a Persian
harem. To this reason another may be added of a more honorable
nature. The Germans treated their women with esteem and
confidence, consulted them on every occasion of importance, and
fondly believed, that in their breasts resided a sanctity and
wisdom more than human. Some of the interpreters of fate, such as
Velleda, in the Batavian war, governed, in the name of the deity,
the fiercest nations of Germany. The rest of the sex, without
being adored as goddesses, were respected as the free and equal
companions of soldiers; associated even by the marriage ceremony
to a life of toil, of danger, and of glory. In their great
invasions, the camps of the barbarians were filled with a
multitude of women, who remained firm and undaunted amidst the
sound of arms, the various forms of destruction, and the
honorable wounds of their sons and husbands. Fainting armies of
Germans have, more than once, been driven back upon the enemy by
the generous despair of the women, who dreaded death much less
than servitude. If the day was irrecoverably lost, they well knew
how to deliver themselves and their children, with their own
hands, from an insulting victor. Heroines of such a cast may
claim our admiration; but they were most assuredly neither lovely
nor very susceptible of love. Whilst they affected to emulate the
stern virtues of _man_, they must have resigned that attractive
softness in which principally consist the charm and weakness of
_woman_. Conscious pride taught the German females to suppress
every tender emotion that stood in competition with honor, and
the first honor of the sex has ever been that of chastity. The
sentiments and conduct of these high-spirited matrons may, at
once, be considered as a cause, as an effect, and as a proof of
the general character of the nation. Female courage, however it
may be raised by fanaticism, or confirmed by habit, can be only a
faint and imperfect imitation of the manly valor that
distinguishes the age or country in which it may be found.
The religious system of the Germans (if the wild opinions of
savages can deserve that name) was dictated by their wants, their
fears, and their ignorance. They adored the great visible objects
and agents of nature, the Sun and the Moon, the Fire and the
Earth; together with those imaginary deities, who were supposed
to preside over the most important occupations of human life.
They were persuaded, that, by some ridiculous arts of divination,
they could discover the will of the superior beings, and that
human sacrifices were the most precious and acceptable offering
to their altars. Some applause has been hastily bestowed on the
sublime notion, entertained by that people, of the Deity, whom
they neither confined within the walls of the temple, nor
represented by any human figure; but when we recollect, that the
Germans were unskilled in architecture, and totally unacquainted
with the art of sculpture, we shall readily assign the true
reason of a scruple, which arose not so much from a superiority
of reason, as from a want of ingenuity. The only temples in
Germany were dark and ancient groves, consecrated by the
reverence of succeeding generations. Their secret gloom, the
imagined residence of an invisible power, by presenting no
distinct object of fear or worship, impressed the mind with a
still deeper sense of religious horror; and the priests, rude and
illiterate as they were, had been taught by experience the use of
every artifice that could preserve and fortify impressions so
well suited to their own interest.
The same ignorance, which renders barbarians incapable of
conceiving or embracing the useful restraints of laws, exposes
them naked and unarmed to the blind terrors of superstition. The
German priests, improving this favorable temper of their
countrymen, had assumed a jurisdiction even in temporal concerns,
which the magistrate could not venture to exercise; and the
haughty warrior patiently submitted to the lash of correction,
when it was inflicted, not by any human power, but by the
immediate order of the god of war. The defects of civil policy
were sometimes supplied by the interposition of ecclesiastical
authority. The latter was constantly exerted to maintain silence
and decency in the popular assemblies; and was sometimes extended
to a more enlarged concern for the national welfare. A solemn
procession was occasionally celebrated in the present countries
of Mecklenburgh and Pomerania. The unknown symbol of the _Earth_,
covered with a thick veil, was placed on a carriage drawn by
cows; and in this manner the goddess, whose common residence was
in the Isles of Rugen, visited several adjacent tribes of her
worshippers. During her progress the sound of war was hushed,
quarrels were suspended, arms laid aside, and the restless
Germans had an opportunity of tasting the blessings of peace and
harmony. The _truce of God_, so often and so ineffectually
proclaimed by the clergy of the eleventh century, was an obvious
imitation of this ancient custom.
But the influence of religion was far more powerful to inflame,
than to moderate, the fierce passions of the Germans. Interest
and fanaticism often prompted its ministers to sanctify the most
daring and the most unjust enterprises, by the approbation of
Heaven, and full assurances of success. The consecrated
standards, long revered in the groves of superstition, were
placed in the front of the battle; and the hostile army was
devoted with dire execrations to the gods of war and of thunder.
In the faith of soldiers (and such were the Germans) cowardice is
the most unpardonable of sins. A brave man was the worthy
favorite of their martial deities; the wretch who had lost his
shield was alike banished from the religious and civil assemblies
of his countrymen. Some tribes of the north seem to have embraced
the doctrine of transmigration, others imagined a gross paradise
of immortal drunkenness. All agreed that a life spent in arms,
and a glorious death in battle, were the best preparations for a
happy futurity, either in this or in another world.
The immortality so vainly promised by the priests, was, in some
degree, conferred by the bards. That singular order of men has
most deservedly attracted the notice of all who have attempted to
investigate the antiquities of the Celts, the Scandinavians, and
the Germans. Their genius and character, as well as the reverence
paid to that important office, have been sufficiently
illustrated. But we cannot so easily express, or even conceive,
the enthusiasm of arms and glory which they kindled in the breast
of their audience. Among a polished people a taste for poetry is
rather an amusement of the fancy than a passion of the soul. And
yet, when in calm retirement we peruse the combats described by
Homer or Tasso, we are insensibly seduced by the fiction, and
feel a momentary glow of martial ardor. But how faint, how cold
is the sensation which a peaceful mind can receive from solitary
study! It was in the hour of battle, or in the feast of victory,
that the bards celebrated the glory of the heroes of ancient
days, the ancestors of those warlike chieftains, who listened
with transport to their artless but animated strains. The view of
arms and of danger heightened the effect of the military song;
and the passions which it tended to excite, the desire of fame,
and the contempt of death, were the habitual sentiments of a
German mind. *
Such was the situation, and such were the manners of the ancient
Germans. Their climate, their want of learning, of arts, and of
laws, their notions of honor, of gallantry, and of religion,
their sense of freedom, impatience of peace, and thirst of
enterprise, all contributed to form a people of military heroes.
And yet we find, that during more than two hundred and fifty
years that elapsed from the defeat of Varus to the reign of
Decius, these formidable barbarians made few considerable
attempts, and not any material impression on the luxurious, and
enslaved provinces of the empire. Their progress was checked by
their want of arms and discipline, and their fury was diverted by
the intestine divisions of ancient Germany.
I. It has been observed, with ingenuity, and not without truth,
that the command of iron soon gives a nation the command of gold.
But the rude tribes of Germany, alike destitute of both those
valuable metals, were reduced slowly to acquire, by their
unassisted strength, the possession of the one as well as the
other. The face of a German army displayed their poverty of iron.
Swords, and the longer kind of lances, they could seldom use.
Their frame (as they called them in their own language) were long
spears headed with a sharp but narrow iron point, and which, as
occasion required, they either darted from a distance, or pushed
in close onset. With this spear, and with a shield, their cavalry
was contented. A multitude of darts, scattered with incredible
force, were an additional resource of the infantry. Their
military dress, when they wore any, was nothing more than a loose
mantle. A variety of colors was the only ornament of their wooden
or osier shields. Few of the chiefs were distinguished by
cuirasses, scarcely any by helmets. Though the horses of Germany
were neither beautiful, swift, nor practised in the skilful
evolutions of the Roman manege, several of the nations obtained
renown by their cavalry; but, in general, the principal strength
of the Germans consisted in their infantry, which was drawn up in
several deep columns, according to the distinction of tribes and
families. Impatient of fatigue and delay, these half-armed
warriors rushed to battle with dissonant shouts and disordered
ranks; and sometimes, by the effort of native valor, prevailed
over the constrained and more artificial bravery of the Roman
mercenaries. But as the barbarians poured forth their whole souls
on the first onset, they knew not how to rally or to retire. A
repulse was a sure defeat; and a defeat was most commonly total
destruction. When we recollect the complete armor of the Roman
soldiers, their discipline, exercises, evolutions, fortified
camps, and military engines, it appears a just matter of
surprise, how the naked and unassisted valor of the barbarians
could dare to encounter, in the field, the strength of the
legions, and the various troops of the auxiliaries, which
seconded their operations. The contest was too unequal, till the
introduction of luxury had enervated the vigor, and a spirit of
disobedience and sedition had relaxed the discipline, of the
Roman armies. The introduction of barbarian auxiliaries into
those armies, was a measure attended with very obvious dangers,
as it might gradually instruct the Germans in the arts of war and
of policy. Although they were admitted in small numbers and with
the strictest precaution, the example of Civilis was proper to
convince the Romans, that the danger was not imaginary, and that
their precautions were not always sufficient. During the civil
wars that followed the death of Nero, that artful and intrepid
Batavian, whom his enemies condescended to compare with Hannibal
and Sertorius, formed a great design of freedom and ambition.
Eight Batavian cohorts renowned in the wars of Britain and Italy,
repaired to his standard. He introduced an army of Germans into
Gaul, prevailed on the powerful cities of Treves and Langres to
embrace his cause, defeated the legions, destroyed their
fortified camps, and employed against the Romans the military
knowledge which he had acquired in their service. When at length,
after an obstinate struggle, he yielded to the power of the
empire, Civilis secured himself and his country by an honorable
treaty. The Batavians still continued to occupy the islands of
the Rhine, the allies, not the servants, of the Roman monarchy.
II. The strength of ancient Germany appears formidable, when we
consider the effects that might have been produced by its united
effort. The wide extent of country might very possibly contain a
million of warriors, as all who were of age to bear arms were of
a temper to use them. But this fierce multitude, incapable of
concerting or executing any plan of national greatness, was
agitated by various and often hostile intentions. Germany was
divided into more than forty independent states; and, even in
each state, the union of the several tribes was extremely loose
and precarious. The barbarians were easily provoked; they knew
not how to forgive an injury, much less an insult; their
resentments were bloody and implacable. The casual disputes that
so frequently happened in their tumultuous parties of hunting or
drinking were sufficient to inflame the minds of whole nations;
the private feuds of any considerable chieftains diffused itself
among their followers and allies. To chastise the insolent, or to
plunder the defenceless, were alike causes of war. The most
formidable states of Germany affected to encompass their
territories with a wide frontier of solitude and devastation. The
awful distance preserved by their neighbors attested the terror
of their arms, and in some measure defended them from the danger
of unexpected incursions.
“The Bructeri * (it is Tacitus who now speaks) were totally
exterminated by the neighboring tribes, provoked by their
insolence, allured by the hopes of spoil, and perhaps inspired by
the tutelar deities of the empire. Above sixty thousand
barbarians were destroyed; not by the Roman arms, but in our
sight, and for our entertainment. May the nations, enemies of
Rome, ever preserve this enmity to each other! We have now
attained the utmost verge of prosperity, and have nothing left to
demand of fortune, except the discord of the barbarians.”—These
sentiments, less worthy of the humanity than of the patriotism of
Tacitus, express the invariable maxims of the policy of his
countrymen. They deemed it a much safer expedient to divide than
to combat the barbarians, from whose defeat they could derive
neither honor nor advantage. The money and negotiations of Rome
insinuated themselves into the heart of Germany; and every art of
seduction was used with dignity, to conciliate those nations whom
their proximity to the Rhine or Danube might render the most
useful friends as well as the most troublesome enemies. Chiefs of
renown and power were flattered by the most trifling presents,
which they received either as marks of distinction, or as the
instruments of luxury. In civil dissensions the weaker faction
endeavored to strengthen its interest by entering into secret
connections with the governors of the frontier provinces. Every
quarrel among the Germans was fomented by the intrigues of Rome;
and every plan of union and public good was defeated by the
stronger bias of private jealousy and interest.
The general conspiracy which terrified the Romans under the reign
of Marcus Antoninus, comprehended almost all the nations of
Germany, and even Sarmatia, from the mouth of the Rhine to that
of the Danube. It is impossible for us to determine whether this
hasty confederation was formed by necessity, by reason, or by
passion; but we may rest assured, that the barbarians were
neither allured by the indolence, nor provoked by the ambition,
of the Roman monarch. This dangerous invasion required all the
firmness and vigilance of Marcus. He fixed generals of ability in
the several stations of attack, and assumed in person the conduct
of the most important province on the Upper Danube. After a long
and doubtful conflict, the spirit of the barbarians was subdued.
The Quadi and the Marcomanni, who had taken the lead in the war,
were the most severely punished in its catastrophe. They were
commanded to retire five miles from their own banks of the
Danube, and to deliver up the flower of the youth, who were
immediately sent into Britain, a remote island, where they might
be secure as hostages, and useful as soldiers. On the frequent
rebellions of the Quadi and Marcomanni, the irritated emperor
resolved to reduce their country into the form of a province. His
designs were disappointed by death. This formidable league,
however, the only one that appears in the two first centuries of
the Imperial history, was entirely dissipated, without leaving
any traces behind in Germany.
In the course of this introductory chapter, we have confined
ourselves to the general outlines of the manners of Germany,
without attempting to describe or to distinguish the various
tribes which filled that great country in the time of Cæsar, of
Tacitus, or of Ptolemy. As the ancient, or as new tribes
successively present themselves in the series of this history, we
shall concisely mention their origin, their situation, and their
particular character. Modern nations are fixed and permanent
societies, connected among themselves by laws and government,
bound to their native soil by art and agriculture. The German
tribes were voluntary and fluctuating associations of soldiers,
almost of savages. The same territory often changed its
inhabitants in the tide of conquest and emigration. The same
communities, uniting in a plan of defence or invasion, bestowed a
new title on their new confederacy. The dissolution of an ancient
confederacy restored to the independent tribes their peculiar but
long-forgotten appellation. A victorious state often communicated
its own name to a vanquished people. Sometimes crowds of
volunteers flocked from all parts to the standard of a favorite
leader; his camp became their country, and some circumstance of
the enterprise soon gave a common denomination to the mixed
multitude. The distinctions of the ferocious invaders were
perpetually varied by themselves, and confounded by the
astonished subjects of the Roman empire.
Wars, and the administration of public affairs, are the principal
subjects of history; but the number of persons interested in
these busy scenes is very different, according to the different
condition of mankind. In great monarchies, millions of obedient
subjects pursue their useful occupations in peace and obscurity.
The attention of the writer, as well as of the reader, is solely
confined to a court, a capital, a regular army, and the districts
which happen to be the occasional scene of military operations.
But a state of freedom and barbarism, the season of civil
commotions, or the situation of petty republics, raises almost
every member of the community into action, and consequently into
notice. The irregular divisions, and the restless motions, of the
people of Germany, dazzle our imagination, and seem to multiply
their numbers. The profuse enumeration of kings, of warriors, of
armies and nations, inclines us to forget that the same objects
are continually repeated under a variety of appellations, and
that the most splendid appellations have been frequently lavished
on the most inconsiderable objects.
Chapter X: Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian And
Gallienus.—Part I.
The Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian, And Gallienus.—The
General Irruption Of The Barbarians.—The Thirty Tyrants.
From the great secular games celebrated by Philip, to the death
of the emperor Gallienus, there elapsed twenty years of shame and
misfortune. During that calamitous period, every instant of time
was marked, every province of the Roman world was afflicted, by
barbarous invaders, and military tyrants, and the ruined empire
seemed to approach the last and fatal moment of its dissolution.
The confusion of the times, and the scarcity of authentic
memorials, oppose equal difficulties to the historian, who
attempts to preserve a clear and unbroken thread of narration.
Surrounded with imperfect fragments, always concise, often
obscure, and sometimes contradictory, he is reduced to collect,
to compare, and to conjecture: and though he ought never to place
his conjectures in the rank of facts, yet the knowledge of human
nature, and of the sure operation of its fierce and unrestrained
passions, might, on some occasions, supply the want of historical
materials.
There is not, for instance, any difficulty in conceiving, that
the successive murders of so many emperors had loosened all the
ties of allegiance between the prince and people; that all the
generals of Philip were disposed to imitate the example of their
master; and that the caprice of armies, long since habituated to
frequent and violent revolutions, might every day raise to the
throne the most obscure of their fellow-soldiers. History can
only add, that the rebellion against the emperor Philip broke out
in the summer of the year two hundred and forty-nine, among the
legions of Mæsia; and that a subaltern officer, named Marinus,
was the object of their seditious choice. Philip was alarmed. He
dreaded lest the treason of the Mæsian army should prove the
first spark of a general conflagration. Distracted with the
consciousness of his guilt and of his danger, he communicated the
intelligence to the senate. A gloomy silence prevailed, the
effect of fear, and perhaps of disaffection; till at length
Decius, one of the assembly, assuming a spirit worthy of his
noble extraction, ventured to discover more intrepidity than the
emperor seemed to possess. He treated the whole business with
contempt, as a hasty and inconsiderate tumult, and Philip’s rival
as a phantom of royalty, who in a very few days would be
destroyed by the same inconstancy that had created him. The
speedy completion of the prophecy inspired Philip with a just
esteem for so able a counsellor; and Decius appeared to him the
only person capable of restoring peace and discipline to an army
whose tumultuous spirit did not immediately subside after the
murder of Marinus. Decius, who long resisted his own nomination,
seems to have insinuated the danger of presenting a leader of
merit to the angry and apprehensive minds of the soldiers; and
his prediction was again confirmed by the event. The legions of
Mæsia forced their judge to become their accomplice. They left
him only the alternative of death or the purple. His subsequent
conduct, after that decisive measure, was unavoidable. He
conducted, or followed, his army to the confines of Italy,
whither Philip, collecting all his force to repel the formidable
competitor whom he had raised up, advanced to meet him. The
Imperial troops were superior in number; but the rebels formed an
army of veterans, commanded by an able and experienced leader.
Philip was either killed in the battle, or put to death a few
days afterwards at Verona. His son and associate in the empire
was massacred at Rome by the Prætorian guards; and the victorious
Decius, with more favorable circumstances than the ambition of
that age can usually plead, was universally acknowledged by the
senate and provinces. It is reported, that, immediately after his
reluctant acceptance of the title of Augustus, he had assured
Philip, by a private message, of his innocence and loyalty,
solemnly protesting, that, on his arrival on Italy, he would
resign the Imperial ornaments, and return to the condition of an
obedient subject. His professions might be sincere; but in the
situation where fortune had placed him, it was scarcely possible
that he could either forgive or be forgiven.
The emperor Decius had employed a few months in the works of
peace and the administration of justice, when he was summoned to
the banks of the Danube by the invasion of the Goths. This is the
first considerable occasion in which history mentions that great
people, who afterwards broke the Roman power, sacked the Capitol,
and reigned in Gaul, Spain, and Italy. So memorable was the part
which they acted in the subversion of the Western empire, that
the name of Goths is frequently but improperly used as a general
appellation of rude and warlike barbarism.
In the beginning of the sixth century, and after the conquest of
Italy, the Goths, in possession of present greatness, very
naturally indulged themselves in the prospect of past and of
future glory. They wished to preserve the memory of their
ancestors, and to transmit to posterity their own achievements.
The principal minister of the court of Ravenna, the learned
Cassiodorus, gratified the inclination of the conquerors in a
Gothic history, which consisted of twelve books, now reduced to
the imperfect abridgment of Jornandes. These writers passed with
the most artful conciseness over the misfortunes of the nation,
celebrated its successful valor, and adorned the triumph with
many Asiatic trophies, that more properly belonged to the people
of Scythia. On the faith of ancient songs, the uncertain, but the
only memorials of barbarians, they deduced the first origin of
the Goths from the vast island, or peninsula, of Scandinavia. *
That extreme country of the North was not unknown to the
conquerors of Italy: the ties of ancient consanguinity had been
strengthened by recent offices of friendship; and a Scandinavian
king had cheerfully abdicated his savage greatness, that he might
pass the remainder of his days in the peaceful and polished court
of Ravenna. Many vestiges, which cannot be ascribed to the arts
of popular vanity, attest the ancient residence of the Goths in
the countries beyond the Rhine. From the time of the geographer
Ptolemy, the southern part of Sweden seems to have continued in
the possession of the less enterprising remnant of the nation,
and a large territory is even at present divided into east and
west Gothland. During the middle ages, (from the ninth to the
twelfth century,) whilst Christianity was advancing with a slow
progress into the North, the Goths and the Swedes composed two
distinct and sometimes hostile members of the same monarchy. The
latter of these two names has prevailed without extinguishing the
former. The Swedes, who might well be satisfied with their own
fame in arms, have, in every age, claimed the kindred glory of
the Goths. In a moment of discontent against the court of Rome,
Charles the Twelfth insinuated, that his victorious troops were
not degenerated from their brave ancestors, who had already
subdued the mistress of the world.
Till the end of the eleventh century, a celebrated temple
subsisted at Upsal, the most considerable town of the Swedes and
Goths. It was enriched with the gold which the Scandinavians had
acquired in their piratical adventures, and sanctified by the
uncouth representations of the three principal deities, the god
of war, the goddess of generation, and the god of thunder. In the
general festival, that was solemnized every ninth year, nine
animals of every species (without excepting the human) were
sacrificed, and their bleeding bodies suspended in the sacred
grove adjacent to the temple. The only traces that now subsist of
this barbaric superstition are contained in the Edda, * a system
of mythology, compiled in Iceland about the thirteenth century,
and studied by the learned of Denmark and Sweden, as the most
valuable remains of their ancient traditions.
Notwithstanding the mysterious obscurity of the Edda, we can
easily distinguish two persons confounded under the name of Odin;
the god of war, and the great legislator of Scandinavia. The
latter, the Mahomet of the North, instituted a religion adapted
to the climate and to the people. Numerous tribes on either side
of the Baltic were subdued by the invincible valor of Odin, by
his persuasive eloquence, and by the fame which he acquired of a
most skilful magician. The faith that he had propagated, during a
long and prosperous life, he confirmed by a voluntary death.
Apprehensive of the ignominious approach of disease and
infirmity, he resolved to expire as became a warrior. In a solemn
assembly of the Swedes and Goths, he wounded himself in nine
mortal places, hastening away (as he asserted with his dying
voice) to prepare the feast of heroes in the palace of the God of
war.
The native and proper habitation of Odin is distinguished by the
appellation of As-gard. The happy resemblance of that name with
As-burg, or As-of, words of a similar signification, has given
rise to an historical system of so pleasing a contexture, that we
could almost wish to persuade ourselves of its truth. It is
supposed that Odin was the chief of a tribe of barbarians which
dwelt on the banks of the Lake Mæotis, till the fall of
Mithridates and the arms of Pompey menaced the North with
servitude. That Odin, yielding with indignant fury to a power he
was unable to resist, conducted his tribe from the frontiers of
the Asiatic Sarmatia into Sweden, with the great design of
forming, in that inaccessible retreat of freedom, a religion and
a people which, in some remote age, might be subservient to his
immortal revenge; when his invincible Goths, armed with martial
fanaticism, should issue in numerous swarms from the neighborhood
of the Polar circle, to chastise the oppressors of mankind.
If so many successive generations of Goths were capable of
preserving a faint tradition of their Scandinavian origin, we
must not expect, from such unlettered barbarians, any distinct
account of the time and circumstances of their emigration. To
cross the Baltic was an easy and natural attempt. The inhabitants
of Sweden were masters of a sufficient number of large vessels,
with oars, and the distance is little more than one hundred miles
from Carlscroon to the nearest ports of Pomerania and Prussia.
Here, at length, we land on firm and historic ground. At least as
early as the Christian æra, and as late as the age of the
Antonines, the Goths were established towards the mouth of the
Vistula, and in that fertile province where the commercial cities
of Thorn, Elbing, Köningsberg, and Dantzick, were long afterwards
founded. Westward of the Goths, the numerous tribes of the
Vandals were spread along the banks of the Oder, and the
sea-coast of Pomerania and Mecklenburgh. A striking resemblance
of manners, complexion, religion, and language, seemed to
indicate that the Vandals and the Goths were originally one great
people. The latter appear to have been subdivided into
Ostrogoths, Visigoths, and Gepidæ. The distinction among the
Vandals was more strongly marked by the independent names of
Heruli, Burgundians, Lombards, and a variety of other petty
states, many of which, in a future age, expanded themselves into
powerful monarchies.
In the age of the Antonines, the Goths were still seated in
Prussia. About the reign of Alexander Severus, the Roman province
of Dacia had already experienced their proximity by frequent and
destructive inroads. In this interval, therefore, of about
seventy years we must place the second migration of the Goths
from the Baltic to the Euxine; but the cause that produced it
lies concealed among the various motives which actuate the
conduct of unsettled barbarians. Either a pestilence or a famine,
a victory or a defeat, an oracle of the gods or the eloquence of
a daring leader, were sufficient to impel the Gothic arms on the
milder climates of the south. Besides the influence of a martial
religion, the numbers and spirit of the Goths were equal to the
most dangerous adventures. The use of round bucklers and short
swords rendered them formidable in a close engagement; the manly
obedience which they yielded to hereditary kings, gave uncommon
union and stability to their councils; and the renowned Amala,
the hero of that age, and the tenth ancestor of Theodoric, king
of Italy, enforced, by the ascendant of personal merit, the
prerogative of his birth, which he derived from the _Anses_, or
demigods of the Gothic nation.
The fame of a great enterprise excited the bravest warriors from
all the Vandalic states of Germany, many of whom are seen a few
years afterwards combating under the common standard of the
Goths. The first motions of the emigrants carried them to the
banks of the Prypec, a river universally conceived by the
ancients to be the southern branch of the Borysthenes. The
windings of that great stream through the plains of Poland and
Russia gave a direction to their line of march, and a constant
supply of fresh water and pasturage to their numerous herds of
cattle. They followed the unknown course of the river, confident
in their valor, and careless of whatever power might oppose their
progress. The Bastarnæ and the Venedi were the first who
presented themselves; and the flower of their youth, either from
choice or compulsion, increased the Gothic army. The Bastarnæ
dwelt on the northern side of the Carpathian Mountains: the
immense tract of land that separated the Bastarnæ from the
savages of Finland was possessed, or rather wasted, by the
Venedi; we have some reason to believe that the first of these
nations, which distinguished itself in the Macedonian war, and
was afterwards divided into the formidable tribes of the Peucini,
the Borani, the Carpi, &c., derived its origin from the Germans.
* With better authority, a Sarmatian extraction may be assigned
to the Venedi, who rendered themselves so famous in the middle
ages. But the confusion of blood and manners on that doubtful
frontier often perplexed the most accurate observers. As the
Goths advanced near the Euxine Sea, they encountered a purer race
of Sarmatians, the Jazyges, the Alani, and the Roxolani; and they
were probably the first Germans who saw the mouths of the
Borysthenes, and of the Tanais. If we inquire into the
characteristic marks of the people of Germany and of Sarmatia, we
shall discover that those two great portions of human kind were
principally distinguished by fixed huts or movable tents, by a
close dress or flowing garments, by the marriage of one or of
several wives, by a military force, consisting, for the most
part, either of infantry or cavalry; and above all, by the use of
the Teutonic, or of the Sclavonian language; the last of which
has been diffused by conquest, from the confines of Italy to the
neighborhood of Japan.
Chapter X: Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian And
Gallienus.—Part II.
The Goths were now in possession of the Ukraine, a country of
considerable extent and uncommon fertility, intersected with
navigable rivers, which, from either side, discharge themselves
into the Borysthenes; and interspersed with large and lofty
forests of oaks. The plenty of game and fish, the innumerable
bee-hives deposited in the hollow of old trees, and in the
cavities of rocks, and forming, even in that rude age, a valuable
branch of commerce, the size of the cattle, the temperature of
the air, the aptness of the soil for every species of grain, and
the luxuriancy of the vegetation, all displayed the liberality of
Nature, and tempted the industry of man. But the Goths withstood
all these temptations, and still adhered to a life of idleness,
of poverty, and of rapine.
The Scythian hordes, which, towards the east, bordered on the new
settlements of the Goths, presented nothing to their arms, except
the doubtful chance of an unprofitable victory. But the prospect
of the Roman territories was far more alluring; and the fields of
Dacia were covered with rich harvests, sown by the hands of an
industrious, and exposed to be gathered by those of a warlike,
people. It is probable that the conquests of Trajan, maintained
by his successors, less for any real advantage than for ideal
dignity, had contributed to weaken the empire on that side. The
new and unsettled province of Dacia was neither strong enough to
resist, nor rich enough to satiate, the rapaciousness of the
barbarians. As long as the remote banks of the Niester were
considered as the boundary of the Roman power, the fortifications
of the Lower Danube were more carelessly guarded, and the
inhabitants of Mæsia lived in supine security, fondly conceiving
themselves at an inaccessible distance from any barbarian
invaders. The irruptions of the Goths, under the reign of Philip,
fatally convinced them of their mistake. The king, or leader, of
that fierce nation, traversed with contempt the province of
Dacia, and passed both the Niester and the Danube without
encountering any opposition capable of retarding his progress.
The relaxed discipline of the Roman troops betrayed the most
important posts, where they were stationed, and the fear of
deserved punishment induced great numbers of them to enlist under
the Gothic standard. The various multitude of barbarians
appeared, at length, under the walls of Marcianopolis, a city
built by Trajan in honor of his sister, and at that time the
capital of the second Mæsia. The inhabitants consented to ransom
their lives and property by the payment of a large sum of money,
and the invaders retreated back into their deserts, animated,
rather than satisfied, with the first success of their arms
against an opulent but feeble country. Intelligence was soon
transmitted to the emperor Decius, that Cniva, king of the Goths,
had passed the Danube a second time, with more considerable
forces; that his numerous detachments scattered devastation over
the province of Mæsia, whilst the main body of the army,
consisting of seventy thousand Germans and Sarmatians, a force
equal to the most daring achievements, required the presence of
the Roman monarch, and the exertion of his military power.
Decius found the Goths engaged before Nicopolis, one of the many
monuments of Trajan’s victories. On his approach they raised the
siege, but with a design only of marching away to a conquest of
greater importance, the siege of Philippopolis, a city of Thrace,
founded by the father of Alexander, near the foot of Mount Hæmus.
Decius followed them through a difficult country, and by forced
marches; but when he imagined himself at a considerable distance
from the rear of the Goths, Cniva turned with rapid fury on his
pursuers. The camp of the Romans was surprised and pillaged, and,
for the first time, their emperor fled in disorder before a troop
of half-armed barbarians. After a long resistance, Philippopolis,
destitute of succor, was taken by storm. A hundred thousand
persons are reported to have been massacred in the sack of that
great city. Many prisoners of consequence became a valuable
accession to the spoil; and Priscus, a brother of the late
emperor Philip, blushed not to assume the purple, under the
protection of the barbarous enemies of Rome. The time, however,
consumed in that tedious siege, enabled Decius to revive the
courage, restore the discipline, and recruit the numbers of his
troops. He intercepted several parties of Carpi, and other
Germans, who were hastening to share the victory of their
countrymen, intrusted the passes of the mountains to officers of
approved valor and fidelity, repaired and strengthened the
fortifications of the Danube, and exerted his utmost vigilance to
oppose either the progress or the retreat of the Goths.
Encouraged by the return of fortune, he anxiously waited for an
opportunity to retrieve, by a great and decisive blow, his own
glory, and that of the Roman arms.
At the same time when Decius was struggling with the violence of
the tempest, his mind, calm and deliberate amidst the tumult of
war, investigated the more general causes that, since the age of
the Antonines, had so impetuously urged the decline of the Roman
greatness. He soon discovered that it was impossible to replace
that greatness on a permanent basis without restoring public
virtue, ancient principles and manners, and the oppressed majesty
of the laws. To execute this noble but arduous design, he first
resolved to revive the obsolete office of censor; an office
which, as long as it had subsisted in its pristine integrity, had
so much contributed to the perpetuity of the state, till it was
usurped and gradually neglected by the Cæsars. Conscious that the
favor of the sovereign may confer power, but that the esteem of
the people can alone bestow authority, he submitted the choice of
the censor to the unbiased voice of the senate. By their
unanimous votes, or rather acclamations, Valerian, who was
afterwards emperor, and who then served with distinction in the
army of Decius, was declared the most worthy of that exalted
honor. As soon as the decree of the senate was transmitted to the
emperor, he assembled a great council in his camp, and before the
investiture of the censor elect, he apprised him of the
difficulty and importance of his great office. “Happy Valerian,”
said the prince to his distinguished subject, “happy in the
general approbation of the senate and of the Roman republic!
Accept the censorship of mankind; and judge of our manners. You
will select those who deserve to continue members of the senate;
you will restore the equestrian order to its ancient splendor;
you will improve the revenue, yet moderate the public burdens.
You will distinguish into regular classes the various and
infinite multitude of citizens, and accurately view the military
strength, the wealth, the virtue, and the resources of Rome. Your
decisions shall obtain the force of laws. The army, the palace,
the ministers of justice, and the great officers of the empire,
are all subject to your tribunal. None are exempted, excepting
only the ordinary consuls, the præfect of the city, the king of
the sacrifices, and (as long as she preserves her chastity
inviolate) the eldest of the vestal virgins. Even these few, who
may not dread the severity, will anxiously solicit the esteem, of
the Roman censor.”
A magistrate, invested with such extensive powers, would have
appeared not so much the minister, as the colleague of his
sovereign. Valerian justly dreaded an elevation so full of envy
and of suspicion. He modestly argued the alarming greatness of
the trust, his own insufficiency, and the incurable corruption of
the times. He artfully insinuated, that the office of censor was
inseparable from the Imperial dignity, and that the feeble hands
of a subject were unequal to the support of such an immense
weight of cares and of power. The approaching event of war soon
put an end to the prosecution of a project so specious, but so
impracticable; and whilst it preserved Valerian from the danger,
saved the emperor Decius from the disappointment, which would
most probably have attended it. A censor may maintain, he can
never restore, the morals of a state. It is impossible for such a
magistrate to exert his authority with benefit, or even with
effect, unless he is supported by a quick sense of honor and
virtue in the minds of the people, by a decent reverence for the
public opinion, and by a train of useful prejudices combating on
the side of national manners. In a period when these principles
are annihilated, the censorial jurisdiction must either sink into
empty pageantry, or be converted into a partial instrument of
vexatious oppression. It was easier to vanquish the Goths than to
eradicate the public vices; yet even in the first of these
enterprises, Decius lost his army and his life.
The Goths were now, on every side, surrounded and pursued by the
Roman arms. The flower of their troops had perished in the long
siege of Philippopolis, and the exhausted country could no longer
afford subsistence for the remaining multitude of licentious
barbarians. Reduced to this extremity, the Goths would gladly
have purchased, by the surrender of all their booty and
prisoners, the permission of an undisturbed retreat. But the
emperor, confident of victory, and resolving, by the chastisement
of these invaders, to strike a salutary terror into the nations
of the North, refused to listen to any terms of accommodation.
The high-spirited barbarians preferred death to slavery. An
obscure town of Mæsia, called Forum Terebronii, was the scene of
the battle. The Gothic army was drawn up in three lines, and
either from choice or accident, the front of the third line was
covered by a morass. In the beginning of the action, the son of
Decius, a youth of the fairest hopes, and already associated to
the honors of the purple, was slain by an arrow, in the sight of
his afflicted father; who, summoning all his fortitude,
admonished the dismayed troops, that the loss of a single soldier
was of little importance to the republic. The conflict was
terrible; it was the combat of despair against grief and rage.
The first line of the Goths at length gave way in disorder; the
second, advancing to sustain it, shared its fate; and the third
only remained entire, prepared to dispute the passage of the
morass, which was imprudently attempted by the presumption of the
enemy. “Here the fortune of the day turned, and all things became
adverse to the Romans; the place deep with ooze, sinking under
those who stood, slippery to such as advanced; their armor heavy,
the waters deep; nor could they wield, in that uneasy situation,
their weighty javelins. The barbarians, on the contrary, were
inured to encounter in the bogs, their persons tall, their spears
long, such as could wound at a distance.” In this morass the
Roman army, after an ineffectual struggle, was irrecoverably
lost; nor could the body of the emperor ever be found. Such was
the fate of Decius, in the fiftieth year of his age; an
accomplished prince, active in war and affable in peace; who,
together with his son, has deserved to be compared, both in life
and death, with the brightest examples of ancient virtue.
This fatal blow humbled, for a very little time, the insolence of
the legions. They appeared to have patiently expected, and
submissively obeyed, the decree of the senate which regulated the
succession to the throne. From a just regard for the memory of
Decius, the Imperial title was conferred on Hostilianus, his only
surviving son; but an equal rank, with more effectual power, was
granted to Gallus, whose experience and ability seemed equal to
the great trust of guardian to the young prince and the
distressed empire. The first care of the new emperor was to
deliver the Illyrian provinces from the intolerable weight of the
victorious Goths. He consented to leave in their hands the rich
fruits of their invasion, an immense booty, and what was still
more disgraceful, a great number of prisoners of the highest
merit and quality. He plentifully supplied their camp with every
conveniency that could assuage their angry spirits or facilitate
their so much wished-for departure; and he even promised to pay
them annually a large sum of gold, on condition they should never
afterwards infest the Roman territories by their incursions.
In the age of the Scipios, the most opulent kings of the earth,
who courted the protection of the victorious commonwealth, were
gratified with such trifling presents as could only derive a
value from the hand that bestowed them; an ivory chair, a coarse
garment of purple, an inconsiderable piece of plate, or a
quantity of copper coin. After the wealth of nations had centred
in Rome, the emperors displayed their greatness, and even their
policy, by the regular exercise of a steady and moderate
liberality towards the allies of the state. They relieved the
poverty of the barbarians, honored their merit, and recompensed
their fidelity. These voluntary marks of bounty were understood
to flow, not from the fears, but merely from the generosity or
the gratitude of the Romans; and whilst presents and subsidies
were liberally distributed among friends and suppliants, they
were sternly refused to such as claimed them as a debt. But this
stipulation, of an annual payment to a victorious enemy, appeared
without disguise in the light of an ignominious tribute; the
minds of the Romans were not yet accustomed to accept such
unequal laws from a tribe of barbarians; and the prince, who by a
necessary concession had probably saved his country, became the
object of the general contempt and aversion. The death of
Hostilianus, though it happened in the midst of a raging
pestilence, was interpreted as the personal crime of Gallus; and
even the defeat of the later emperor was ascribed by the voice of
suspicion to the perfidious counsels of his hated successor. The
tranquillity which the empire enjoyed during the first year of
his administration, served rather to inflame than to appease the
public discontent; and as soon as the apprehensions of war were
removed, the infamy of the peace was more deeply and more
sensibly felt.
But the Romans were irritated to a still higher degree, when they
discovered that they had not even secured their repose, though at
the expense of their honor. The dangerous secret of the wealth
and weakness of the empire had been revealed to the world. New
swarms of barbarians, encouraged by the success, and not
conceiving themselves bound by the obligation of their brethren,
spread devastation through the Illyrian provinces, and terror as
far as the gates of Rome. The defence of the monarchy, which
seemed abandoned by the pusillanimous emperor, was assumed by
Æmilianus, governor of Pannonia and Mæsia; who rallied the
scattered forces, and revived the fainting spirits of the troops.
The barbarians were unexpectedly attacked, routed, chased, and
pursued beyond the Danube. The victorious leader distributed as a
donative the money collected for the tribute, and the
acclamations of the soldiers proclaimed him emperor on the field
of battle. Gallus, who, careless of the general welfare, indulged
himself in the pleasures of Italy, was almost in the same instant
informed of the success, of the revolt, and of the rapid approach
of his aspiring lieutenant. He advanced to meet him as far as the
plains of Spoleto. When the armies came in sight of each other,
the soldiers of Gallus compared the ignominious conduct of their
sovereign with the glory of his rival. They admired the valor of
Æmilianus; they were attracted by his liberality, for he offered
a considerable increase of pay to all deserters. The murder of
Gallus, and of his son Volusianus, put an end to the civil war;
and the senate gave a legal sanction to the rights of conquest.
The letters of Æmilianus to that assembly displayed a mixture of
moderation and vanity. He assured them, that he should resign to
their wisdom the civil administration; and, contenting himself
with the quality of their general, would in a short time assert
the glory of Rome, and deliver the empire from all the barbarians
both of the North and of the East. His pride was flattered by the
applause of the senate; and medals are still extant, representing
him with the name and attributes of Hercules the Victor, and Mars
the Avenger.
If the new monarch possessed the abilities, he wanted the time,
necessary to fulfil these splendid promises. Less than four
months intervened between his victory and his fall. He had
vanquished Gallus: he sunk under the weight of a competitor more
formidable than Gallus. That unfortunate prince had sent
Valerian, already distinguished by the honorable title of censor,
to bring the legions of Gaul and Germany to his aid. Valerian
executed that commission with zeal and fidelity; and as he
arrived too late to save his sovereign, he resolved to revenge
him. The troops of Æmilianus, who still lay encamped in the
plains of Spoleto, were awed by the sanctity of his character,
but much more by the superior strength of his army; and as they
were now become as incapable of personal attachment as they had
always been of constitutional principle, they readily imbrued
their hands in the blood of a prince who so lately had been the
object of their partial choice. The guilt was theirs, * but the
advantage of it was Valerian’s; who obtained the possession of
the throne by the means indeed of a civil war, but with a degree
of innocence singular in that age of revolutions; since he owed
neither gratitude nor allegiance to his predecessor, whom he
dethroned.
Valerian was about sixty years of age when he was invested with
the purple, not by the caprice of the populace, or the clamors of
the army, but by the unanimous voice of the Roman world. In his
gradual ascent through the honors of the state, he had deserved
the favor of virtuous princes, and had declared himself the enemy
of tyrants. His noble birth, his mild but unblemished manners,
his learning, prudence, and experience, were revered by the
senate and people; and if mankind (according to the observation
of an ancient writer) had been left at liberty to choose a
master, their choice would most assuredly have fallen on
Valerian. Perhaps the merit of this emperor was inadequate to his
reputation; perhaps his abilities, or at least his spirit, were
affected by the languor and coldness of old age. The
consciousness of his decline engaged him to share the throne with
a younger and more active associate; the emergency of the times
demanded a general no less than a prince; and the experience of
the Roman censor might have directed him where to bestow the
Imperial purple, as the reward of military merit. But instead of
making a judicious choice, which would have confirmed his reign
and endeared his memory, Valerian, consulting only the dictates
of affection or vanity, immediately invested with the supreme
honors his son Gallienus, a youth whose effeminate vices had been
hitherto concealed by the obscurity of a private station. The
joint government of the father and the son subsisted about seven,
and the sole administration of Gallienus continued about eight,
years. But the whole period was one uninterrupted series of
confusion and calamity. As the Roman empire was at the same time,
and on every side, attacked by the blind fury of foreign
invaders, and the wild ambition of domestic usurpers, we shall
consult order and perspicuity, by pursuing, not so much the
doubtful arrangement of dates, as the more natural distribution
of subjects. The most dangerous enemies of Rome, during the
reigns of Valerian and Gallienus, were, 1. The Franks; 2. The
Alemanni; 3. The Goths; and, 4. The Persians. Under these general
appellations, we may comprehend the adventures of less
considerable tribes, whose obscure and uncouth names would only
serve to oppress the memory and perplex the attention of the
reader.
I. As the posterity of the Franks compose one of the greatest and
most enlightened nations of Europe, the powers of learning and
ingenuity have been exhausted in the discovery of their
unlettered ancestors. To the tales of credulity have succeeded
the systems of fancy. Every passage has been sifted, every spot
has been surveyed, that might possibly reveal some faint traces
of their origin. It has been supposed that Pannonia, that Gaul,
that the northern parts of Germany, gave birth to that celebrated
colony of warriors. At length the most rational critics,
rejecting the fictitious emigrations of ideal conquerors, have
acquiesced in a sentiment whose simplicity persuades us of its
truth. They suppose, that about the year two hundred and forty, a
new confederacy was formed under the name of Franks, by the old
inhabitants of the Lower Rhine and the Weser. * The present
circle of Westphalia, the Landgraviate of Hesse, and the duchies
of Brunswick and Luneburg, were the ancient seat of the Chauci,
who, in their inaccessible morasses, defied the Roman arms; of
the Cherusci, proud of the fame of Arminius; of the Catti,
formidable by their firm and intrepid infantry; and of several
other tribes of inferior power and renown. The love of liberty
was the ruling passion of these Germans; the enjoyment of it
their best treasure; the word that expressed that enjoyment the
most pleasing to their ear. They deserved, they assumed, they
maintained the honorable epithet of Franks, or Freemen; which
concealed, though it did not extinguish, the peculiar names of
the several states of the confederacy. Tacit consent, and mutual
advantage, dictated the first laws of the union; it was gradually
cemented by habit and experience. The league of the Franks may
admit of some comparison with the Helvetic body; in which every
canton, retaining its independent sovereignty, consults with its
brethren in the common cause, without acknowledging the authority
of any supreme head or representative assembly. But the principle
of the two confederacies was extremely different. A peace of two
hundred years has rewarded the wise and honest policy of the
Swiss. An inconstant spirit, the thirst of rapine, and a
disregard to the most solemn treaties, disgraced the character of
the Franks.
Chapter X: Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian And
Gallienus.—Part III.
The Romans had long experienced the daring valor of the people of
Lower Germany. The union of their strength threatened Gaul with a
more formidable invasion, and required the presence of Gallienus,
the heir and colleague of Imperial power. Whilst that prince, and
his infant son Salonius, displayed, in the court of Treves, the
majesty of the empire, its armies were ably conducted by their
general, Posthumus, who, though he afterwards betrayed the family
of Valerian, was ever faithful to the great interests of the
monarchy. The treacherous language of panegyrics and medals
darkly announces a long series of victories. Trophies and titles
attest (if such evidence can attest) the fame of Posthumus, who
is repeatedly styled the Conqueror of the Germans, and the Savior
of Gaul.
But a single fact, the only one indeed of which we have any
distinct knowledge, erases, in a great measure, these monuments
of vanity and adulation. The Rhine, though dignified with the
title of Safeguard of the provinces, was an imperfect barrier
against the daring spirit of enterprise with which the Franks
were actuated. Their rapid devastations stretched from the river
to the foot of the Pyrenees; nor were they stopped by those
mountains. Spain, which had never dreaded, was unable to resist,
the inroads of the Germans. During twelve years, the greatest
part of the reign of Gallienus, that opulent country was the
theatre of unequal and destructive hostilities. Tarragona, the
flourishing capital of a peaceful province, was sacked and almost
destroyed; and so late as the days of Orosius, who wrote in the
fifth century, wretched cottages, scattered amidst the ruins of
magnificent cities, still recorded the rage of the barbarians.
When the exhausted country no longer supplied a variety of
plunder, the Franks seized on some vessels in the ports of Spain,
and transported themselves into Mauritania. The distant province
was astonished with the fury of these barbarians, who seemed to
fall from a new world, as their name, manners, and complexion,
were equally unknown on the coast of Africa.
II. In that part of Upper Saxony, beyond the Elbe, which is at
present called the Marquisate of Lusace, there existed, in
ancient times, a sacred wood, the awful seat of the superstition
of the Suevi. None were permitted to enter the holy precincts,
without confessing, by their servile bonds and suppliant posture,
the immediate presence of the sovereign Deity. Patriotism
contributed, as well as devotion, to consecrate the Sonnenwald,
or wood of the Semnones. It was universally believed, that the
nation had received its first existence on that sacred spot. At
stated periods, the numerous tribes who gloried in the Suevic
blood, resorted thither by their ambassadors; and the memory of
their common extraction was perpetrated by barbaric rites and
human sacrifices. The wide-extended name of Suevi filled the
interior countries of Germany, from the banks of the Oder to
those of the Danube. They were distinguished from the other
Germans by their peculiar mode of dressing their long hair, which
they gathered into a rude knot on the crown of the head; and they
delighted in an ornament that showed their ranks more lofty and
terrible in the eyes of the enemy. Jealous as the Germans were of
military renown, they all confessed the superior valor of the
Suevi; and the tribes of the Usipetes and Tencteri, who, with a
vast army, encountered the dictator Cæsar, declared that they
esteemed it not a disgrace to have fled before a people to whose
arms the immortal gods themselves were unequal.
In the reign of the emperor Caracalla, an innumerable swarm of
Suevi appeared on the banks of the Main, and in the neighborhood
of the Roman provinces, in quest either of food, of plunder, or
of glory. The hasty army of volunteers gradually coalesced into a
great and permanent nation, and, as it was composed from so many
different tribes, assumed the name of Alemanni, * or _Allmen_, to
denote at once their various lineage and their common bravery.
The latter was soon felt by the Romans in many a hostile inroad.
The Alemanni fought chiefly on horseback; but their cavalry was
rendered still more formidable by a mixture of light infantry,
selected from the bravest and most active of the youth, whom
frequent exercise had inured to accompany the horsemen in the
longest march, the most rapid charge, or the most precipitate
retreat.
This warlike people of Germans had been astonished by the immense
preparations of Alexander Severus; they were dismayed by the arms
of his successor, a barbarian equal in valor and fierceness to
themselves. But still hovering on the frontiers of the empire,
they increased the general disorder that ensued after the death
of Decius. They inflicted severe wounds on the rich provinces of
Gaul; they were the first who removed the veil that covered the
feeble majesty of Italy. A numerous body of the Alemanni
penetrated across the Danube and through the Rhætian Alps into
the plains of Lombardy, advanced as far as Ravenna, and displayed
the victorious banners of barbarians almost in sight of Rome.
The insult and the danger rekindled in the senate some sparks of
their ancient virtue. Both the emperors were engaged in far
distant wars, Valerian in the East, and Gallienus on the Rhine.
All the hopes and resources of the Romans were in themselves. In
this emergency, the senators resumed the defence of the republic,
drew out the Prætorian guards, who had been left to garrison the
capital, and filled up their numbers, by enlisting into the
public service the stoutest and most willing of the Plebeians.
The Alemanni, astonished with the sudden appearance of an army
more numerous than their own, retired into Germany, laden with
spoil; and their retreat was esteemed as a victory by the
unwarlike Romans.
When Gallienus received the intelligence that his capital was
delivered from the barbarians, he was much less delighted than
alarmed with the courage of the senate, since it might one day
prompt them to rescue the public from domestic tyranny as well as
from foreign invasion. His timid ingratitude was published to his
subjects, in an edict which prohibited the senators from
exercising any military employment, and even from approaching the
camps of the legions. But his fears were groundless. The rich and
luxurious nobles, sinking into their natural character, accepted,
as a favor, this disgraceful exemption from military service; and
as long as they were indulged in the enjoyment of their baths,
their theatres, and their villas, they cheerfully resigned the
more dangerous cares of empire to the rough hands of peasants and
soldiers.
Another invasion of the Alemanni, of a more formidable aspect,
but more glorious event, is mentioned by a writer of the lower
empire. Three hundred thousand are said to have been vanquished,
in a battle near Milan, by Gallienus in person, at the head of
only ten thousand Romans. We may, however, with great
probability, ascribe this incredible victory either to the
credulity of the historian, or to some exaggerated exploits of
one of the emperor’s lieutenants. It was by arms of a very
different nature, that Gallienus endeavored to protect Italy from
the fury of the Germans. He espoused Pipa, the daughter of a king
of the Marcomanni, a Suevic tribe, which was often confounded
with the Alemanni in their wars and conquests. To the father, as
the price of his alliance, he granted an ample settlement in
Pannonia. The native charms of unpolished beauty seem to have
fixed the daughter in the affections of the inconstant emperor,
and the bands of policy were more firmly connected by those of
love. But the haughty prejudice of Rome still refused the name of
marriage to the profane mixture of a citizen and a barbarian; and
has stigmatized the German princess with the opprobrious title of
concubine of Gallienus.
III. We have already traced the emigration of the Goths from
Scandinavia, or at least from Prussia, to the mouth of the
Borysthenes, and have followed their victorious arms from the
Borysthenes to the Danube. Under the reigns of Valerian and
Gallienus, the frontier of the last-mentioned river was
perpetually infested by the inroads of Germans and Sarmatians;
but it was defended by the Romans with more than usual firmness
and success. The provinces that were the seat of war, recruited
the armies of Rome with an inexhaustible supply of hardy
soldiers; and more than one of these Illyrian peasants attained
the station, and displayed the abilities, of a general. Though
flying parties of the barbarians, who incessantly hovered on the
banks of the Danube, penetrated sometimes to the confines of
Italy and Macedonia, their progress was commonly checked, or
their return intercepted, by the Imperial lieutenants. But the
great stream of the Gothic hostilities was diverted into a very
different channel. The Goths, in their new settlement of the
Ukraine, soon became masters of the northern coast of the Euxine:
to the south of that inland sea were situated the soft and
wealthy provinces of Asia Minor, which possessed all that could
attract, and nothing that could resist, a barbarian conqueror.
The banks of the Borysthenes are only sixty miles distant from
the narrow entrance of the peninsula of Crim Tartary, known to
the ancients under the name of Chersonesus Taurica. On that
inhospitable shore, Euripides, embellishing with exquisite art
the tales of antiquity, has placed the scene of one of his most
affecting tragedies. The bloody sacrifices of Diana, the arrival
of Orestes and Pylades, and the triumph of virtue and religion
over savage fierceness, serve to represent an historical truth,
that the Tauri, the original inhabitants of the peninsula, were,
in some degree, reclaimed from their brutal manners by a gradual
intercourse with the Grecian colonies, which settled along the
maritime coast. The little kingdom of Bosphorus, whose capital
was situated on the Straits, through which the Mæotis
communicates itself to the Euxine, was composed of degenerate
Greeks and half-civilized barbarians. It subsisted, as an
independent state, from the time of the Peloponnesian war, was at
last swallowed up by the ambition of Mithridates, and, with the
rest of his dominions, sunk under the weight of the Roman arms.
From the reign of Augustus, the kings of Bosphorus were the
humble, but not useless, allies of the empire. By presents, by
arms, and by a slight fortification drawn across the Isthmus,
they effectually guarded, against the roving plunderers of
Sarmatia, the access of a country which, from its peculiar
situation and convenient harbors, commanded the Euxine Sea and
Asia Minor. As long as the sceptre was possessed by a lineal
succession of kings, they acquitted themselves of their important
charge with vigilance and success. Domestic factions, and the
fears, or private interest, of obscure usurpers, who seized on
the vacant throne, admitted the Goths into the heart of
Bosphorus. With the acquisition of a superfluous waste of fertile
soil, the conquerors obtained the command of a naval force,
sufficient to transport their armies to the coast of Asia. This
ships used in the navigation of the Euxine were of a very
singular construction. They were slight flat-bottomed barks
framed of timber only, without the least mixture of iron, and
occasionally covered with a shelving roof, on the appearance of a
tempest. In these floating houses, the Goths carelessly trusted
themselves to the mercy of an unknown sea, under the conduct of
sailors pressed into the service, and whose skill and fidelity
were equally suspicious. But the hopes of plunder had banished
every idea of danger, and a natural fearlessness of temper
supplied in their minds the more rational confidence, which is
the just result of knowledge and experience. Warriors of such a
daring spirit must have often murmured against the cowardice of
their guides, who required the strongest assurances of a settled
calm before they would venture to embark; and would scarcely ever
be tempted to lose sight of the land. Such, at least, is the
practice of the modern Turks; and they are probably not inferior,
in the art of navigation, to the ancient inhabitants of
Bosphorus.
The fleet of the Goths, leaving the coast of Circassia on the
left hand, first appeared before Pityus, the utmost limits of the
Roman provinces; a city provided with a convenient port, and
fortified with a strong wall. Here they met with a resistance
more obstinate than they had reason to expect from the feeble
garrison of a distant fortress. They were repulsed; and their
disappointment seemed to diminish the terror of the Gothic name.
As long as Successianus, an officer of superior rank and merit,
defended that frontier, all their efforts were ineffectual; but
as soon as he was removed by Valerian to a more honorable but
less important station, they resumed the attack of Pityus; and by
the destruction of that city, obliterated the memory of their
former disgrace.
Circling round the eastern extremity of the Euxine Sea, the
navigation from Pityus to Trebizond is about three hundred miles.
The course of the Goths carried them in sight of the country of
Colchis, so famous by the expedition of the Argonauts; and they
even attempted, though without success, to pillage a rich temple
at the mouth of the River Phasis. Trebizond, celebrated in the
retreat of the ten thousand as an ancient colony of Greeks,
derived its wealth and splendor from the magnificence of the
emperor Hadrian, who had constructed an artificial port on a
coast left destitute by nature of secure harbors. The city was
large and populous; a double enclosure of walls seemed to defy
the fury of the Goths, and the usual garrison had been
strengthened by a reënforcement of ten thousand men. But there
are not any advantages capable of supplying the absence of
discipline and vigilance. The numerous garrison of Trebizond,
dissolved in riot and luxury, disdained to guard their
impregnable fortifications. The Goths soon discovered the supine
negligence of the besieged, erected a lofty pile of fascines,
ascended the walls in the silence of the night, and entered the
defenceless city sword in hand. A general massacre of the people
ensued, whilst the affrighted soldiers escaped through the
opposite gates of the town. The most holy temples, and the most
splendid edifices, were involved in a common destruction. The
booty that fell into the hands of the Goths was immense: the
wealth of the adjacent countries had been deposited in Trebizond,
as in a secure place of refuge. The number of captives was
incredible, as the victorious barbarians ranged without
opposition through the extensive province of Pontus. The rich
spoils of Trebizond filled a great fleet of ships that had been
found in the port. The robust youth of the sea-coast were chained
to the oar; and the Goths, satisfied with the success of their
first naval expedition, returned in triumph to their new
establishment in the kingdom of Bosphorus.
The second expedition of the Goths was undertaken with greater
powers of men and ships; but they steered a different course,
and, disdaining the exhausted provinces of Pontus, followed the
western coast of the Euxine, passed before the wide mouths of the
Borysthenes, the Niester, and the Danube, and increasing their
fleet by the capture of a great number of fishing barks, they
approached the narrow outlet through which the Euxine Sea pours
its waters into the Mediterranean, and divides the continents of
Europe and Asia. The garrison of Chalcedon was encamped near the
temple of Jupiter Urius, on a promontory that commanded the
entrance of the Strait; and so inconsiderable were the dreaded
invasions of the barbarians that this body of troops surpassed in
number the Gothic army. But it was in numbers alone that they
surpassed it. They deserted with precipitation their advantageous
post, and abandoned the town of Chalcedon, most plentifully
stored with arms and money, to the discretion of the conquerors.
Whilst they hesitated whether they should prefer the sea or land,
Europe or Asia, for the scene of their hostilities, a perfidious
fugitive pointed out Nicomedia, * once the capital of the kings
of Bithynia, as a rich and easy conquest. He guided the march
which was only sixty miles from the camp of Chalcedon, directed
the resistless attack, and partook of the booty; for the Goths
had learned sufficient policy to reward the traitor whom they
detested. Nice, Prusa, Apamæa, Cius, cities that had sometimes
rivalled, or imitated, the splendor of Nicomedia, were involved
in the same calamity, which, in a few weeks, raged without
control through the whole province of Bithynia. Three hundred
years of peace, enjoyed by the soft inhabitants of Asia, had
abolished the exercise of arms, and removed the apprehension of
danger. The ancient walls were suffered to moulder away, and all
the revenue of the most opulent cities was reserved for the
construction of baths, temples, and theatres.
When the city of Cyzicus withstood the utmost effort of
Mithridates, it was distinguished by wise laws, a naval power of
two hundred galleys, and three arsenals, of arms, of military
engines, and of corn. It was still the seat of wealth and luxury;
but of its ancient strength, nothing remained except the
situation, in a little island of the Propontis, connected with
the continent of Asia only by two bridges. From the recent sack
of Prusa, the Goths advanced within eighteen miles of the city,
which they had devoted to destruction; but the ruin of Cyzicus
was delayed by a fortunate accident. The season was rainy, and
the Lake Apolloniates, the reservoir of all the springs of Mount
Olympus, rose to an uncommon height. The little river of
Rhyndacus, which issues from the lake, swelled into a broad and
rapid stream, and stopped the progress of the Goths. Their
retreat to the maritime city of Heraclea, where the fleet had
probably been stationed, was attended by a long train of wagons,
laden with the spoils of Bithynia, and was marked by the flames
of Nice and Nicomedia, which they wantonly burnt. Some obscure
hints are mentioned of a doubtful combat that secured their
retreat. But even a complete victory would have been of little
moment, as the approach of the autumnal equinox summoned them to
hasten their return. To navigate the Euxine before the month of
May, or after that of September, is esteemed by the modern Turks
the most unquestionable instance of rashness and folly.
When we are informed that the third fleet, equipped by the Goths
in the ports of Bosphorus, consisted of five hundred sails of
ships, our ready imagination instantly computes and multiplies
the formidable armament; but, as we are assured by the judicious
Strabo, that the piratical vessels used by the barbarians of
Pontus and the Lesser Scythia, were not capable of containing
more than twenty-five or thirty men we may safely affirm, that
fifteen thousand warriors, at the most, embarked in this great
expedition. Impatient of the limits of the Euxine, they steered
their destructive course from the Cimmerian to the Thracian
Bosphorus. When they had almost gained the middle of the Straits,
they were suddenly driven back to the entrance of them; till a
favorable wind, springing up the next day, carried them in a few
hours into the placid sea, or rather lake, of the Propontis.
Their landing on the little island of Cyzicus was attended with
the ruin of that ancient and noble city. From thence issuing
again through the narrow passage of the Hellespont, they pursued
their winding navigation amidst the numerous islands scattered
over the Archipelago, or the Ægean Sea. The assistance of
captives and deserters must have been very necessary to pilot
their vessels, and to direct their various incursions, as well on
the coast of Greece as on that of Asia. At length the Gothic
fleet anchored in the port of Piræus, five miles distant from
Athens, which had attempted to make some preparations for a
vigorous defence. Cleodamus, one of the engineers employed by the
emperor’s orders to fortify the maritime cities against the
Goths, had already begun to repair the ancient walls, fallen to
decay since the time of Scylla. The efforts of his skill were
ineffectual, and the barbarians became masters of the native seat
of the muses and the arts. But while the conquerors abandoned
themselves to the license of plunder and intemperance, their
fleet, that lay with a slender guard in the harbor of Piræus, was
unexpectedly attacked by the brave Daxippus, who, flying with the
engineer Cleodamus from the sack of Athens, collected a hasty
band of volunteers, peasants as well as soldiers, and in some
measure avenged the calamities of his country.
But this exploit, whatever lustre it might shed on the declining
age of Athens, served rather to irritate than to subdue the
undaunted spirit of the northern invaders. A general
conflagration blazed out at the same time in every district of
Greece. Thebes and Argos, Corinth and Sparta, which had formerly
waged such memorable wars against each other, were now unable to
bring an army into the field, or even to defend their ruined
fortifications. The rage of war, both by land and by sea, spread
from the eastern point of Sunium to the western coast of Epirus.
The Goths had already advanced within sight of Italy, when the
approach of such imminent danger awakened the indolent Gallienus
from his dream of pleasure. The emperor appeared in arms; and his
presence seems to have checked the ardor, and to have divided the
strength, of the enemy. Naulobatus, a chief of the Heruli,
accepted an honorable capitulation, entered with a large body of
his countrymen into the service of Rome, and was invested with
the ornaments of the consular dignity, which had never before
been profaned by the hands of a barbarian. Great numbers of the
Goths, disgusted with the perils and hardships of a tedious
voyage, broke into Mæsia, with a design of forcing their way over
the Danube to their settlements in the Ukraine. The wild attempt
would have proved inevitable destruction, if the discord of the
Roman generals had not opened to the barbarians the means of an
escape. The small remainder of this destroying host returned on
board their vessels; and measuring back their way through the
Hellespont and the Bosphorus, ravaged in their passage the shores
of Troy, whose fame, immortalized by Homer, will probably survive
the memory of the Gothic conquests. As soon as they found
themselves in safety within the basin of the Euxine, they landed
at Anchialus in Thrace, near the foot of Mount Hæmus; and, after
all their toils, indulged themselves in the use of those pleasant
and salutary hot baths. What remained of the voyage was a short
and easy navigation. Such was the various fate of this third and
greatest of their naval enterprises. It may seem difficult to
conceive how the original body of fifteen thousand warriors could
sustain the losses and divisions of so bold an adventure. But as
their numbers were gradually wasted by the sword, by shipwrecks,
and by the influence of a warm climate, they were perpetually
renewed by troops of banditti and deserters, who flocked to the
standard of plunder, and by a crowd of fugitive slaves, often of
German or Sarmatian extraction, who eagerly seized the glorious
opportunity of freedom and revenge. In these expeditions, the
Gothic nation claimed a superior share of honor and danger; but
the tribes that fought under the Gothic banners are sometimes
distinguished and sometimes confounded in the imperfect histories
of that age; and as the barbarian fleets seemed to issue from the
mouth of the Tanais, the vague but familiar appellation of
Scythians was frequently bestowed on the mixed multitude.
Chapter X: Emperors Decius, Gallus, Æmilianus, Valerian And
Gallienus.—Part IV.
In the general calamities of mankind, the death of an individual,
however exalted, the ruin of an edifice, however famous, are
passed over with careless inattention. Yet we cannot forget that
the temple of Diana at Ephesus, after having risen with
increasing splendor from seven repeated misfortunes, was finally
burnt by the Goths in their third naval invasion. The arts of
Greece, and the wealth of Asia, had conspired to erect that
sacred and magnificent structure. It was supported by a hundred
and twenty-seven marble columns of the Ionic order. They were the
gifts of devout monarchs, and each was sixty feet high. The altar
was adorned with the masterly sculptures of Praxiteles, who had,
perhaps, selected from the favorite legends of the place the
birth of the divine children of Latona, the concealment of Apollo
after the slaughter of the Cyclops, and the clemency of Bacchus
to the vanquished Amazons. Yet the length of the temple of
Ephesus was only four hundred and twenty-five feet, about two
thirds of the measure of the church of St. Peter’s at Rome. In
the other dimensions, it was still more inferior to that sublime
production of modern architecture. The spreading arms of a
Christian cross require a much greater breadth than the oblong
temples of the Pagans; and the boldest artists of antiquity would
have been startled at the proposal of raising in the air a dome
of the size and proportions of the Pantheon. The temple of Diana
was, however, admired as one of the wonders of the world.
Successive empires, the Persian, the Macedonian, and the Roman,
had revered its sanctity and enriched its splendor. But the rude
savages of the Baltic were destitute of a taste for the elegant
arts, and they despised the ideal terrors of a foreign
superstition.
Another circumstance is related of these invasions, which might
deserve our notice, were it not justly to be suspected as the
fanciful conceit of a recent sophist. We are told that in the
sack of Athens the Goths had collected all the libraries, and
were on the point of setting fire to this funeral pile of Grecian
learning, had not one of their chiefs, of more refined policy
than his brethren, dissuaded them from the design; by the
profound observation, that as long as the Greeks were addicted to
the study of books, they would never apply themselves to the
exercise of arms. The sagacious counsellor (should the truth of
the fact be admitted) reasoned like an ignorant barbarian. In the
most polite and powerful nations, genius of every kind has
displayed itself about the same period; and the age of science
has generally been the age of military virtue and success.
IV. The new sovereign of Persia, Artaxerxes and his son Sapor,
had triumphed (as we have already seen) over the house of
Arsaces. Of the many princes of that ancient race, Chosroes, king
of Armenia, had alone preserved both his life and his
independence. He defended himself by the natural strength of his
country; by the perpetual resort of fugitives and malecontents;
by the alliance of the Romans, and above all, by his own courage.
Invincible in arms, during a thirty years’ war, he was at length
assassinated by the emissaries of Sapor, king of Persia. The
patriotic satraps of Armenia, who asserted the freedom and
dignity of the crown, implored the protection of Rome in favor of
Tiridates, the lawful heir. But the son of Chosroes was an
infant, the allies were at a distance, and the Persian monarch
advanced towards the frontier at the head of an irresistible
force. Young Tiridates, the future hope of his country, was saved
by the fidelity of a servant, and Armenia continued above
twenty-seven years a reluctant province of the great monarchy of
Persia. Elated with this easy conquest, and presuming on the
distresses or the degeneracy of the Romans, Sapor obliged the
strong garrisons of Carrhæ and Nisibis * to surrender, and spread
devastation and terror on either side of the Euphrates.
The loss of an important frontier, the ruin of a faithful and
natural ally, and the rapid success of Sapor’s ambition, affected
Rome with a deep sense of the insult as well as of the danger.
Valerian flattered himself, that the vigilance of his lieutenants
would sufficiently provide for the safety of the Rhine and of the
Danube; but he resolved, notwithstanding his advanced age, to
march in person to the defence of the Euphrates. During his
progress through Asia Minor, the naval enterprises of the Goths
were suspended, and the afflicted province enjoyed a transient
and fallacious calm. He passed the Euphrates, encountered the
Persian monarch near the walls of Edessa, was vanquished, and
taken prisoner by Sapor. The particulars of this great event are
darkly and imperfectly represented; yet, by the glimmering light
which is afforded us, we may discover a long series of
imprudence, of error, and of deserved misfortunes on the side of
the Roman emperor. He reposed an implicit confidence in
Macrianus, his Prætorian præfect. That worthless minister
rendered his master formidable only to the oppressed subjects,
and contemptible to the enemies of Rome. By his weak or wicked
counsels, the Imperial army was betrayed into a situation where
valor and military skill were equally unavailing. The vigorous
attempt of the Romans to cut their way through the Persian host
was repulsed with great slaughter; and Sapor, who encompassed the
camp with superior numbers, patiently waited till the increasing
rage of famine and pestilence had insured his victory. The
licentious murmurs of the legions soon accused Valerian as the
cause of their calamities; their seditious clamors demanded an
instant capitulation. An immense sum of gold was offered to
purchase the permission of a disgraceful retreat. But the
Persian, conscious of his superiority, refused the money with
disdain; and detaining the deputies, advanced in order of battle
to the foot of the Roman rampart, and insisted on a personal
conference with the emperor. Valerian was reduced to the
necessity of intrusting his life and dignity to the faith of an
enemy. The interview ended as it was natural to expect. The
emperor was made a prisoner, and his astonished troops laid down
their arms. In such a moment of triumph, the pride and policy of
Sapor prompted him to fill the vacant throne with a successor
entirely dependent on his pleasure. Cyriades, an obscure fugitive
of Antioch, stained with every vice, was chosen to dishonor the
Roman purple; and the will of the Persian victor could not fail
of being ratified by the acclamations, however reluctant, of the
captive army.
The Imperial slave was eager to secure the favor of his master by
an act of treason to his native country. He conducted Sapor over
the Euphrates, and, by the way of Chalcis, to the metropolis of
the East. So rapid were the motions of the Persian cavalry, that,
if we may credit a very judicious historian, the city of Antioch
was surprised when the idle multitude was fondly gazing on the
amusements of the theatre. The splendid buildings of Antioch,
private as well as public, were either pillaged or destroyed; and
the numerous inhabitants were put to the sword, or led away into
captivity. The tide of devastation was stopped for a moment by
the resolution of the high priest of Emesa. Arrayed in his
sacerdotal robes, he appeared at the head of a great body of
fanatic peasants, armed only with slings, and defended his god
and his property from the sacrilegious hands of the followers of
Zoroaster. But the ruin of Tarsus, and of many other cities,
furnishes a melancholy proof that, except in this singular
instance, the conquest of Syria and Cilicia scarcely interrupted
the progress of the Persian arms. The advantages of the narrow
passes of Mount Taurus were abandoned, in which an invader, whose
principal force consisted in his cavalry, would have been engaged
in a very unequal combat: and Sapor was permitted to form the
siege of Cæsarea, the capital of Cappadocia; a city, though of
the second rank, which was supposed to contain four hundred
thousand inhabitants. Demosthenes commanded in the place, not so
much by the commission of the emperor, as in the voluntary
defence of his country. For a long time he deferred its fate; and
when at last Cæsarea was betrayed by the perfidy of a physician,
he cut his way through the Persians, who had been ordered to
exert their utmost diligence to take him alive. This heroic chief
escaped the power of a foe who might either have honored or
punished his obstinate valor; but many thousands of his
fellow-citizens were involved in a general massacre, and Sapor is
accused of treating his prisoners with wanton and unrelenting
cruelty. Much should undoubtedly be allowed for national
animosity, much for humbled pride and impotent revenge; yet, upon
the whole, it is certain, that the same prince, who, in Armenia,
had displayed the mild aspect of a legislator, showed himself to
the Romans under the stern features of a conqueror. He despaired
of making any permanent establishment in the empire, and sought
only to leave behind him a wasted desert, whilst he transported
into Persia the people and the treasures of the provinces.
At the time when the East trembled at the name of Sapor, he
received a present not unworthy of the greatest kings; a long
train of camels, laden with the most rare and valuable
merchandises. The rich offering was accompanied with an epistle,
respectful, but not servile, from Odenathus, one of the noblest
and most opulent senators of Palmyra. “Who is this Odenathus,”
(said the haughty victor, and he commanded that the present
should be cast into the Euphrates,) “that he thus insolently
presumes to write to his lord? If he entertains a hope of
mitigating his punishment, let him fall prostrate before the foot
of our throne, with his hands bound behind his back. Should he
hesitate, swift destruction shall be poured on his head, on his
whole race, and on his country.” The desperate extremity to which
the Palmyrenian was reduced, called into action all the latent
powers of his soul. He met Sapor; but he met him in arms.
Infusing his own spirit into a little army collected from the
villages of Syria and the tents of the desert, he hovered round
the Persian host, harassed their retreat, carried off part of the
treasure, and, what was dearer than any treasure, several of the
women of the great king; who was at last obliged to repass the
Euphrates with some marks of haste and confusion. By this
exploit, Odenathus laid the foundations of his future fame and
fortunes. The majesty of Rome, oppressed by a Persian, was
protected by a Syrian or Arab of Palmyra.
The voice of history, which is often little more than the organ
of hatred or flattery, reproaches Sapor with a proud abuse of the
rights of conquest. We are told that Valerian, in chains, but
invested with the Imperial purple, was exposed to the multitude,
a constant spectacle of fallen greatness; and that whenever the
Persian monarch mounted on horseback, he placed his foot on the
neck of a Roman emperor. Notwithstanding all the remonstrances of
his allies, who repeatedly advised him to remember the
vicissitudes of fortune, to dread the returning power of Rome,
and to make his illustrious captive the pledge of peace, not the
object of insult, Sapor still remained inflexible. When Valerian
sunk under the weight of shame and grief, his skin, stuffed with
straw, and formed into the likeness of a human figure, was
preserved for ages in the most celebrated temple of Persia; a
more real monument of triumph, than the fancied trophies of brass
and marble so often erected by Roman vanity. The tale is moral
and pathetic, but the truth of it may very fairly be called in
question. The letters still extant from the princes of the East
to Sapor are manifest forgeries; nor is it natural to suppose
that a jealous monarch should, even in the person of a rival,
thus publicly degrade the majesty of kings. Whatever treatment
the unfortunate Valerian might experience in Persia, it is at
least certain that the only emperor of Rome who had ever fallen
into the hands of the enemy, languished away his life in hopeless
captivity.
The emperor Gallienus, who had long supported with impatience the
censorial severity of his father and colleague, received the
intelligence of his misfortunes with secret pleasure and avowed
indifference. “I knew that my father was a mortal,” said he; “and
since he has acted as it becomes a brave man, I am satisfied.”
Whilst Rome lamented the fate of her sovereign, the savage
coldness of his son was extolled by the servile courtiers as the
perfect firmness of a hero and a stoic. It is difficult to paint
the light, the various, the inconstant character of Gallienus,
which he displayed without constraint, as soon as he became sole
possessor of the empire. In every art that he attempted, his
lively genius enabled him to succeed; and as his genius was
destitute of judgment, he attempted every art, except the
important ones of war and government. He was a master of several
curious, but useless sciences, a ready orator, an elegant poet, a
skilful gardener, an excellent cook, and most contemptible
prince. When the great emergencies of the state required his
presence and attention, he was engaged in conversation with the
philosopher Plotinus, wasting his time in trifling or licentious
pleasures, preparing his initiation to the Grecian mysteries, or
soliciting a place in the Areopagus of Athens. His profuse
magnificence insulted the general poverty; the solemn ridicule of
his triumphs impressed a deeper sense of the public disgrace. The
repeated intelligence of invasions, defeats, and rebellions, he
received with a careless smile; and singling out, with affected
contempt, some particular production of the lost province, he
carelessly asked, whether Rome must be ruined, unless it was
supplied with linen from Egypt, and arras cloth from Gaul. There
were, however, a few short moments in the life of Gallienus,
when, exasperated by some recent injury, he suddenly appeared the
intrepid soldier and the cruel tyrant; till, satiated with blood,
or fatigued by resistance, he insensibly sunk into the natural
mildness and indolence of his character.
At the time when the reins of government were held with so loose
a hand, it is not surprising that a crowd of usurpers should
start up in every province of the empire against the son of
Valerian. It was probably some ingenious fancy, of comparing the
thirty tyrants of Rome with the thirty tyrants of Athens, that
induced the writers of the Augustan History to select that
celebrated number, which has been gradually received into a
popular appellation. But in every light the parallel is idle and
defective. What resemblance can we discover between a council of
thirty persons, the united oppressors of a single city, and an
uncertain list of independent rivals, who rose and fell in
irregular succession through the extent of a vast empire? Nor can
the number of thirty be completed, unless we include in the
account the women and children who were honored with the Imperial
title. The reign of Gallienus, distracted as it was, produced
only nineteen pretenders to the throne: Cyriades, Macrianus,
Balista, Odenathus, and Zenobia, in the East; in Gaul, and the
western provinces, Posthumus, Lollianus, Victorinus, and his
mother Victoria, Marius, and Tetricus; in Illyricum and the
confines of the Danube, Ingenuus, Regillianus, and Aureolus; in
Pontus, Saturninus; in Isauria, Trebellianus; Piso in Thessaly;
Valens in Achaia; Æmilianus in Egypt; and Celsus in Africa. * To
illustrate the obscure monuments of the life and death of each
individual, would prove a laborious task, alike barren of
instruction and of amusement. We may content ourselves with
investigating some general characters, that most strongly mark
the condition of the times, and the manners of the men, their
pretensions, their motives, their fate, and the destructive
consequences of their usurpation.
It is sufficiently known, that the odious appellation of _Tyrant_
was often employed by the ancients to express the illegal seizure
of supreme power, without any reference to the abuse of it.
Several of the pretenders, who raised the standard of rebellion
against the emperor Gallienus, were shining models of virtue, and
almost all possessed a considerable share of vigor and ability.
Their merit had recommended them to the favor of Valerian, and
gradually promoted them to the most important commands of the
empire. The generals, who assumed the title of Augustus, were
either respected by their troops for their able conduct and
severe discipline, or admired for valor and success in war, or
beloved for frankness and generosity. The field of victory was
often the scene of their election; and even the armorer Marius,
the most contemptible of all the candidates for the purple, was
distinguished, however, by intrepid courage, matchless strength,
and blunt honesty. His mean and recent trade cast, indeed, an air
of ridicule on his elevation; * but his birth could not be more
obscure than was that of the greater part of his rivals, who were
born of peasants, and enlisted in the army as private soldiers.
In times of confusion every active genius finds the place
assigned him by nature: in a general state of war military merit
is the road to glory and to greatness. Of the nineteen tyrants
Tetricus only was a senator; Piso alone was a noble. The blood of
Numa, through twenty-eight successive generations, ran in the
veins of Calphurnius Piso, who, by female alliances, claimed a
right of exhibiting, in his house, the images of Crassus and of
the great Pompey. His ancestors had been repeatedly dignified
with all the honors which the commonwealth could bestow; and of
all the ancient families of Rome, the Calphurnian alone had
survived the tyranny of the Cæsars. The personal qualities of
Piso added new lustre to his race. The usurper Valens, by whose
order he was killed, confessed, with deep remorse, that even an
enemy ought to have respected the sanctity of Piso; and although
he died in arms against Gallienus, the senate, with the emperor’s
generous permission, decreed the triumphal ornaments to the
memory of so virtuous a rebel.
The lieutenants of Valerian were grateful to the father, whom
they esteemed. They disdained to serve the luxurious indolence of
his unworthy son. The throne of the Roman world was unsupported
by any principle of loyalty; and treason against such a prince
might easily be considered as patriotism to the state. Yet if we
examine with candor the conduct of these usurpers, it will
appear, that they were much oftener driven into rebellion by
their fears, than urged to it by their ambition. They dreaded the
cruel suspicions of Gallienus; they equally dreaded the
capricious violence of their troops. If the dangerous favor of
the army had imprudently declared them deserving of the purple,
they were marked for sure destruction; and even prudence would
counsel them to secure a short enjoyment of empire, and rather to
try the fortune of war than to expect the hand of an executioner.
When the clamor of the soldiers invested the reluctant victims
with the ensigns of sovereign authority, they sometimes mourned
in secret their approaching fate. “You have lost,” said
Saturninus, on the day of his elevation, “you have lost a useful
commander, and you have made a very wretched emperor.”
The apprehensions of Saturninus were justified by the repeated
experience of revolutions. Of the nineteen tyrants who started up
under the reign of Gallienus, there was not one who enjoyed a
life of peace, or a natural death. As soon as they were invested
with the bloody purple, they inspired their adherents with the
same fears and ambition which had occasioned their own revolt.
Encompassed with domestic conspiracy, military sedition, and
civil war, they trembled on the edge of precipices, in which,
after a longer or shorter term of anxiety, they were inevitably
lost. These precarious monarchs received, however, such honors as
the flattery of their respective armies and provinces could
bestow; but their claim, founded on rebellion, could never obtain
the sanction of law or history. Italy, Rome, and the senate,
constantly adhered to the cause of Gallienus, and he alone was
considered as the sovereign of the empire. That prince
condescended, indeed, to acknowledge the victorious arms of
Odenathus, who deserved the honorable distinction, by the
respectful conduct which he always maintained towards the son of
Valerian. With the general applause of the Romans, and the
consent of Gallienus, the senate conferred the title of Augustus
on the brave Palmyrenian; and seemed to intrust him with the
government of the East, which he already possessed, in so
independent a manner, that, like a private succession, he
bequeathed it to his illustrious widow, Zenobia.
The rapid and perpetual transitions from the cottage to the
throne, and from the throne to the grave, might have amused an
indifferent philosopher; were it possible for a philosopher to
remain indifferent amidst the general calamities of human kind.
The election of these precarious emperors, their power and their
death, were equally destructive to their subjects and adherents.
The price of their fatal elevation was instantly discharged to
the troops by an immense donative, drawn from the bowels of the
exhausted people. However virtuous was their character, however
pure their intentions, they found themselves reduced to the hard
necessity of supporting their usurpation by frequent acts of
rapine and cruelty. When they fell, they involved armies and
provinces in their fall. There is still extant a most savage
mandate from Gallienus to one of his ministers, after the
suppression of Ingenuus, who had assumed the purple in Illyricum.
“It is not enough,” says that soft but inhuman prince, “that you
exterminate such as have appeared in arms; the chance of battle
might have served me as effectually. The male sex of every age
must be extirpated; provided that, in the execution of the
children and old men, you can contrive means to save our
reputation. Let every one die who has dropped an expression, who
has entertained a thought against me, against me, the son of
Valerian, the father and brother of so many princes. Remember
that Ingenuus was made emperor: tear, kill, hew in pieces. I
write to you with my own hand, and would inspire you with my own
feelings.” Whilst the public forces of the state were dissipated
in private quarrels, the defenceless provinces lay exposed to
every invader. The bravest usurpers were compelled, by the
perplexity of their situation, to conclude ignominious treaties
with the common enemy, to purchase with oppressive tributes the
neutrality or services of the Barbarians, and to introduce
hostile and independent nations into the heart of the Roman
monarchy.
Such were the barbarians, and such the tyrants, who, under the
reigns of Valerian and Gallienus, dismembered the provinces, and
reduced the empire to the lowest pitch of disgrace and ruin, from
whence it seemed impossible that it should ever emerge. As far as
the barrenness of materials would permit, we have attempted to
trace, with order and perspicuity, the general events of that
calamitous period. There still remain some particular facts; I.
The disorders of Sicily; II. The tumults of Alexandria; and, III.
The rebellion of the Isaurians, which may serve to reflect a
strong light on the horrid picture.
I. Whenever numerous troops of banditti, multiplied by success
and impunity, publicly defy, instead of eluding, the justice of
their country, we may safely infer that the excessive weakness of
the country is felt and abused by the lowest ranks of the
community. The situation of Sicily preserved it from the
Barbarians; nor could the disarmed province have supported a
usurper. The sufferings of that once flourishing and still
fertile island were inflicted by baser hands. A licentious crowd
of slaves and peasants reigned for a while over the plundered
country, and renewed the memory of the servile wars of more
ancient times. Devastations, of which the husbandman was either
the victim or the accomplice, must have ruined the agriculture of
Sicily; and as the principal estates were the property of the
opulent senators of Rome, who often enclosed within a farm the
territory of an old republic, it is not improbable, that this
private injury might affect the capital more deeply, than all the
conquests of the Goths or the Persians.
II. The foundation of Alexandria was a noble design, at once
conceived and executed by the son of Philip. The beautiful and
regular form of that great city, second only to Rome itself,
comprehended a circumference of fifteen miles; it was peopled by
three hundred thousand free inhabitants, besides at least an
equal number of slaves. The lucrative trade of Arabia and India
flowed through the port of Alexandria, to the capital and
provinces of the empire. * Idleness was unknown. Some were
employed in blowing of glass, others in weaving of linen, others
again manufacturing the papyrus. Either sex, and every age, was
engaged in the pursuits of industry, nor did even the blind or
the lame want occupations suited to their condition. But the
people of Alexandria, a various mixture of nations, united the
vanity and inconstancy of the Greeks with the superstition and
obstinacy of the Egyptians. The most trifling occasion, a
transient scarcity of flesh or lentils, the neglect of an
accustomed salutation, a mistake of precedency in the public
baths, or even a religious dispute, were at any time sufficient
to kindle a sedition among that vast multitude, whose resentments
were furious and implacable. After the captivity of Valerian and
the insolence of his son had relaxed the authority of the laws,
the Alexandrians abandoned themselves to the ungoverned rage of
their passions, and their unhappy country was the theatre of a
civil war, which continued (with a few short and suspicious
truces) above twelve years. All intercourse was cut off between
the several quarters of the afflicted city, every street was
polluted with blood, every building of strength converted into a
citadel; nor did the tumults subside till a considerable part of
Alexandria was irretrievably ruined. The spacious and magnificent
district of Bruchion, * with its palaces and musæum, the
residence of the kings and philosophers of Egypt, is described
above a century afterwards, as already reduced to its present
state of dreary solitude.
III. The obscure rebellion of Trebellianus, who assumed the
purple in Isauria, a petty province of Asia Minor, was attended
with strange and memorable consequences. The pageant of royalty
was soon destroyed by an officer of Gallienus; but his followers,
despairing of mercy, resolved to shake off their allegiance, not
only to the emperor, but to the empire, and suddenly returned to
the savage manners from which they had never perfectly been
reclaimed. Their craggy rocks, a branch of the wide-extended
Taurus, protected their inaccessible retreat. The tillage of some
fertile valleys supplied them with necessaries, and a habit of
rapine with the luxuries of life. In the heart of the Roman
monarchy, the Isaurians long continued a nation of wild
barbarians. Succeeding princes, unable to reduce them to
obedience, either by arms or policy, were compelled to
acknowledge their weakness, by surrounding the hostile and
independent spot with a strong chain of fortifications, which
often proved insufficient to restrain the incursions of these
domestic foes. The Isaurians, gradually extending their territory
to the sea-coast, subdued the western and mountainous part of
Cilicia, formerly the nest of those daring pirates, against whom
the republic had once been obliged to exert its utmost force,
under the conduct of the great Pompey.
Our habits of thinking so fondly connect the order of the
universe with the fate of man, that this gloomy period of history
has been decorated with inundations, earthquakes, uncommon
meteors, preternatural darkness, and a crowd of prodigies
fictitious or exaggerated. But a long and general famine was a
calamity of a more serious kind. It was the inevitable
consequence of rapine and oppression, which extirpated the
produce of the present and the hope of future harvests. Famine is
almost always followed by epidemical diseases, the effect of
scanty and unwholesome food. Other causes must, however, have
contributed to the furious plague, which, from the year two
hundred and fifty to the year two hundred and sixty-five, raged
without interruption in every province, every city, and almost
every family, of the Roman empire. During some time five thousand
persons died daily in Rome; and many towns, that had escaped the
hands of the Barbarians, were entirely depopulated.
We have the knowledge of a very curious circumstance, of some use
perhaps in the melancholy calculation of human calamities. An
exact register was kept at Alexandria of all the citizens
entitled to receive the distribution of corn. It was found, that
the ancient number of those comprised between the ages of forty
and seventy, had been equal to the whole sum of claimants, from
fourteen to fourscore years of age, who remained alive after the
reign of Gallienus. Applying this authentic fact to the most
correct tables of mortality, it evidently proves, that above half
the people of Alexandria had perished; and could we venture to
extend the analogy to the other provinces, we might suspect, that
war, pestilence, and famine, had consumed, in a few years, the
moiety of the human species.
Chapter XI: Reign Of Claudius, Defeat Of The Goths.—Part I.
Reign Of Claudius.—Defeat Of The Goths.—Victories, Triumph, And Death
Of Aurelian.
Under the deplorable reigns of Valerian and Gallienus, the empire
was oppressed and almost destroyed by the soldiers, the tyrants,
and the barbarians. It was saved by a series of great princes,
who derived their obscure origin from the martial provinces of
Illyricum. Within a period of about thirty years, Claudius,
Aurelian, Probus, Diocletian and his colleagues, triumphed over
the foreign and domestic enemies of the state, reëstablished,
with the military discipline, the strength of the frontiers, and
deserved the glorious title of Restorers of the Roman world.
The removal of an effeminate tyrant made way for a succession of
heroes. The indignation of the people imputed all their
calamities to Gallienus, and the far greater part were, indeed,
the consequence of his dissolute manners and careless
administration. He was even destitute of a sense of honor, which
so frequently supplies the absence of public virtue; and as long
as he was permitted to enjoy the possession of Italy, a victory
of the barbarians, the loss of a province, or the rebellion of a
general, seldom disturbed the tranquil course of his pleasures.
At length, a considerable army, stationed on the Upper Danube,
invested with the Imperial purple their leader Aureolus; who,
disdaining a confined and barren reign over the mountains of
Rhætia, passed the Alps, occupied Milan, threatened Rome, and
challenged Gallienus to dispute in the field the sovereignty of
Italy. The emperor, provoked by the insult, and alarmed by the
instant danger, suddenly exerted that latent vigor which
sometimes broke through the indolence of his temper. Forcing
himself from the luxury of the palace, he appeared in arms at the
head of his legions, and advanced beyond the Po to encounter his
competitor. The corrupted name of Pontirolo still preserves the
memory of a bridge over the Adda, which, during the action, must
have proved an object of the utmost importance to both armies.
The Rhætian usurper, after receiving a total defeat and a
dangerous wound, retired into Milan. The siege of that great city
was immediately formed; the walls were battered with every engine
in use among the ancients; and Aureolus, doubtful of his internal
strength, and hopeless of foreign succors already anticipated the
fatal consequences of unsuccessful rebellion.
His last resource was an attempt to seduce the loyalty of the
besiegers. He scattered libels through the camp, inviting the
troops to desert an unworthy master, who sacrificed the public
happiness to his luxury, and the lives of his most valuable
subjects to the slightest suspicions. The arts of Aureolus
diffused fears and discontent among the principal officers of his
rival. A conspiracy was formed by Heraclianus, the Prætorian
præfect, by Marcian, a general of rank and reputation, and by
Cecrops, who commanded a numerous body of Dalmatian guards. The
death of Gallienus was resolved; and notwithstanding their desire
of first terminating the siege of Milan, the extreme danger which
accompanied every moment’s delay obliged them to hasten the
execution of their daring purpose. At a late hour of the night,
but while the emperor still protracted the pleasures of the
table, an alarm was suddenly given, that Aureolus, at the head of
all his forces, had made a desperate sally from the town;
Gallienus, who was never deficient in personal bravery, started
from his silken couch, and without allowing himself time either
to put on his armor, or to assemble his guards, he mounted on
horseback, and rode full speed towards the supposed place of the
attack. Encompassed by his declared or concealed enemies, he
soon, amidst the nocturnal tumult, received a mortal dart from an
uncertain hand. Before he expired, a patriotic sentiment rising
in the mind of Gallienus, induced him to name a deserving
successor; and it was his last request, that the Imperial
ornaments should be delivered to Claudius, who then commanded a
detached army in the neighborhood of Pavia. The report at least
was diligently propagated, and the order cheerfully obeyed by the
conspirators, who had already agreed to place Claudius on the
throne. On the first news of the emperor’s death, the troops
expressed some suspicion and resentment, till the one was
removed, and the other assuaged, by a donative of twenty pieces
of gold to each soldier. They then ratified the election, and
acknowledged the merit of their new sovereign.
The obscurity which covered the origin of Claudius, though it was
afterwards embellished by some flattering fictions, sufficiently
betrays the meanness of his birth. We can only discover that he
was a native of one of the provinces bordering on the Danube;
that his youth was spent in arms, and that his modest valor
attracted the favor and confidence of Decius. The senate and
people already considered him as an excellent officer, equal to
the most important trusts; and censured the inattention of
Valerian, who suffered him to remain in the subordinate station
of a tribune. But it was not long before that emperor
distinguished the merit of Claudius, by declaring him general and
chief of the Illyrian frontier, with the command of all the
troops in Thrace, Mæsia, Dacia, Pannonia, and Dalmatia, the
appointments of the præfect of Egypt, the establishment of the
proconsul of Africa, and the sure prospect of the consulship. By
his victories over the Goths, he deserved from the senate the
honor of a statue, and excited the jealous apprehensions of
Gallienus. It was impossible that a soldier could esteem so
dissolute a sovereign, nor is it easy to conceal a just contempt.
Some unguarded expressions which dropped from Claudius were
officiously transmitted to the royal ear. The emperor’s answer to
an officer of confidence describes in very lively colors his own
character, and that of the times. “There is not any thing capable
of giving me more serious concern, than the intelligence
contained in your last despatch; that some malicious suggestions
have indisposed towards us the mind of our friend and parent
Claudius. As you regard your allegiance, use every means to
appease his resentment, but conduct your negotiation with
secrecy; let it not reach the knowledge of the Dacian troops;
they are already provoked, and it might inflame their fury. I
myself have sent him some presents: be it your care that he
accept them with pleasure. Above all, let him not suspect that I
am made acquainted with his imprudence. The fear of my anger
might urge him to desperate counsels.” The presents which
accompanied this humble epistle, in which the monarch solicited a
reconciliation with his discontented subject, consisted of a
considerable sum of money, a splendid wardrobe, and a valuable
service of silver and gold plate. By such arts Gallienus softened
the indignation and dispelled the fears of his Illyrian general;
and during the remainder of that reign, the formidable sword of
Claudius was always drawn in the cause of a master whom he
despised. At last, indeed, he received from the conspirators the
bloody purple of Gallienus: but he had been absent from their
camp and counsels; and however he might applaud the deed, we may
candidly presume that he was innocent of the knowledge of it.
When Claudius ascended the throne, he was about fifty-four years
of age.
The siege of Milan was still continued, and Aureolus soon
discovered that the success of his artifices had only raised up a
more determined adversary. He attempted to negotiate with
Claudius a treaty of alliance and partition. “Tell him,” replied
the intrepid emperor, “that such proposals should have been made
to Gallienus; _he_, perhaps, might have listened to them with
patience, and accepted a colleague as despicable as himself.”
This stern refusal, and a last unsuccessful effort, obliged
Aureolus to yield the city and himself to the discretion of the
conqueror. The judgment of the army pronounced him worthy of
death; and Claudius, after a feeble resistance, consented to the
execution of the sentence. Nor was the zeal of the senate less
ardent in the cause of their new sovereign. They ratified,
perhaps with a sincere transport of zeal, the election of
Claudius; and, as his predecessor had shown himself the personal
enemy of their order, they exercised, under the name of justice,
a severe revenge against his friends and family. The senate was
permitted to discharge the ungrateful office of punishment, and
the emperor reserved for himself the pleasure and merit of
obtaining by his intercession a general act of indemnity.
Such ostentatious clemency discovers less of the real character
of Claudius, than a trifling circumstance in which he seems to
have consulted only the dictates of his heart. The frequent
rebellions of the provinces had involved almost every person in
the guilt of treason, almost every estate in the case of
confiscation; and Gallienus often displayed his liberality by
distributing among his officers the property of his subjects. On
the accession of Claudius, an old woman threw herself at his
feet, and complained that a general of the late emperor had
obtained an arbitrary grant of her patrimony. This general was
Claudius himself, who had not entirely escaped the contagion of
the times. The emperor blushed at the reproach, but deserved the
confidence which she had reposed in his equity. The confession of
his fault was accompanied with immediate and ample restitution.
In the arduous task which Claudius had undertaken, of restoring
the empire to its ancient splendor, it was first necessary to
revive among his troops a sense of order and obedience. With the
authority of a veteran commander, he represented to them that the
relaxation of discipline had introduced a long train of
disorders, the effects of which were at length experienced by the
soldiers themselves; that a people ruined by oppression, and
indolent from despair, could no longer supply a numerous army
with the means of luxury, or even of subsistence; that the danger
of each individual had increased with the despotism of the
military order, since princes who tremble on the throne will
guard their safety by the instant sacrifice of every obnoxious
subject. The emperor expiated on the mischiefs of a lawless
caprice, which the soldiers could only gratify at the expense of
their own blood; as their seditious elections had so frequently
been followed by civil wars, which consumed the flower of the
legions either in the field of battle, or in the cruel abuse of
victory. He painted in the most lively colors the exhausted state
of the treasury, the desolation of the provinces, the disgrace of
the Roman name, and the insolent triumph of rapacious barbarians.
It was against those barbarians, he declared, that he intended to
point the first effort of their arms. Tetricus might reign for a
while over the West, and even Zenobia might preserve the dominion
of the East. These usurpers were his personal adversaries; nor
could he think of indulging any private resentment till he had
saved an empire, whose impending ruin would, unless it was timely
prevented, crush both the army and the people.
The various nations of Germany and Sarmatia, who fought under the
Gothic standard, had already collected an armament more
formidable than any which had yet issued from the Euxine. On the
banks of the Niester, one of the great rivers that discharge
themselves into that sea, they constructed a fleet of two
thousand, or even of six thousand vessels; numbers which, however
incredible they may seem, would have been insufficient to
transport their pretended army of three hundred and twenty
thousand barbarians. Whatever might be the real strength of the
Goths, the vigor and success of the expedition were not adequate
to the greatness of the preparations. In their passage through
the Bosphorus, the unskilful pilots were overpowered by the
violence of the current; and while the multitude of their ships
were crowded in a narrow channel, many were dashed against each
other, or against the shore. The barbarians made several descents
on the coasts both of Europe and Asia; but the open country was
already plundered, and they were repulsed with shame and loss
from the fortified cities which they assaulted. A spirit of
discouragement and division arose in the fleet, and some of their
chiefs sailed away towards the islands of Crete and Cyprus; but
the main body, pursuing a more steady course, anchored at length
near the foot of Mount Athos, and assaulted the city of
Thessalonica, the wealthy capital of all the Macedonian
provinces. Their attacks, in which they displayed a fierce but
artless bravery, were soon interrupted by the rapid approach of
Claudius, hastening to a scene of action that deserved the
presence of a warlike prince at the head of the remaining powers
of the empire. Impatient for battle, the Goths immediately broke
up their camp, relinquished the siege of Thessalonica, left their
navy at the foot of Mount Athos, traversed the hills of
Macedonia, and pressed forwards to engage the last defence of
Italy.
We still posses an original letter addressed by Claudius to the
senate and people on this memorable occasion. “Conscript
fathers,” says the emperor, “know that three hundred and twenty
thousand Goths have invaded the Roman territory. If I vanquish
them, your gratitude will reward my services. Should I fall,
remember that I am the successor of Gallienus. The whole republic
is fatigued and exhausted. We shall fight after Valerian, after
Ingenuus, Regillianus, Lollianus, Posthumus, Celsus, and a
thousand others, whom a just contempt for Gallienus provoked into
rebellion. We are in want of darts, of spears, and of shields.
The strength of the empire, Gaul, and Spain, are usurped by
Tetricus, and we blush to acknowledge that the archers of the
East serve under the banners of Zenobia. Whatever we shall
perform will be sufficiently great.” The melancholy firmness of
this epistle announces a hero careless of his fate, conscious of
his danger, but still deriving a well-grounded hope from the
resources of his own mind.
The event surpassed his own expectations and those of the world.
By the most signal victories he delivered the empire from this
host of barbarians, and was distinguished by posterity under the
glorious appellation of the Gothic Claudius. The imperfect
historians of an irregular war do not enable us to describe the
order and circumstances of his exploits; but, if we could be
indulged in the allusion, we might distribute into three acts
this memorable tragedy. I. The decisive battle was fought near
Naissus, a city of Dardania. The legions at first gave way,
oppressed by numbers, and dismayed by misfortunes. Their ruin was
inevitable, had not the abilities of their emperor prepared a
seasonable relief. A large detachment, rising out of the secret
and difficult passes of the mountains, which, by his order, they
had occupied, suddenly assailed the rear of the victorious Goths.
The favorable instant was improved by the activity of Claudius.
He revived the courage of his troops, restored their ranks, and
pressed the barbarians on every side. Fifty thousand men are
reported to have been slain in the battle of Naissus. Several
large bodies of barbarians, covering their retreat with a movable
fortification of wagons, retired, or rather escaped, from the
field of slaughter. II. We may presume that some insurmountable
difficulty, the fatigue, perhaps, or the disobedience, of the
conquerors, prevented Claudius from completing in one day the
destruction of the Goths. The war was diffused over the province
of Mæsia, Thrace, and Macedonia, and its operations drawn out
into a variety of marches, surprises, and tumultuary engagements,
as well by sea as by land. When the Romans suffered any loss, it
was commonly occasioned by their own cowardice or rashness; but
the superior talents of the emperor, his perfect knowledge of the
country, and his judicious choice of measures as well as
officers, assured on most occasions the success of his arms. The
immense booty, the fruit of so many victories, consisted for the
greater part of cattle and slaves. A select body of the Gothic
youth was received among the Imperial troops; the remainder was
sold into servitude; and so considerable was the number of female
captives that every soldier obtained to his share two or three
women. A circumstance from which we may conclude, that the
invaders entertained some designs of settlement as well as of
plunder; since even in a naval expedition, they were accompanied
by their families. III. The loss of their fleet, which was either
taken or sunk, had intercepted the retreat of the Goths. A vast
circle of Roman posts, distributed with skill, supported with
firmness, and gradually closing towards a common centre, forced
the barbarians into the most inaccessible parts of Mount Hæmus,
where they found a safe refuge, but a very scanty subsistence.
During the course of a rigorous winter in which they were
besieged by the emperor’s troops, famine and pestilence,
desertion and the sword, continually diminished the imprisoned
multitude. On the return of spring, nothing appeared in arms
except a hardy and desperate band, the remnant of that mighty
host which had embarked at the mouth of the Niester.
The pestilence which swept away such numbers of the barbarians,
at length proved fatal to their conqueror. After a short but
glorious reign of two years, Claudius expired at Sirmium, amidst
the tears and acclamations of his subjects. In his last illness,
he convened the principal officers of the state and army, and in
their presence recommended Aurelian, one of his generals, as the
most deserving of the throne, and the best qualified to execute
the great design which he himself had been permitted only to
undertake. The virtues of Claudius, his valor, affability,
justice, and temperance, his love of fame and of his country,
place him in that short list of emperors who added lustre to the
Roman purple. Those virtues, however, were celebrated with
peculiar zeal and complacency by the courtly writers of the age
of Constantine, who was the great-grandson of Crispus, the elder
brother of Claudius. The voice of flattery was soon taught to
repeat, that gods, who so hastily had snatched Claudius from the
earth, rewarded his merit and piety by the perpetual
establishment of the empire in his family.
Notwithstanding these oracles, the greatness of the Flavian
family (a name which it had pleased them to assume) was deferred
above twenty years, and the elevation of Claudius occasioned the
immediate ruin of his brother Quintilius, who possessed not
sufficient moderation or courage to descend into the private
station to which the patriotism of the late emperor had condemned
him. Without delay or reflection, he assumed the purple at
Aquileia, where he commanded a considerable force; and though his
reign lasted only seventeen days, * he had time to obtain the
sanction of the senate, and to experience a mutiny of the troops.
As soon as he was informed that the great army of the Danube had
invested the well-known valor of Aurelian with Imperial power, he
sunk under the fame and merit of his rival; and ordering his
veins to be opened, prudently withdrew himself from the unequal
contest.
The general design of this work will not permit us minutely to
relate the actions of every emperor after he ascended the throne,
much less to deduce the various fortunes of his private life. We
shall only observe, that the father of Aurelian was a peasant of
the territory of Sirmium, who occupied a small farm, the property
of Aurelius, a rich senator. His warlike son enlisted in the
troops as a common soldier, successively rose to the rank of a
centurion, a tribune, the præfect of a legion, the inspector of
the camp, the general, or, as it was then called, the duke, of a
frontier; and at length, during the Gothic war, exercised the
important office of commander-in-chief of the cavalry. In every
station he distinguished himself by matchless valor, rigid
discipline, and successful conduct. He was invested with the
consulship by the emperor Valerian, who styles him, in the
pompous language of that age, the deliverer of Illyricum, the
restorer of Gaul, and the rival of the Scipios. At the
recommendation of Valerian, a senator of the highest rank and
merit, Ulpius Crinitus, whose blood was derived from the same
source as that of Trajan, adopted the Pannonian peasant, gave him
his daughter in marriage, and relieved with his ample fortune the
honorable poverty which Aurelian had preserved inviolate.
The reign of Aurelian lasted only four years and about nine
months; but every instant of that short period was filled by some
memorable achievement. He put an end to the Gothic war, chastised
the Germans who invaded Italy, recovered Gaul, Spain, and Britain
out of the hands of Tetricus, and destroyed the proud monarchy
which Zenobia had erected in the East on the ruins of the
afflicted empire.
It was the rigid attention of Aurelian, even to the minutest
articles of discipline, which bestowed such uninterrupted success
on his arms. His military regulations are contained in a very
concise epistle to one of his inferior officers, who is commanded
to enforce them, as he wishes to become a tribune, or as he is
desirous to live. Gaming, drinking, and the arts of divination,
were severely prohibited. Aurelian expected that his soldiers
should be modest, frugal, and laborious; that their armor should
be constantly kept bright, their weapons sharp, their clothing
and horses ready for immediate service; that they should live in
their quarters with chastity and sobriety, without damaging the
cornfields, without stealing even a sheep, a fowl, or a bunch of
grapes, without exacting from their landlords either salt, or
oil, or wood. “The public allowance,” continues the emperor, “is
sufficient for their support; their wealth should be collected
from the spoils of the enemy, not from the tears of the
provincials.” A single instance will serve to display the rigor,
and even cruelty, of Aurelian. One of the soldiers had seduced
the wife of his host. The guilty wretch was fastened to two trees
forcibly drawn towards each other, and his limbs were torn
asunder by their sudden separation. A few such examples impressed
a salutary consternation. The punishments of Aurelian were
terrible; but he had seldom occasion to punish more than once the
same offence. His own conduct gave a sanction to his laws, and
the seditious legions dreaded a chief who had learned to obey,
and who was worthy to command.
Chapter XI: Reign Of Claudius, Defeat Of The Goths.—Part II.
The death of Claudius had revived the fainting spirit of the
Goths. The troops which guarded the passes of Mount Hæmus, and
the banks of the Danube, had been drawn away by the apprehension
of a civil war; and it seems probable that the remaining body of
the Gothic and Vandalic tribes embraced the favorable
opportunity, abandoned their settlements of the Ukraine,
traversed the rivers, and swelled with new multitudes the
destroying host of their countrymen. Their united numbers were at
length encountered by Aurelian, and the bloody and doubtful
conflict ended only with the approach of night. Exhausted by so
many calamities, which they had mutually endured and inflicted
during a twenty years’ war, the Goths and the Romans consented to
a lasting and beneficial treaty. It was earnestly solicited by
the barbarians, and cheerfully ratified by the legions, to whose
suffrage the prudence of Aurelian referred the decision of that
important question. The Gothic nation engaged to supply the
armies of Rome with a body of two thousand auxiliaries,
consisting entirely of cavalry, and stipulated in return an
undisturbed retreat, with a regular market as far as the Danube,
provided by the emperor’s care, but at their own expense. The
treaty was observed with such religious fidelity, that when a
party of five hundred men straggled from the camp in quest of
plunder, the king or general of the barbarians commanded that the
guilty leader should be apprehended and shot to death with darts,
as a victim devoted to the sanctity of their engagements. * It
is, however, not unlikely, that the precaution of Aurelian, who
had exacted as hostages the sons and daughters of the Gothic
chiefs, contributed something to this pacific temper. The youths
he trained in the exercise of arms, and near his own person: to
the damsels he gave a liberal and Roman education, and by
bestowing them in marriage on some of his principal officers,
gradually introduced between the two nations the closest and most
endearing connections.
But the most important condition of peace was understood rather
than expressed in the treaty. Aurelian withdrew the Roman forces
from Dacia, and tacitly relinquished that great province to the
Goths and Vandals. His manly judgment convinced him of the solid
advantages, and taught him to despise the seeming disgrace, of
thus contracting the frontiers of the monarchy. The Dacian
subjects, removed from those distant possessions which they were
unable to cultivate or defend, added strength and populousness to
the southern side of the Danube. A fertile territory, which the
repetition of barbarous inroads had changed into a desert, was
yielded to their industry, and a new province of Dacia still
preserved the memory of Trajan’s conquests. The old country of
that name detained, however, a considerable number of its
inhabitants, who dreaded exile more than a Gothic master. These
degenerate Romans continued to serve the empire, whose allegiance
they had renounced, by introducing among their conquerors the
first notions of agriculture, the useful arts, and the
conveniences of civilized life. An intercourse of commerce and
language was gradually established between the opposite banks of
the Danube; and after Dacia became an independent state, it often
proved the firmest barrier of the empire against the invasions of
the savages of the North. A sense of interest attached these more
settled barbarians to the alliance of Rome, and a permanent
interest very frequently ripens into sincere and useful
friendship. This various colony, which filled the ancient
province, and was insensibly blended into one great people, still
acknowledged the superior renown and authority of the Gothic
tribe, and claimed the fancied honor of a Scandinavian origin. At
the same time, the lucky though accidental resemblance of the
name of Getæ, * infused among the credulous Goths a vain
persuasion, that in a remote age, their own ancestors, already
seated in the Dacian provinces, had received the instructions of
Zamolxis, and checked the victorious arms of Sesostris and
Darius.
While the vigorous and moderate conduct of Aurelian restored the
Illyrian frontier, the nation of the Alemanni violated the
conditions of peace, which either Gallienus had purchased, or
Claudius had imposed, and, inflamed by their impatient youth,
suddenly flew to arms. Forty thousand horse appeared in the
field, and the numbers of the infantry doubled those of the
cavalry. The first objects of their avarice were a few cities of
the Rhætian frontier; but their hopes soon rising with success,
the rapid march of the Alemanni traced a line of devastation from
the Danube to the Po.
The emperor was almost at the same time informed of the
irruption, and of the retreat, of the barbarians. Collecting an
active body of troops, he marched with silence and celerity along
the skirts of the Hercynian forest; and the Alemanni, laden with
the spoils of Italy, arrived at the Danube, without suspecting,
that on the opposite bank, and in an advantageous post, a Roman
army lay concealed and prepared to intercept their return.
Aurelian indulged the fatal security of the barbarians, and
permitted about half their forces to pass the river without
disturbance and without precaution. Their situation and
astonishment gave him an easy victory; his skilful conduct
improved the advantage. Disposing the legions in a semicircular
form, he advanced the two horns of the crescent across the
Danube, and wheeling them on a sudden towards the centre,
enclosed the rear of the German host. The dismayed barbarians, on
whatsoever side they cast their eyes, beheld, with despair, a
wasted country, a deep and rapid stream, a victorious and
implacable enemy.
Reduced to this distressed condition, the Alemanni no longer
disdained to sue for peace. Aurelian received their ambassadors
at the head of his camp, and with every circumstance of martial
pomp that could display the greatness and discipline of Rome. The
legions stood to their arms in well-ordered ranks and awful
silence. The principal commanders, distinguished by the ensigns
of their rank, appeared on horseback on either side of the
Imperial throne. Behind the throne the consecrated images of the
emperor, and his predecessors, the golden eagles, and the various
titles of the legions, engraved in letters of gold, were exalted
in the air on lofty pikes covered with silver. When Aurelian
assumed his seat, his manly grace and majestic figure taught the
barbarians to revere the person as well as the purple of their
conqueror. The ambassadors fell prostrate on the ground in
silence. They were commanded to rise, and permitted to speak. By
the assistance of interpreters they extenuated their perfidy,
magnified their exploits, expatiated on the vicissitudes of
fortune and the advantages of peace, and, with an ill-timed
confidence, demanded a large subsidy, as the price of the
alliance which they offered to the Romans. The answer of the
emperor was stern and imperious. He treated their offer with
contempt, and their demand with indignation, reproached the
barbarians, that they were as ignorant of the arts of war as of
the laws of peace, and finally dismissed them with the choice
only of submitting to this unconditional mercy, or awaiting the
utmost severity of his resentment. Aurelian had resigned a
distant province to the Goths; but it was dangerous to trust or
to pardon these perfidious barbarians, whose formidable power
kept Italy itself in perpetual alarms.
Immediately after this conference, it should seem that some
unexpected emergency required the emperor’s presence in Pannonia.
He devolved on his lieutenants the care of finishing the
destruction of the Alemanni, either by the sword, or by the surer
operation of famine. But an active despair has often triumphed
over the indolent assurance of success. The barbarians, finding
it impossible to traverse the Danube and the Roman camp, broke
through the posts in their rear, which were more feebly or less
carefully guarded; and with incredible diligence, but by a
different road, returned towards the mountains of Italy.
Aurelian, who considered the war as totally extinguished,
received the mortifying intelligence of the escape of the
Alemanni, and of the ravage which they already committed in the
territory of Milan. The legions were commanded to follow, with as
much expedition as those heavy bodies were capable of exerting,
the rapid flight of an enemy whose infantry and cavalry moved
with almost equal swiftness. A few days afterwards, the emperor
himself marched to the relief of Italy, at the head of a chosen
body of auxiliaries, (among whom were the hostages and cavalry of
the Vandals,) and of all the Prætorian guards who had served in
the wars on the Danube.
As the light troops of the Alemanni had spread themselves from
the Alps to the Apennine, the incessant vigilance of Aurelian and
his officers was exercised in the discovery, the attack, and the
pursuit of the numerous detachments. Notwithstanding this
desultory war, three considerable battles are mentioned, in which
the principal force of both armies was obstinately engaged. The
success was various. In the first, fought near Placentia, the
Romans received so severe a blow, that, according to the
expression of a writer extremely partial to Aurelian, the
immediate dissolution of the empire was apprehended. The crafty
barbarians, who had lined the woods, suddenly attacked the
legions in the dusk of the evening, and, it is most probable,
after the fatigue and disorder of a long march. The fury of their
charge was irresistible; but, at length, after a dreadful
slaughter, the patient firmness of the emperor rallied his
troops, and restored, in some degree, the honor of his arms. The
second battle was fought near Fano in Umbria; on the spot which,
five hundred years before, had been fatal to the brother of
Hannibal. Thus far the successful Germans had advanced along the
Æmilian and Flaminian way, with a design of sacking the
defenceless mistress of the world. But Aurelian, who, watchful
for the safety of Rome, still hung on their rear, found in this
place the decisive moment of giving them a total and
irretrievable defeat. The flying remnant of their host was
exterminated in a third and last battle near Pavia; and Italy was
delivered from the inroads of the Alemanni.
Fear has been the original parent of superstition, and every new
calamity urges trembling mortals to deprecate the wrath of their
invisible enemies. Though the best hope of the republic was in
the valor and conduct of Aurelian, yet such was the public
consternation, when the barbarians were hourly expected at the
gates of Rome, that, by a decree of the senate the Sibylline
books were consulted. Even the emperor himself, from a motive
either of religion or of policy, recommended this salutary
measure, chided the tardiness of the senate, and offered to
supply whatever expense, whatever animals, whatever captives of
any nation, the gods should require. Notwithstanding this liberal
offer, it does not appear, that any human victims expiated with
their blood the sins of the Roman people. The Sibylline books
enjoined ceremonies of a more harmless nature, processions of
priests in white robes, attended by a chorus of youths and
virgins; lustrations of the city and adjacent country; and
sacrifices, whose powerful influence disabled the barbarians from
passing the mystic ground on which they had been celebrated.
However puerile in themselves, these superstitious arts were
subservient to the success of the war; and if, in the decisive
battle of Fano, the Alemanni fancied they saw an army of spectres
combating on the side of Aurelian, he received a real and
effectual aid from this imaginary reënforcement.
But whatever confidence might be placed in ideal ramparts, the
experience of the past, and the dread of the future, induced the
Romans to construct fortifications of a grosser and more
substantial kind. The seven hills of Rome had been surrounded by
the successors of Romulus with an ancient wall of more than
thirteen miles. The vast enclosure may seem disproportioned to
the strength and numbers of the infant-state. But it was
necessary to secure an ample extent of pasture and arable land
against the frequent and sudden incursions of the tribes of
Latium, the perpetual enemies of the republic. With the progress
of Roman greatness, the city and its inhabitants gradually
increased, filled up the vacant space, pierced through the
useless walls, covered the field of Mars, and, on every side,
followed the public highways in long and beautiful suburbs. The
extent of the new walls, erected by Aurelian, and finished in the
reign of Probus, was magnified by popular estimation to near
fifty, but is reduced by accurate measurement to about twenty-one
miles. It was a great but a melancholy labor, since the defence
of the capital betrayed the decline of monarchy. The Romans of a
more prosperous age, who trusted to the arms of the legions the
safety of the frontier camps, were very far from entertaining a
suspicion that it would ever become necessary to fortify the seat
of empire against the inroads of the barbarians.
The victory of Claudius over the Goths, and the success of
Aurelian against the Alemanni, had already restored to the arms
of Rome their ancient superiority over the barbarous nations of
the North. To chastise domestic tyrants, and to reunite the
dismembered parts of the empire, was a task reserved for the
second of those warlike emperors. Though he was acknowledged by
the senate and people, the frontiers of Italy, Africa, Illyricum,
and Thrace, confined the limits of his reign. Gaul, Spain, and
Britain, Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor, were still possessed by
two rebels, who alone, out of so numerous a list, had hitherto
escaped the dangers of their situation; and to complete the
ignominy of Rome, these rival thrones had been usurped by women.
A rapid succession of monarchs had arisen and fallen in the
provinces of Gaul. The rigid virtues of Posthumus served only to
hasten his destruction. After suppressing a competitor, who had
assumed the purple at Mentz, he refused to gratify his troops
with the plunder of the rebellious city; and in the seventh year
of his reign, became the victim of their disappointed avarice.
The death of Victorinus, his friend and associate, was occasioned
by a less worthy cause. The shining accomplishments of that
prince were stained by a licentious passion, which he indulged in
acts of violence, with too little regard to the laws of society,
or even to those of love. He was slain at Cologne, by a
conspiracy of jealous husbands, whose revenge would have appeared
more justifiable, had they spared the innocence of his son. After
the murder of so many valiant princes, it is somewhat remarkable,
that a female for a long time controlled the fierce legions of
Gaul, and still more singular, that she was the mother of the
unfortunate Victorinus. The arts and treasures of Victoria
enabled her successively to place Marius and Tetricus on the
throne, and to reign with a manly vigor under the name of those
dependent emperors. Money of copper, of silver, and of gold, was
coined in her name; she assumed the titles of Augusta and Mother
of the Camps: her power ended only with her life; but her life
was perhaps shortened by the ingratitude of Tetricus.
When, at the instigation of his ambitious patroness, Tetricus
assumed the ensigns of royalty, he was governor of the peaceful
province of Aquitaine, an employment suited to his character and
education. He reigned four or five years over Gaul, Spain, and
Britain, the slave and sovereign of a licentious army, whom he
dreaded, and by whom he was despised. The valor and fortune of
Aurelian at length opened the prospect of a deliverance. He
ventured to disclose his melancholy situation, and conjured the
emperor to hasten to the relief of his unhappy rival. Had this
secret correspondence reached the ears of the soldiers, it would
most probably have cost Tetricus his life; nor could he resign
the sceptre of the West without committing an act of treason
against himself. He affected the appearances of a civil war, led
his forces into the field, against Aurelian, posted them in the
most disadvantageous manner, betrayed his own counsels to his
enemy, and with a few chosen friends deserted in the beginning of
the action. The rebel legions, though disordered and dismayed by
the unexpected treachery of their chief, defended themselves with
desperate valor, till they were cut in pieces almost to a man, in
this bloody and memorable battle, which was fought near Chalons
in Champagne. The retreat of the irregular auxiliaries, Franks
and Batavians, whom the conqueror soon compelled or persuaded to
repass the Rhine, restored the general tranquillity, and the
power of Aurelian was acknowledged from the wall of Antoninus to
the columns of Hercules.
As early as the reign of Claudius, the city of Autun, alone and
unassisted, had ventured to declare against the legions of Gaul.
After a siege of seven months, they stormed and plundered that
unfortunate city, already wasted by famine. Lyons, on the
contrary, had resisted with obstinate disaffection the arms of
Aurelian. We read of the punishment of Lyons, but there is not
any mention of the rewards of Autun. Such, indeed, is the policy
of civil war: severely to remember injuries, and to forget the
most important services. Revenge is profitable, gratitude is
expensive.
Aurelian had no sooner secured the person and provinces of
Tetricus, than he turned his arms against Zenobia, the celebrated
queen of Palmyra and the East. Modern Europe has produced several
illustrious women who have sustained with glory the weight of
empire; nor is our own age destitute of such distinguished
characters. But if we except the doubtful achievements of
Semiramis, Zenobia is perhaps the only female whose superior
genius broke through the servile indolence imposed on her sex by
the climate and manners of Asia. She claimed her descent from the
Macedonian kings of Egypt, * equalled in beauty her ancestor
Cleopatra, and far surpassed that princess in chastity and valor.
Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely as well as the most heroic
of her sex. She was of a dark complexion (for in speaking of a
lady these trifles become important). Her teeth were of a pearly
whiteness, and her large black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire,
tempered by the most attractive sweetness. Her voice was strong
and harmonious. Her manly understanding was strengthened and
adorned by study. She was not ignorant of the Latin tongue, but
possessed in equal perfection the Greek, the Syriac, and the
Egyptian languages. She had drawn up for her own use an epitome
of oriental history, and familiarly compared the beauties of
Homer and Plato under the tuition of the sublime Longinus.
This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odenathus, who, from a
private station, raised himself to the dominion of the East. She
soon became the friend and companion of a hero. In the intervals
of war, Odenathus passionately delighted in the exercise of
hunting; he pursued with ardor the wild beasts of the desert,
lions, panthers, and bears; and the ardor of Zenobia in that
dangerous amusement was not inferior to his own. She had inured
her constitution to fatigue, disdained the use of a covered
carriage, generally appeared on horseback in a military habit,
and sometimes marched several miles on foot at the head of the
troops. The success of Odenathus was in a great measure ascribed
to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. Their splendid
victories over the Great King, whom they twice pursued as far as
the gates of Ctesiphon, laid the foundations of their united fame
and power. The armies which they commanded, and the provinces
which they had saved, acknowledged not any other sovereigns than
their invincible chiefs. The senate and people of Rome revered a
stranger who had avenged their captive emperor, and even the
insensible son of Valerian accepted Odenathus for his legitimate
colleague.
Chapter XI: Reign Of Claudius, Defeat Of The Goths.—Part III.
After a successful expedition against the Gothic plunderers of
Asia, the Palmyrenian prince returned to the city of Emesa in
Syria. Invincible in war, he was there cut off by domestic
treason, and his favorite amusement of hunting was the cause, or
at least the occasion, of his death. His nephew Mæonius presumed
to dart his javelin before that of his uncle; and though
admonished of his error, repeated the same insolence. As a
monarch, and as a sportsman, Odenathus was provoked, took away
his horse, a mark of ignominy among the barbarians, and chastised
the rash youth by a short confinement. The offence was soon
forgot, but the punishment was remembered; and Mæonius, with a
few daring associates, assassinated his uncle in the midst of a
great entertainment. Herod, the son of Odenathus, though not of
Zenobia, a young man of a soft and effeminate temper, was killed
with his father. But Mæonius obtained only the pleasure of
revenge by this bloody deed. He had scarcely time to assume the
title of Augustus, before he was sacrificed by Zenobia to the
memory of her husband.
With the assistance of his most faithful friends, she immediately
filled the vacant throne, and governed with manly counsels
Palmyra, Syria, and the East, above five years. By the death of
Odenathus, that authority was at an end which the senate had
granted him only as a personal distinction; but his martial
widow, disdaining both the senate and Gallienus, obliged one of
the Roman generals, who was sent against her, to retreat into
Europe, with the loss of his army and his reputation. Instead of
the little passions which so frequently perplex a female reign,
the steady administration of Zenobia was guided by the most
judicious maxims of policy. If it was expedient to pardon, she
could calm her resentment; if it was necessary to punish, she
could impose silence on the voice of pity. Her strict economy was
accused of avarice; yet on every proper occasion she appeared
magnificent and liberal. The neighboring states of Arabia,
Armenia, and Persia, dreaded her enmity, and solicited her
alliance. To the dominions of Odenathus, which extended from the
Euphrates to the frontiers of Bithynia, his widow added the
inheritance of her ancestors, the populous and fertile kingdom of
Egypt. * The emperor Claudius acknowledged her merit, and was
content, that, while _he_ pursued the Gothic war, _she_should
assert the dignity of the empire in the East. The conduct,
however, of Zenobia was attended with some ambiguity; not is it
unlikely that she had conceived the design of erecting an
independent and hostile monarchy. She blended with the popular
manners of Roman princes the stately pomp of the courts of Asia,
and exacted from her subjects the same adoration that was paid to
the successor of Cyrus. She bestowed on her three sons a Latin
education, and often showed them to the troops adorned with the
Imperial purple. For herself she reserved the diadem, with the
splendid but doubtful title of Queen of the East.
When Aurelian passed over into Asia, against an adversary whose
sex alone could render her an object of contempt, his presence
restored obedience to the province of Bithynia, already shaken by
the arms and intrigues of Zenobia. Advancing at the head of his
legions, he accepted the submission of Ancyra, and was admitted
into Tyana, after an obstinate siege, by the help of a perfidious
citizen. The generous though fierce temper of Aurelian abandoned
the traitor to the rage of the soldiers; a superstitious
reverence induced him to treat with lenity the countrymen of
Apollonius the philosopher. Antioch was deserted on his approach,
till the emperor, by his salutary edicts, recalled the fugitives,
and granted a general pardon to all who, from necessity rather
than choice, had been engaged in the service of the Palmyrenian
Queen. The unexpected mildness of such a conduct reconciled the
minds of the Syrians, and as far as the gates of Emesa, the
wishes of the people seconded the terror of his arms.
Zenobia would have ill deserved her reputation, had she
indolently permitted the emperor of the West to approach within a
hundred miles of her capital. The fate of the East was decided in
two great battles; so similar in almost every circumstance, that
we can scarcely distinguish them from each other, except by
observing that the first was fought near Antioch, and the second
near Emesa. In both the queen of Palmyra animated the armies by
her presence, and devolved the execution of her orders on Zabdas,
who had already signalized his military talents by the conquest
of Egypt. The numerous forces of Zenobia consisted for the most
part of light archers, and of heavy cavalry clothed in complete
steel. The Moorish and Illyrian horse of Aurelian were unable to
sustain the ponderous charge of their antagonists. They fled in
real or affected disorder, engaged the Palmyrenians in a
laborious pursuit, harassed them by a desultory combat, and at
length discomfited this impenetrable but unwieldy body of
cavalry. The light infantry, in the mean time, when they had
exhausted their quivers, remaining without protection against a
closer onset, exposed their naked sides to the swords of the
legions. Aurelian had chosen these veteran troops, who were
usually stationed on the Upper Danube, and whose valor had been
severely tried in the Alemannic war. After the defeat of Emesa,
Zenobia found it impossible to collect a third army. As far as
the frontier of Egypt, the nations subject to her empire had
joined the standard of the conqueror, who detached Probus, the
bravest of his generals, to possess himself of the Egyptian
provinces. Palmyra was the last resource of the widow of
Odenathus. She retired within the walls of her capital, made
every preparation for a vigorous resistance, and declared, with
the intrepidity of a heroine, that the last moment of her reign
and of her life should be the same.
Amid the barren deserts of Arabia, a few cultivated spots rise
like islands out of the sandy ocean. Even the name of Tadmor, or
Palmyra, by its signification in the Syriac as well as in the
Latin language, denoted the multitude of palm-trees which
afforded shade and verdure to that temperate region. The air was
pure, and the soil, watered by some invaluable springs, was
capable of producing fruits as well as corn. A place possessed of
such singular advantages, and situated at a convenient distance
between the Gulf of Persia and the Mediterranean, was soon
frequented by the caravans which conveyed to the nations of
Europe a considerable part of the rich commodities of India.
Palmyra insensibly increased into an opulent and independent
city, and connecting the Roman and the Parthian monarchies by the
mutual benefits of commerce, was suffered to observe an humble
neutrality, till at length, after the victories of Trajan, the
little republic sunk into the bosom of Rome, and flourished more
than one hundred and fifty years in the subordinate though
honorable rank of a colony. It was during that peaceful period,
if we may judge from a few remaining inscriptions, that the
wealthy Palmyrenians constructed those temples, palaces, and
porticos of Grecian architecture, whose ruins, scattered over an
extent of several miles, have deserved the curiosity of our
travellers. The elevation of Odenathus and Zenobia appeared to
reflect new splendor on their country, and Palmyra, for a while,
stood forth the rival of Rome: but the competition was fatal, and
ages of prosperity were sacrificed to a moment of glory.
In his march over the sandy desert between Emesa and Palmyra, the
emperor Aurelian was perpetually harassed by the Arabs; nor could
he always defend his army, and especially his baggage, from those
flying troops of active and daring robbers, who watched the
moment of surprise, and eluded the slow pursuit of the legions.
The siege of Palmyra was an object far more difficult and
important, and the emperor, who, with incessant vigor, pressed
the attacks in person, was himself wounded with a dart. “The
Roman people,” says Aurelian, in an original letter, “speak with
contempt of the war which I am waging against a woman. They are
ignorant both of the character and of the power of Zenobia. It is
impossible to enumerate her warlike preparations, of stones, of
arrows, and of every species of missile weapons. Every part of
the walls is provided with two or three _balistæ_ and artificial
fires are thrown from her military engines. The fear of
punishment has armed her with a desperate courage. Yet still I
trust in the protecting deities of Rome, who have hitherto been
favorable to all my undertakings.” Doubtful, however, of the
protection of the gods, and of the event of the siege, Aurelian
judged it more prudent to offer terms of an advantageous
capitulation; to the queen, a splendid retreat; to the citizens,
their ancient privileges. His proposals were obstinately
rejected, and the refusal was accompanied with insult.
The firmness of Zenobia was supported by the hope, that in a very
short time famine would compel the Roman army to repass the
desert; and by the reasonable expectation that the kings of the
East, and particularly the Persian monarch, would arm in the
defence of their most natural ally. But fortune, and the
perseverance of Aurelian, overcame every obstacle. The death of
Sapor, which happened about this time, distracted the councils of
Persia, and the inconsiderable succors that attempted to relieve
Palmyra were easily intercepted either by the arms or the
liberality of the emperor. From every part of Syria, a regular
succession of convoys safely arrived in the camp, which was
increased by the return of Probus with his victorious troops from
the conquest of Egypt. It was then that Zenobia resolved to fly.
She mounted the fleetest of her dromedaries, and had already
reached the banks of the Euphrates, about sixty miles from
Palmyra, when she was overtaken by the pursuit of Aurelian’s
light horse, seized, and brought back a captive to the feet of
the emperor. Her capital soon afterwards surrendered, and was
treated with unexpected lenity. The arms, horses, and camels,
with an immense treasure of gold, silver, silk, and precious
stones, were all delivered to the conqueror, who, leaving only a
garrison of six hundred archers, returned to Emesa, and employed
some time in the distribution of rewards and punishments at the
end of so memorable a war, which restored to the obedience of
Rome those provinces that had renounced their allegiance since
the captivity of Valerian.
When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence of Aurelian,
he sternly asked her, How she had presumed to rise in arms
against the emperors of Rome! The answer of Zenobia was a prudent
mixture of respect and firmness. “Because I disdained to consider
as Roman emperors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I
acknowledge as my conqueror and my sovereign.” But as female
fortitude is commonly artificial, so it is seldom steady or
consistent. The courage of Zenobia deserted her in the hour of
trial; she trembled at the angry clamors of the soldiers, who
called aloud for her immediate execution, forgot the generous
despair of Cleopatra, which she had proposed as her model, and
ignominiously purchased life by the sacrifice of her fame and her
friends. It was to their counsels, which governed the weakness of
her sex, that she imputed the guilt of her obstinate resistance;
it was on their heads that she directed the vengeance of the
cruel Aurelian. The fame of Longinus, who was included among the
numerous and perhaps innocent victims of her fear, will survive
that of the queen who betrayed, or the tyrant who condemned him.
Genius and learning were incapable of moving a fierce unlettered
soldier, but they had served to elevate and harmonize the soul of
Longinus. Without uttering a complaint, he calmly followed the
executioner, pitying his unhappy mistress, and bestowing comfort
on his afflicted friends.
Returning from the conquest of the East, Aurelian had already
crossed the Straits which divided Europe from Asia, when he was
provoked by the intelligence that the Palmyrenians had massacred
the governor and garrison which he had left among them, and again
erected the standard of revolt. Without a moment’s deliberation,
he once more turned his face towards Syria. Antioch was alarmed
by his rapid approach, and the helpless city of Palmyra felt the
irresistible weight of his resentment. We have a letter of
Aurelian himself, in which he acknowledges, that old men, women,
children, and peasants, had been involved in that dreadful
execution, which should have been confined to armed rebellion;
and although his principal concern seems directed to the
reëstablishment of a temple of the Sun, he discovers some pity
for the remnant of the Palmyrenians, to whom he grants the
permission of rebuilding and inhabiting their city. But it is
easier to destroy than to restore. The seat of commerce, of arts,
and of Zenobia, gradually sunk into an obscure town, a trifling
fortress, and at length a miserable village. The present citizens
of Palmyra, consisting of thirty or forty families, have erected
their mud cottages within the spacious court of a magnificent
temple.
Another and a last labor still awaited the indefatigable
Aurelian; to suppress a dangerous though obscure rebel, who,
during the revolt of Palmyra, had arisen on the banks of the
Nile. Firmus, the friend and ally, as he proudly styled himself,
of Odenathus and Zenobia, was no more than a wealthy merchant of
Egypt. In the course of his trade to India, he had formed very
intimate connections with the Saracens and the Blemmyes, whose
situation on either coast of the Red Sea gave them an easy
introduction into the Upper Egypt. The Egyptians he inflamed with
the hope of freedom, and, at the head of their furious multitude,
broke into the city of Alexandria, where he assumed the Imperial
purple, coined money, published edicts, and raised an army,
which, as he vainly boasted, he was capable of maintaining from
the sole profits of his paper trade. Such troops were a feeble
defence against the approach of Aurelian; and it seems almost
unnecessary to relate, that Firmus was routed, taken, tortured,
and put to death. Aurelian might now congratulate the senate, the
people, and himself, that in little more than three years, he had
restored universal peace and order to the Roman world.
Since the foundation of Rome, no general had more nobly deserved
a triumph than Aurelian; nor was a triumph ever celebrated with
superior pride and magnificence. The pomp was opened by twenty
elephants, four royal tigers, and above two hundred of the most
curious animals from every climate of the North, the East, and
the South. They were followed by sixteen hundred gladiators,
devoted to the cruel amusement of the amphitheatre. The wealth of
Asia, the arms and ensigns of so many conquered nations, and the
magnificent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian queen, were disposed
in exact symmetry or artful disorder. The ambassadors of the most
remote parts of the earth, of Æthiopia, Arabia, Persia,
Bactriana, India, and China, all remarkable by their rich or
singular dresses, displayed the fame and power of the Roman
emperor, who exposed likewise to the public view the presents
that he had received, and particularly a great number of crowns
of gold, the offerings of grateful cities. The victories of
Aurelian were attested by the long train of captives who
reluctantly attended his triumph, Goths, Vandals, Sarmatians,
Alemanni, Franks, Gauls, Syrians, and Egyptians. Each people was
distinguished by its peculiar inscription, and the title of
Amazons was bestowed on ten martial heroines of the Gothic nation
who had been taken in arms. But every eye, disregarding the crowd
of captives, was fixed on the emperor Tetricus and the queen of
the East. The former, as well as his son, whom he had created
Augustus, was dressed in Gallic trousers, a saffron tunic, and a
robe of purple. The beauteous figure of Zenobia was confined by
fetters of gold; a slave supported the gold chain which encircled
her neck, and she almost fainted under the intolerable weight of
jewels. She preceded on foot the magnificent chariot, in which
she once hoped to enter the gates of Rome. It was followed by two
other chariots, still more sumptuous, of Odenathus and of the
Persian monarch. The triumphal car of Aurelian (it had formerly
been used by a Gothic king) was drawn, on this memorable
occasion, either by four stags or by four elephants. The most
illustrious of the senate, the people, and the army, closed the
solemn procession. Unfeigned joy, wonder, and gratitude, swelled
the acclamations of the multitude; but the satisfaction of the
senate was clouded by the appearance of Tetricus; nor could they
suppress a rising murmur, that the haughty emperor should thus
expose to public ignominy the person of a Roman and a magistrate.
But however, in the treatment of his unfortunate rivals, Aurelian
might indulge his pride, he behaved towards them with a generous
clemency, which was seldom exercised by the ancient conquerors.
Princes who, without success, had defended their throne or
freedom, were frequently strangled in prison, as soon as the
triumphal pomp ascended the Capitol. These usurpers, whom their
defeat had convicted of the crime of treason, were permitted to
spend their lives in affluence and honorable repose. The emperor
presented Zenobia with an elegant villa at Tibur, or Tivoli,
about twenty miles from the capital; the Syrian queen insensibly
sunk into a Roman matron, her daughters married into noble
families, and her race was not yet extinct in the fifth century.
Tetricus and his son were reinstated in their rank and fortunes.
They erected on the Cælian hill a magnificent palace, and as soon
as it was finished, invited Aurelian to supper. On his entrance,
he was agreeably surprised with a picture which represented their
singular history. They were delineated offering to the emperor a
civic crown and the sceptre of Gaul, and again receiving at his
hands the ornaments of the senatorial dignity. The father was
afterwards invested with the government of Lucania, and Aurelian,
who soon admitted the abdicated monarch to his friendship and
conversation, familiarly asked him, Whether it were not more
desirable to administer a province of Italy, than to reign beyond
the Alps. The son long continued a respectable member of the
senate; nor was there any one of the Roman nobility more esteemed
by Aurelian, as well as by his successors.
So long and so various was the pomp of Aurelian’s triumph, that
although it opened with the dawn of day, the slow majesty of the
procession ascended not the Capitol before the ninth hour; and it
was already dark when the emperor returned to the palace. The
festival was protracted by theatrical representations, the games
of the circus, the hunting of wild beasts, combats of gladiators,
and naval engagements. Liberal donatives were distributed to the
army and people, and several institutions, agreeable or
beneficial to the city, contributed to perpetuate the glory of
Aurelian. A considerable portion of his oriental spoils was
consecrated to the gods of Rome; the Capitol, and every other
temple, glittered with the offerings of his ostentatious piety;
and the temple of the Sun alone received above fifteen thousand
pounds of gold. This last was a magnificent structure, erected by
the emperor on the side of the Quirinal hill, and dedicated, soon
after the triumph, to that deity whom Aurelian adored as the
parent of his life and fortunes. His mother had been an inferior
priestess in a chapel of the Sun; a peculiar devotion to the god
of Light was a sentiment which the fortunate peasant imbibed in
his infancy; and every step of his elevation, every victory of
his reign, fortified superstition by gratitude.
The arms of Aurelian had vanquished the foreign and domestic foes
of the republic. We are assured, that, by his salutary rigor,
crimes and factions, mischievous arts and pernicious connivance,
the luxurious growth of a feeble and oppressive government, were
eradicated throughout the Roman world. But if we attentively
reflect how much swifter is the progress of corruption than its
cure, and if we remember that the years abandoned to public
disorders exceeded the months allotted to the martial reign of
Aurelian, we must confess that a few short intervals of peace
were insufficient for the arduous work of reformation. Even his
attempt to restore the integrity of the coin was opposed by a
formidable insurrection. The emperor’s vexation breaks out in one
of his private letters. “Surely,” says he, “the gods have decreed
that my life should be a perpetual warfare. A sedition within the
walls has just now given birth to a very serious civil war. The
workmen of the mint, at the instigation of Felicissimus, a slave
to whom I had intrusted an employment in the finances, have risen
in rebellion. They are at length suppressed; but seven thousand
of my soldiers have been slain in the contest, of those troops
whose ordinary station is in Dacia, and the camps along the
Danube.” Other writers, who confirm the same fact, add likewise,
that it happened soon after Aurelian’s triumph; that the decisive
engagement was fought on the Cælian hill; that the workmen of the
mint had adulterated the coin; and that the emperor restored the
public credit, by delivering out good money in exchange for the
bad, which the people was commanded to bring into the treasury.
We might content ourselves with relating this extraordinary
transaction, but we cannot dissemble how much in its present form
it appears to us inconsistent and incredible. The debasement of
the coin is indeed well suited to the administration of
Gallienus; nor is it unlikely that the instruments of the
corruption might dread the inflexible justice of Aurelian. But
the guilt, as well as the profit, must have been confined to a
very few; nor is it easy to conceive by what arts they could arm
a people whom they had injured, against a monarch whom they had
betrayed. We might naturally expect that such miscreants should
have shared the public detestation with the informers and the
other ministers of oppression; and that the reformation of the
coin should have been an action equally popular with the
destruction of those obsolete accounts, which by the emperor’s
order were burnt in the forum of Trajan. In an age when the
principles of commerce were so imperfectly understood, the most
desirable end might perhaps be effected by harsh and injudicious
means; but a temporary grievance of such a nature can scarcely
excite and support a serious civil war. The repetition of
intolerable taxes, imposed either on the land or on the
necessaries of life, may at last provoke those who will not, or
who cannot, relinquish their country. But the case is far
otherwise in every operation which, by whatsoever expedients,
restores the just value of money. The transient evil is soon
obliterated by the permanent benefit, the loss is divided among
multitudes; and if a few wealthy individuals experience a
sensible diminution of treasure, with their riches, they at the
same time lose the degree of weight and importance which they
derived from the possession of them. However Aurelian might
choose to disguise the real cause of the insurrection, his
reformation of the coin could furnish only a faint pretence to a
party already powerful and discontented. Rome, though deprived of
freedom, was distracted by faction. The people, towards whom the
emperor, himself a plebeian, always expressed a peculiar
fondness, lived in perpetual dissension with the senate, the
equestrian order, and the Prætorian guards. Nothing less than the
firm though secret conspiracy of those orders, of the authority
of the first, the wealth of the second, and the arms of the
third, could have displayed a strength capable of contending in
battle with the veteran legions of the Danube, which, under the
conduct of a martial sovereign, had achieved the conquest of the
West and of the East.
Whatever was the cause or the object of this rebellion, imputed
with so little probability to the workmen of the mint, Aurelian
used his victory with unrelenting rigor. He was naturally of a
severe disposition. A peasant and a soldier, his nerves yielded
not easily to the impressions of sympathy, and he could sustain
without emotion the sight of tortures and death. Trained from his
earliest youth in the exercise of arms, he set too small a value
on the life of a citizen, chastised by military execution the
slightest offences, and transferred the stern discipline of the
camp into the civil administration of the laws. His love of
justice often became a blind and furious passion; and whenever he
deemed his own or the public safety endangered, he disregarded
the rules of evidence, and the proportion of punishments. The
unprovoked rebellion with which the Romans rewarded his services,
exasperated his haughty spirit. The noblest families of the
capital were involved in the guilt or suspicion of this dark
conspiracy. A nasty spirit of revenge urged the bloody
prosecution, and it proved fatal to one of the nephews of the
emperor. The executioners (if we may use the expression of a
contemporary poet) were fatigued, the prisons were crowded, and
the unhappy senate lamented the death or absence of its most
illustrious members. Nor was the pride of Aurelian less offensive
to that assembly than his cruelty. Ignorant or impatient of the
restraints of civil institutions, he disdained to hold his power
by any other title than that of the sword, and governed by right
of conquest an empire which he had saved and subdued.
It was observed by one of the most sagacious of the Roman
princes, that the talents of his predecessor Aurelian were better
suited to the command of an army, than to the government of an
empire. Conscious of the character in which nature and experience
had enabled him to excel, he again took the field a few months
after his triumph. It was expedient to exercise the restless
temper of the legions in some foreign war, and the Persian
monarch, exulting in the shame of Valerian, still braved with
impunity the offended majesty of Rome. At the head of an army,
less formidable by its numbers than by its discipline and valor,
the emperor advanced as far as the Straits which divide Europe
from Asia. He there experienced that the most absolute power is a
weak defence against the effects of despair. He had threatened
one of his secretaries who was accused of extortion; and it was
known that he seldom threatened in vain. The last hope which
remained for the criminal was to involve some of the principal
officers of the army in his danger, or at least in his fears.
Artfully counterfeiting his master’s hand, he showed them, in a
long and bloody list, their own names devoted to death. Without
suspecting or examining the fraud, they resolved to secure their
lives by the murder of the emperor. On his march, between
Byzantium and Heraclea, Aurelian was suddenly attacked by the
conspirators, whose stations gave them a right to surround his
person, and after a short resistance, fell by the hand of
Mucapor, a general whom he had always loved and trusted. He died
regretted by the army, detested by the senate, but universally
acknowledged as a warlike and fortunate prince, the useful,
though severe reformer of a degenerate state.
Chapter XII: Reigns Of Tacitus, Probus, Carus And His Sons.—Part
I.
Conduct Of The Army And Senate After The Death Of Aurelian.—Reigns Of
Tacitus, Probus, Carus, And His Sons.
Such was the unhappy condition of the Roman emperors, that,
whatever might be their conduct, their fate was commonly the
same. A life of pleasure or virtue, of severity or mildness, of
indolence or glory, alike led to an untimely grave; and almost
every reign is closed by the same disgusting repetition of
treason and murder. The death of Aurelian, however, is remarkable
by its extraordinary consequences. The legions admired, lamented,
and revenged their victorious chief. The artifice of his
perfidious secretary was discovered and punished. The deluded
conspirators attended the funeral of their injured sovereign,
with sincere or well-feigned contrition, and submitted to the
unanimous resolution of the military order, which was signified
by the following epistle: “The brave and fortunate armies to the
senate and people of Rome.—The crime of one man, and the error of
many, have deprived us of the late emperor Aurelian. May it
please you, venerable lords and fathers! to place him in the
number of the gods, and to appoint a successor whom your judgment
shall declare worthy of the Imperial purple! None of those whose
guilt or misfortune have contributed to our loss, shall ever
reign over us.” The Roman senators heard, without surprise, that
another emperor had been assassinated in his camp; they secretly
rejoiced in the fall of Aurelian; but the modest and dutiful
address of the legions, when it was communicated in full assembly
by the consul, diffused the most pleasing astonishment. Such
honors as fear and perhaps esteem could extort, they liberally
poured forth on the memory of their deceased sovereign. Such
acknowledgments as gratitude could inspire, they returned to the
faithful armies of the republic, who entertained so just a sense
of the legal authority of the senate in the choice of an emperor.
Yet, notwithstanding this flattering appeal, the most prudent of
the assembly declined exposing their safety and dignity to the
caprice of an armed multitude. The strength of the legions was,
indeed, a pledge of their sincerity, since those who may command
are seldom reduced to the necessity of dissembling; but could it
naturally be expected, that a hasty repentance would correct the
inveterate habits of fourscore years? Should the soldiers relapse
into their accustomed seditions, their insolence might disgrace
the majesty of the senate, and prove fatal to the object of its
choice. Motives like these dictated a decree, by which the
election of a new emperor was referred to the suffrage of the
military order.
The contention that ensued is one of the best attested, but most
improbable events in the history of mankind. The troops, as if
satiated with the exercise of power, again conjured the senate to
invest one of its own body with the Imperial purple. The senate
still persisted in its refusal; the army in its request. The
reciprocal offer was pressed and rejected at least three times,
and, whilst the obstinate modesty of either party was resolved to
receive a master from the hands of the other, eight months
insensibly elapsed; an amazing period of tranquil anarchy, during
which the Roman world remained without a sovereign, without a
usurper, and without a sedition. * The generals and magistrates
appointed by Aurelian continued to execute their ordinary
functions; and it is observed, that a proconsul of Asia was the
only considerable person removed from his office in the whole
course of the interregnum.
An event somewhat similar, but much less authentic, is supposed
to have happened after the death of Romulus, who, in his life and
character, bore some affinity with Aurelian. The throne was
vacant during twelve months, till the election of a Sabine
philosopher, and the public peace was guarded in the same manner,
by the union of the several orders of the state. But, in the time
of Numa and Romulus, the arms of the people were controlled by
the authority of the Patricians; and the balance of freedom was
easily preserved in a small and virtuous community. The decline
of the Roman state, far different from its infancy, was attended
with every circumstance that could banish from an interregnum the
prospect of obedience and harmony: an immense and tumultuous
capital, a wide extent of empire, the servile equality of
despotism, an army of four hundred thousand mercenaries, and the
experience of frequent revolutions. Yet, notwithstanding all
these temptations, the discipline and memory of Aurelian still
restrained the seditious temper of the troops, as well as the
fatal ambition of their leaders. The flower of the legions
maintained their stations on the banks of the Bosphorus, and the
Imperial standard awed the less powerful camps of Rome and of the
provinces. A generous though transient enthusiasm seemed to
animate the military order; and we may hope that a few real
patriots cultivated the returning friendship of the army and the
senate as the only expedient capable of restoring the republic to
its ancient beauty and vigor.
On the twenty-fifth of September, near eight months after the
murder of Aurelian, the consul convoked an assembly of the
senate, and reported the doubtful and dangerous situation of the
empire. He slightly insinuated, that the precarious loyalty of
the soldiers depended on the chance of every hour, and of every
accident; but he represented, with the most convincing eloquence,
the various dangers that might attend any further delay in the
choice of an emperor. Intelligence, he said, was already
received, that the Germans had passed the Rhine, and occupied
some of the strongest and most opulent cities of Gaul. The
ambition of the Persian king kept the East in perpetual alarms;
Egypt, Africa, and Illyricum, were exposed to foreign and
domestic arms, and the levity of Syria would prefer even a female
sceptre to the sanctity of the Roman laws. The consul, then
addressing himself to Tacitus, the first of the senators,
required his opinion on the important subject of a proper
candidate for the vacant throne.
If we can prefer personal merit to accidental greatness, we shall
esteem the birth of Tacitus more truly noble than that of kings.
He claimed his descent from the philosophic historian whose
writings will instruct the last generations of mankind. The
senator Tacitus was then seventy-five years of age. The long
period of his innocent life was adorned with wealth and honors.
He had twice been invested with the consular dignity, and enjoyed
with elegance and sobriety his ample patrimony of between two and
three millions sterling. The experience of so many princes, whom
he had esteemed or endured, from the vain follies of Elagabalus
to the useful rigor of Aurelian, taught him to form a just
estimate of the duties, the dangers, and the temptations of their
sublime station. From the assiduous study of his immortal
ancestor, he derived the knowledge of the Roman constitution, and
of human nature. The voice of the people had already named
Tacitus as the citizen the most worthy of empire. The ungrateful
rumor reached his ears, and induced him to seek the retirement of
one of his villas in Campania. He had passed two months in the
delightful privacy of Baiæ, when he reluctantly obeyed the
summons of the consul to resume his honorable place in the
senate, and to assist the republic with his counsels on this
important occasion.
He arose to speak, when from every quarter of the house, he was
saluted with the names of Augustus and emperor. “Tacitus
Augustus, the gods preserve thee! we choose thee for our
sovereign; to thy care we intrust the republic and the world.
Accept the empire from the authority of the senate. It is due to
thy rank, to thy conduct, to thy manners.” As soon as the tumult
of acclamations subsided, Tacitus attempted to decline the
dangerous honor, and to express his wonder, that they should
elect his age and infirmities to succeed the martial vigor of
Aurelian. “Are these limbs, conscript fathers! fitted to sustain
the weight of armor, or to practise the exercises of the camp?
The variety of climates, and the hardships of a military life,
would soon oppress a feeble constitution, which subsists only by
the most tender management. My exhausted strength scarcely
enables me to discharge the duty of a senator; how insufficient
would it prove to the arduous labors of war and government! Can
you hope, that the legions will respect a weak old man, whose
days have been spent in the shade of peace and retirement? Can
you desire that I should ever find reason to regret the favorable
opinion of the senate?”
The reluctance of Tacitus (and it might possibly be sincere) was
encountered by the affectionate obstinacy of the senate. Five
hundred voices repeated at once, in eloquent confusion, that the
greatest of the Roman princes, Numa, Trajan, Hadrian, and the
Antonines, had ascended the throne in a very advanced season of
life; that the mind, not the body, a sovereign, not a soldier,
was the object of their choice; and that they expected from him
no more than to guide by his wisdom the valor of the legions.
These pressing though tumultuary instances were seconded by a
more regular oration of Metius Falconius, the next on the
consular bench to Tacitus himself. He reminded the assembly of
the evils which Rome had endured from the vices of headstrong and
capricious youths, congratulated them on the election of a
virtuous and experienced senator, and, with a manly, though
perhaps a selfish, freedom, exhorted Tacitus to remember the
reasons of his elevation, and to seek a successor, not in his own
family, but in the republic. The speech of Falconius was enforced
by a general acclamation. The emperor elect submitted to the
authority of his country, and received the voluntary homage of
his equals. The judgment of the senate was confirmed by the
consent of the Roman people and of the Prætorian guards.
The administration of Tacitus was not unworthy of his life and
principles. A grateful servant of the senate, he considered that
national council as the author, and himself as the subject, of
the laws. He studied to heal the wounds which Imperial pride,
civil discord, and military violence, had inflicted on the
constitution, and to restore, at least, the image of the ancient
republic, as it had been preserved by the policy of Augustus, and
the virtues of Trajan and the Antonines. It may not be useless to
recapitulate some of the most important prerogatives which the
senate appeared to have regained by the election of Tacitus. 1.
To invest one of their body, under the title of emperor, with the
general command of the armies, and the government of the frontier
provinces. 2. To determine the list, or, as it was then styled,
the College of Consuls. They were twelve in number, who, in
successive pairs, each, during the space of two months, filled
the year, and represented the dignity of that ancient office. The
authority of the senate, in the nomination of the consuls, was
exercised with such independent freedom, that no regard was paid
to an irregular request of the emperor in favor of his brother
Florianus. “The senate,” exclaimed Tacitus, with the honest
transport of a patriot, “understand the character of a prince
whom they have chosen.” 3. To appoint the proconsuls and
presidents of the provinces, and to confer on all the magistrates
their civil jurisdiction. 4. To receive appeals through the
intermediate office of the præfect of the city from all the
tribunals of the empire. 5. To give force and validity, by their
decrees, to such as they should approve of the emperor’s edicts.
6. To these several branches of authority we may add some
inspection over the finances, since, even in the stern reign of
Aurelian, it was in their power to divert a part of the revenue
from the public service.
Circular epistles were sent, without delay, to all the principal
cities of the empire, Treves, Milan, Aquileia, Thessalonica,
Corinth, Athens, Antioch, Alexandria, and Carthage, to claim
their obedience, and to inform them of the happy revolution,
which had restored the Roman senate to its ancient dignity. Two
of these epistles are still extant. We likewise possess two very
singular fragments of the private correspondence of the senators
on this occasion. They discover the most excessive joy, and the
most unbounded hopes. “Cast away your indolence,” it is thus that
one of the senators addresses his friend, “emerge from your
retirements of Baiæ and Puteoli. Give yourself to the city, to
the senate. Rome flourishes, the whole republic flourishes.
Thanks to the Roman army, to an army truly Roman; at length we
have recovered our just authority, the end of all our desires. We
hear appeals, we appoint proconsuls, we create emperors; perhaps
too we may restrain them—to the wise a word is sufficient.” These
lofty expectations were, however, soon disappointed; nor, indeed,
was it possible that the armies and the provinces should long
obey the luxurious and unwarlike nobles of Rome. On the slightest
touch, the unsupported fabric of their pride and power fell to
the ground. The expiring senate displayed a sudden lustre, blazed
for a moment, and was extinguished forever.
All that had yet passed at Rome was no more than a theatrical
representation, unless it was ratified by the more substantial
power of the legions. Leaving the senators to enjoy their dream
of freedom and ambition, Tacitus proceeded to the Thracian camp,
and was there, by the Prætorian præfect, presented to the
assembled troops, as the prince whom they themselves had
demanded, and whom the senate had bestowed. As soon as the
præfect was silent, the emperor addressed himself to the soldiers
with eloquence and propriety. He gratified their avarice by a
liberal distribution of treasure, under the names of pay and
donative. He engaged their esteem by a spirited declaration, that
although his age might disable him from the performance of
military exploits, his counsels should never be unworthy of a
Roman general, the successor of the brave Aurelian.
Whilst the deceased emperor was making preparations for a second
expedition into the East, he had negotiated with the Alani, * a
Scythian people, who pitched their tents in the neighborhood of
the Lake Mæotis. Those barbarians, allured by presents and
subsidies, had promised to invade Persia with a numerous body of
light cavalry. They were faithful to their engagements; but when
they arrived on the Roman frontier, Aurelian was already dead,
the design of the Persian war was at least suspended, and the
generals, who, during the interregnum, exercised a doubtful
authority, were unprepared either to receive or to oppose them.
Provoked by such treatment, which they considered as trifling and
perfidious, the Alani had recourse to their own valor for their
payment and revenge; and as they moved with the usual swiftness
of Tartars, they had soon spread themselves over the provinces of
Pontus, Cappadocia, Cilicia, and Galatia. The legions, who from
the opposite shores of the Bosphorus could almost distinguish the
flames of the cities and villages, impatiently urged their
general to lead them against the invaders. The conduct of Tacitus
was suitable to his age and station. He convinced the barbarians
of the faith, as well as the power, of the empire. Great numbers
of the Alani, appeased by the punctual discharge of the
engagements which Aurelian had contracted with them, relinquished
their booty and captives, and quietly retreated to their own
deserts, beyond the Phasis. Against the remainder, who refused
peace, the Roman emperor waged, in person, a successful war.
Seconded by an army of brave and experienced veterans, in a few
weeks he delivered the provinces of Asia from the terror of the
Scythian invasion.
But the glory and life of Tacitus were of short duration.
Transported, in the depth of winter, from the soft retirement of
Campania to the foot of Mount Caucasus, he sunk under the
unaccustomed hardships of a military life. The fatigues of the
body were aggravated by the cares of the mind. For a while, the
angry and selfish passions of the soldiers had been suspended by
the enthusiasm of public virtue. They soon broke out with
redoubled violence, and raged in the camp, and even in the tent
of the aged emperor. His mild and amiable character served only
to inspire contempt, and he was incessantly tormented with
factions which he could not assuage, and by demands which it was
impossible to satisfy. Whatever flattering expectations he had
conceived of reconciling the public disorders, Tacitus soon was
convinced that the licentiousness of the army disdained the
feeble restraint of laws, and his last hour was hastened by
anguish and disappointment. It may be doubtful whether the
soldiers imbrued their hands in the blood of this innocent
prince. It is certain that their insolence was the cause of his
death. He expired at Tyana in Cappadocia, after a reign of only
six months and about twenty days.
The eyes of Tacitus were scarcely closed, before his brother
Florianus showed himself unworthy to reign, by the hasty
usurpation of the purple, without expecting the approbation of
the senate. The reverence for the Roman constitution, which yet
influenced the camp and the provinces, was sufficiently strong to
dispose them to censure, but not to provoke them to oppose, the
precipitate ambition of Florianus. The discontent would have
evaporated in idle murmurs, had not the general of the East, the
heroic Probus, boldly declared himself the avenger of the senate.
The contest, however, was still unequal; nor could the most able
leader, at the head of the effeminate troops of Egypt and Syria,
encounter, with any hopes of victory, the legions of Europe,
whose irresistible strength appeared to support the brother of
Tacitus. But the fortune and activity of Probus triumphed over
every obstacle. The hardy veterans of his rival, accustomed to
cold climates, sickened and consumed away in the sultry heats of
Cilicia, where the summer proved remarkably unwholesome. Their
numbers were diminished by frequent desertion; the passes of the
mountains were feebly defended; Tarsus opened its gates; and the
soldiers of Florianus, when they had permitted him to enjoy the
Imperial title about three months, delivered the empire from
civil war by the easy sacrifice of a prince whom they despised.
The perpetual revolutions of the throne had so perfectly erased
every notion of hereditary title, that the family of an
unfortunate emperor was incapable of exciting the jealousy of his
successors. The children of Tacitus and Florianus were permitted
to descend into a private station, and to mingle with the general
mass of the people. Their poverty indeed became an additional
safeguard to their innocence. When Tacitus was elected by the
senate, he resigned his ample patrimony to the public service; an
act of generosity specious in appearance, but which evidently
disclosed his intention of transmitting the empire to his
descendants. The only consolation of their fallen state was the
remembrance of transient greatness, and a distant hope, the child
of a flattering prophecy, that at the end of a thousand years, a
monarch of the race of Tacitus should arise, the protector of the
senate, the restorer of Rome, and the conqueror of the whole
earth.
The peasants of Illyricum, who had already given Claudius and
Aurelian to the sinking empire, had an equal right to glory in
the elevation of Probus. Above twenty years before, the emperor
Valerian, with his usual penetration, had discovered the rising
merit of the young soldier, on whom he conferred the rank of
tribune, long before the age prescribed by the military
regulations. The tribune soon justified his choice, by a victory
over a great body of Sarmatians, in which he saved the life of a
near relation of Valerian; and deserved to receive from the
emperor’s hand the collars, bracelets, spears, and banners, the
mural and the civic crown, and all the honorable rewards reserved
by ancient Rome for successful valor. The third, and afterwards
the tenth, legion were intrusted to the command of Probus, who,
in every step of his promotion, showed himself superior to the
station which he filled. Africa and Pontus, the Rhine, the
Danube, the Euphrates, and the Nile, by turns afforded him the
most splendid occasions of displaying his personal prowess and
his conduct in war. Aurelian was indebted for the honest courage
with which he often checked the cruelty of his master. Tacitus,
who desired by the abilities of his generals to supply his own
deficiency of military talents, named him commander-in-chief of
all the eastern provinces, with five times the usual salary, the
promise of the consulship, and the hope of a triumph. When Probus
ascended the Imperial throne, he was about forty-four years of
age; in the full possession of his fame, of the love of the army,
and of a mature vigor of mind and body.
His acknowledged merit, and the success of his arms against
Florianus, left him without an enemy or a competitor. Yet, if we
may credit his own professions, very far from being desirous of
the empire, he had accepted it with the most sincere reluctance.
“But it is no longer in my power,” says Probus, in a private
letter, “to lay down a title so full of envy and of danger. I
must continue to personate the character which the soldiers have
imposed upon me.” His dutiful address to the senate displayed the
sentiments, or at least the language, of a Roman patriot: “When
you elected one of your order, conscript fathers! to succeed the
emperor Aurelian, you acted in a manner suitable to your justice
and wisdom. For you are the legal sovereigns of the world, and
the power which you derive from your ancestors will descend to
your posterity. Happy would it have been, if Florianus, instead
of usurping the purple of his brother, like a private
inheritance, had expected what your majesty might determine,
either in his favor, or in that of any other person. The prudent
soldiers have punished his rashness. To me they have offered the
title of Augustus. But I submit to your clemency my pretensions
and my merits.” When this respectful epistle was read by the
consul, the senators were unable to disguise their satisfaction,
that Probus should condescend thus humbly to solicit a sceptre
which he already possessed. They celebrated with the warmest
gratitude his virtues, his exploits, and above all his
moderation. A decree immediately passed, without a dissenting
voice, to ratify the election of the eastern armies, and to
confer on their chief all the several branches of the Imperial
dignity: the names of Cæsar and Augustus, the title of Father of
his country, the right of making in the same day three motions in
the senate, the office of Pontifex Maximus, the tribunitian
power, and the proconsular command; a mode of investiture, which,
though it seemed to multiply the authority of the emperor,
expressed the constitution of the ancient republic. The reign of
Probus corresponded with this fair beginning. The senate was
permitted to direct the civil administration of the empire. Their
faithful general asserted the honor of the Roman arms, and often
laid at their feet crowns of gold and barbaric trophies, the
fruits of his numerous victories. Yet, whilst he gratified their
vanity, he must secretly have despised their indolence and
weakness. Though it was every moment in their power to repeal the
disgraceful edict of Gallienus, the proud successors of the
Scipios patiently acquiesced in their exclusion from all military
employments. They soon experienced, that those who refuse the
sword must renounce the sceptre.
Chapter XII: Reigns Of Tacitus, Probus, Carus And His Sons.—Part
II.
The strength of Aurelian had crushed on every side the enemies of
Rome. After his death they seemed to revive with an increase of
fury and of numbers. They were again vanquished by the active
vigor of Probus, who, in a short reign of about six years,
equalled the fame of ancient heroes, and restored peace and order
to every province of the Roman world. The dangerous frontier of
Rhætia he so firmly secured, that he left it without the
suspicion of an enemy. He broke the wandering power of the
Sarmatian tribes, and by the terror of his arms compelled those
barbarians to relinquish their spoil. The Gothic nation courted
the alliance of so warlike an emperor. He attacked the Isaurians
in their mountains, besieged and took several of their strongest
castles, and flattered himself that he had forever suppressed a
domestic foe, whose independence so deeply wounded the majesty of
the empire. The troubles excited by the usurper Firmus in the
Upper Egypt had never been perfectly appeased, and the cities of
Ptolemais and Coptos, fortified by the alliance of the Blemmyes,
still maintained an obscure rebellion. The chastisement of those
cities, and of their auxiliaries the savages of the South, is
said to have alarmed the court of Persia, and the Great King sued
in vain for the friendship of Probus. Most of the exploits which
distinguished his reign were achieved by the personal valor and
conduct of the emperor, insomuch that the writer of his life
expresses some amazement how, in so short a time, a single man
could be present in so many distant wars. The remaining actions
he intrusted to the care of his lieutenants, the judicious choice
of whom forms no inconsiderable part of his glory. Carus,
Diocletian, Maximian, Constantius, Galerius, Asclepiodatus,
Annibalianus, and a crowd of other chiefs, who afterwards
ascended or supported the throne, were trained to arms in the
severe school of Aurelian and Probus.
But the most important service which Probus rendered to the
republic was the deliverance of Gaul, and the recovery of seventy
flourishing cities oppressed by the barbarians of Germany, who,
since the death of Aurelian, had ravaged that great province with
impunity. Among the various multitude of those fierce invaders we
may distinguish, with some degree of clearness, three great
armies, or rather nations, successively vanquished by the valor
of Probus. He drove back the Franks into their morasses; a
descriptive circumstance from whence we may infer, that the
confederacy known by the manly appellation of _Free_, already
occupied the flat maritime country, intersected and almost
overflown by the stagnating waters of the Rhine, and that several
tribes of the Frisians and Batavians had acceded to their
alliance. He vanquished the Burgundians, a considerable people of
the Vandalic race. * They had wandered in quest of booty from the
banks of the Oder to those of the Seine. They esteemed themselves
sufficiently fortunate to purchase, by the restitution of all
their booty, the permission of an undisturbed retreat. They
attempted to elude that article of the treaty. Their punishment
was immediate and terrible. But of all the invaders of Gaul, the
most formidable were the Lygians, a distant people, who reigned
over a wide domain on the frontiers of Poland and Silesia. In the
Lygian nation, the Arii held the first rank by their numbers and
fierceness. “The Arii” (it is thus that they are described by the
energy of Tacitus) “study to improve by art and circumstances the
innate terrors of their barbarism. Their shields are black, their
bodies are painted black. They choose for the combat the darkest
hour of the night. Their host advances, covered as it were with a
funeral shade; nor do they often find an enemy capable of
sustaining so strange and infernal an aspect. Of all our senses,
the eyes are the first vanquished in battle.” Yet the arms and
discipline of the Romans easily discomfited these horrid
phantoms. The Lygii were defeated in a general engagement, and
Semno, the most renowned of their chiefs, fell alive into the
hands of Probus. That prudent emperor, unwilling to reduce a
brave people to despair, granted them an honorable capitulation,
and permitted them to return in safety to their native country.
But the losses which they suffered in the march, the battle, and
the retreat, broke the power of the nation: nor is the Lygian
name ever repeated in the history either of Germany or of the
empire. The deliverance of Gaul is reported to have cost the
lives of four hundred thousand of the invaders; a work of labor
to the Romans, and of expense to the emperor, who gave a piece of
gold for the head of every barbarian. But as the fame of warriors
is built on the destruction of human kind, we may naturally
suspect that the sanguinary account was multiplied by the avarice
of the soldiers, and accepted without any very severe examination
by the liberal vanity of Probus.
Since the expedition of Maximin, the Roman generals had confined
their ambition to a defensive war against the nations of Germany,
who perpetually pressed on the frontiers of the empire. The more
daring Probus pursued his Gallic victories, passed the Rhine, and
displayed his invincible eagles on the banks of the Elbe and the
Neckar. He was fully convinced that nothing could reconcile the
minds of the barbarians to peace, unless they experienced, in
their own country, the calamities of war. Germany, exhausted by
the ill success of the last emigration, was astonished by his
presence. Nine of the most considerable princes repaired to his
camp, and fell prostrate at his feet. Such a treaty was humbly
received by the Germans, as it pleased the conqueror to dictate.
He exacted a strict restitution of the effects and captives which
they had carried away from the provinces; and obliged their own
magistrates to punish the more obstinate robbers who presumed to
detain any part of the spoil. A considerable tribute of corn,
cattle, and horses, the only wealth of barbarians, was reserved
for the use of the garrisons which Probus established on the
limits of their territory. He even entertained some thoughts of
compelling the Germans to relinquish the exercise of arms, and to
trust their differences to the justice, their safety to the
power, of Rome. To accomplish these salutary ends, the constant
residence of an Imperial governor, supported by a numerous army,
was indispensably requisite. Probus therefore judged it more
expedient to defer the execution of so great a design; which was
indeed rather of specious than solid utility. Had Germany been
reduced into the state of a province, the Romans, with immense
labor and expense, would have acquired only a more extensive
boundary to defend against the fiercer and more active barbarians
of Scythia.
Instead of reducing the warlike natives of Germany to the
condition of subjects, Probus contented himself with the humble
expedient of raising a bulwark against their inroads. The country
which now forms the circle of Swabia had been left desert in the
age of Augustus by the emigration of its ancient inhabitants. The
fertility of the soil soon attracted a new colony from the
adjacent provinces of Gaul. Crowds of adventurers, of a roving
temper and of desperate fortunes, occupied the doubtful
possession, and acknowledged, by the payment of tithes, the
majesty of the empire. To protect these new subjects, a line of
frontier garrisons was gradually extended from the Rhine to the
Danube. About the reign of Hadrian, when that mode of defence
began to be practised, these garrisons were connected and covered
by a strong intrenchment of trees and palisades. In the place of
so rude a bulwark, the emperor Probus constructed a stone wall of
a considerable height, and strengthened it by towers at
convenient distances. From the neighborhood of Neustadt and
Ratisbon on the Danube, it stretched across hills, valleys,
rivers, and morasses, as far as Wimpfen on the Neckar, and at
length terminated on the banks of the Rhine, after a winding
course of near two hundred miles. This important barrier, uniting
the two mighty streams that protected the provinces of Europe,
seemed to fill up the vacant space through which the barbarians,
and particularly the Alemanni, could penetrate with the greatest
facility into the heart of the empire. But the experience of the
world, from China to Britain, has exposed the vain attempt of
fortifying any extensive tract of country. An active enemy, who
can select and vary his points of attack, must, in the end,
discover some feeble spot, or some unguarded moment. The
strength, as well as the attention, of the defenders is divided;
and such are the blind effects of terror on the firmest troops,
that a line broken in a single place is almost instantly
deserted. The fate of the wall which Probus erected may confirm
the general observation. Within a few years after his death, it
was overthrown by the Alemanni. Its scattered ruins, universally
ascribed to the power of the Dæmon, now serve only to excite the
wonder of the Swabian peasant.
Among the useful conditions of peace imposed by Probus on the
vanquished nations of Germany, was the obligation of supplying
the Roman army with sixteen thousand recruits, the bravest and
most robust of their youth. The emperor dispersed them through
all the provinces, and distributed this dangerous reënforcement,
in small bands of fifty or sixty each, among the national troops;
judiciously observing, that the aid which the republic derived
from the barbarians should be felt but not seen. Their aid was
now become necessary. The feeble elegance of Italy and the
internal provinces could no longer support the weight of arms.
The hardy frontiers of the Rhine and Danube still produced minds
and bodies equal to the labors of the camp; but a perpetual
series of wars had gradually diminished their numbers. The
infrequency of marriage, and the ruin of agriculture, affected
the principles of population, and not only destroyed the strength
of the present, but intercepted the hope of future, generations.
The wisdom of Probus embraced a great and beneficial plan of
replenishing the exhausted frontiers, by new colonies of captive
or fugitive barbarians, on whom he bestowed lands, cattle,
instruments of husbandry, and every encouragement that might
engage them to educate a race of soldiers for the service of the
republic. Into Britain, and most probably into Cambridgeshire, he
transported a considerable body of Vandals. The impossibility of
an escape reconciled them to their situation, and in the
subsequent troubles of that island, they approved themselves the
most faithful servants of the state. Great numbers of Franks and
Gepidæ were settled on the banks of the Danube and the Rhine. A
hundred thousand Bastarnæ, expelled from their own country,
cheerfully accepted an establishment in Thrace, and soon imbibed
the manners and sentiments of Roman subjects. But the
expectations of Probus were too often disappointed. The
impatience and idleness of the barbarians could ill brook the
slow labors of agriculture. Their unconquerable love of freedom,
rising against despotism, provoked them into hasty rebellions,
alike fatal to themselves and to the provinces; nor could these
artificial supplies, however repeated by succeeding emperors,
restore the important limit of Gaul and Illyricum to its ancient
and native vigor.
Of all the barbarians who abandoned their new settlements, and
disturbed the public tranquillity, a very small number returned
to their own country. For a short season they might wander in
arms through the empire; but in the end they were surely
destroyed by the power of a warlike emperor. The successful
rashness of a party of Franks was attended, however, with such
memorable consequences, that it ought not to be passed unnoticed.
They had been established by Probus, on the sea-coast of Pontus,
with a view of strengthening the frontier against the inroads of
the Alani. A fleet stationed in one of the harbors of the Euxine
fell into the hands of the Franks; and they resolved, through
unknown seas, to explore their way from the mouth of the Phasis
to that of the Rhine. They easily escaped through the Bosphorus
and the Hellespont, and cruising along the Mediterranean,
indulged their appetite for revenge and plunder by frequent
descents on the unsuspecting shores of Asia, Greece, and Africa.
The opulent city of Syracuse, in whose port the natives of Athens
and Carthage had formerly been sunk, was sacked by a handful of
barbarians, who massacred the greatest part of the trembling
inhabitants. From the island of Sicily the Franks proceeded to
the columns of Hercules, trusted themselves to the ocean, coasted
round Spain and Gaul, and steering their triumphant course
through the British Channel, at length finished their surprising
voyage, by landing in safety on the Batavian or Frisian shores.
The example of their success, instructing their countrymen to
conceive the advantages and to despise the dangers of the sea,
pointed out to their enterprising spirit a new road to wealth and
glory.
Notwithstanding the vigilance and activity of Probus, it was
almost impossible that he could at once contain in obedience
every part of his wide-extended dominions. The barbarians, who
broke their chains, had seized the favorable opportunity of a
domestic war. When the emperor marched to the relief of Gaul, he
devolved the command of the East on Saturninus. That general, a
man of merit and experience, was driven into rebellion by the
absence of his sovereign, the levity of the Alexandrian people,
the pressing instances of his friends, and his own fears; but
from the moment of his elevation, he never entertained a hope of
empire, or even of life. “Alas!” he said, “the republic has lost
a useful servant, and the rashness of an hour has destroyed the
services of many years. You know not,” continued he, “the misery
of sovereign power; a sword is perpetually suspended over our
head. We dread our very guards, we distrust our companions. The
choice of action or of repose is no longer in our disposition,
nor is there any age, or character, or conduct, that can protect
us from the censure of envy. In thus exalting me to the throne,
you have doomed me to a life of cares, and to an untimely fate.
The only consolation which remains is the assurance that I shall
not fall alone.” But as the former part of his prediction was
verified by the victory, so the latter was disappointed by the
clemency, of Probus. That amiable prince attempted even to save
the unhappy Saturninus from the fury of the soldiers. He had more
than once solicited the usurper himself to place some confidence
in the mercy of a sovereign who so highly esteemed his character,
that he had punished, as a malicious informer, the first who
related the improbable news of his disaffection. Saturninus
might, perhaps, have embraced the generous offer, had he not been
restrained by the obstinate distrust of his adherents. Their
guilt was deeper, and their hopes more sanguine, than those of
their experienced leader.
The revolt of Saturninus was scarcely extinguished in the East,
before new troubles were excited in the West, by the rebellion of
Bonosus and Proculus, in Gaul. The most distinguished merit of
those two officers was their respective prowess, of the one in
the combats of Bacchus, of the other in those of Venus, yet
neither of them was destitute of courage and capacity, and both
sustained, with honor, the august character which the fear of
punishment had engaged them to assume, till they sunk at length
beneath the superior genius of Probus. He used the victory with
his accustomed moderation, and spared the fortune, as well as the
lives of their innocent families.
The arms of Probus had now suppressed all the foreign and
domestic enemies of the state. His mild but steady administration
confirmed the re-ëstablishment of the public tranquillity; nor
was there left in the provinces a hostile barbarian, a tyrant, or
even a robber, to revive the memory of past disorders. It was
time that the emperor should revisit Rome, and celebrate his own
glory and the general happiness. The triumph due to the valor of
Probus was conducted with a magnificence suitable to his fortune,
and the people, who had so lately admired the trophies of
Aurelian, gazed with equal pleasure on those of his heroic
successor. We cannot, on this occasion, forget the desperate
courage of about fourscore gladiators, reserved, with near six
hundred others, for the inhuman sports of the amphitheatre.
Disdaining to shed their blood for the amusement of the populace,
they killed their keepers, broke from the place of their
confinement, and filled the streets of Rome with blood and
confusion. After an obstinate resistance, they were overpowered
and cut in pieces by the regular forces; but they obtained at
least an honorable death, and the satisfaction of a just revenge.
The military discipline which reigned in the camps of Probus was
less cruel than that of Aurelian, but it was equally rigid and
exact. The latter had punished the irregularities of the soldiers
with unrelenting severity, the former prevented them by employing
the legions in constant and useful labors. When Probus commanded
in Egypt, he executed many considerable works for the splendor
and benefit of that rich country. The navigation of the Nile, so
important to Rome itself, was improved; and temples, buildings,
porticos, and palaces, were constructed by the hands of the
soldiers, who acted by turns as architects, as engineers, and as
husbandmen. It was reported of Hannibal, that, in order to
preserve his troops from the dangerous temptations of idleness,
he had obliged them to form large plantations of olive-trees
along the coast of Africa. From a similar principle, Probus
exercised his legions in covering with rich vineyards the hills
of Gaul and Pannonia, and two considerable spots are described,
which were entirely dug and planted by military labor. One of
these, known under the name of Mount Almo, was situated near
Sirmium, the country where Probus was born, for which he ever
retained a partial affection, and whose gratitude he endeavored
to secure, by converting into tillage a large and unhealthy tract
of marshy ground. An army thus employed constituted perhaps the
most useful, as well as the bravest, portion of Roman subjects.
But in the prosecution of a favorite scheme, the best of men,
satisfied with the rectitude of their intentions, are subject to
forget the bounds of moderation; nor did Probus himself
sufficiently consult the patience and disposition of his fierce
legionaries. The dangers of the military profession seem only to
be compensated by a life of pleasure and idleness; but if the
duties of the soldier are incessantly aggravated by the labors of
the peasant, he will at last sink under the intolerable burden,
or shake it off with indignation. The imprudence of Probus is
said to have inflamed the discontent of his troops. More
attentive to the interests of mankind than to those of the army,
he expressed the vain hope, that, by the establishment of
universal peace, he should soon abolish the necessity of a
standing and mercenary force. The unguarded expression proved
fatal to him. In one of the hottest days of summer, as he
severely urged the unwholesome labor of draining the marshes of
Sirmium, the soldiers, impatient of fatigue, on a sudden threw
down their tools, grasped their arms, and broke out into a
furious mutiny. The emperor, conscious of his danger, took refuge
in a lofty tower, constructed for the purpose of surveying the
progress of the work. The tower was instantly forced, and a
thousand swords were plunged at once into the bosom of the
unfortunate Probus. The rage of the troops subsided as soon as it
had been gratified. They then lamented their fatal rashness,
forgot the severity of the emperor whom they had massacred, and
hastened to perpetuate, by an honorable monument, the memory of
his virtues and victories.
When the legions had indulged their grief and repentance for the
death of Probus, their unanimous consent declared Carus, his
Prætorian præfect, the most deserving of the Imperial throne.
Every circumstance that relates to this prince appears of a mixed
and doubtful nature. He gloried in the title of Roman Citizen;
and affected to compare the purity of his blood with the foreign
and even barbarous origin of the preceding emperors; yet the most
inquisitive of his contemporaries, very far from admitting his
claim, have variously deduced his own birth, or that of his
parents, from Illyricum, from Gaul, or from Africa. Though a
soldier, he had received a learned education; though a senator,
he was invested with the first dignity of the army; and in an age
when the civil and military professions began to be irrecoverably
separated from each other, they were united in the person of
Carus. Notwithstanding the severe justice which he exercised
against the assassins of Probus, to whose favor and esteem he was
highly indebted, he could not escape the suspicion of being
accessory to a deed from whence he derived the principal
advantage. He enjoyed, at least before his elevation, an
acknowledged character of virtue and abilities; but his austere
temper insensibly degenerated into moroseness and cruelty; and
the imperfect writers of his life almost hesitate whether they
shall not rank him in the number of Roman tyrants. When Carus
assumed the purple, he was about sixty years of age, and his two
sons, Carinus and Numerian had already attained the season of
manhood.
The authority of the senate expired with Probus; nor was the
repentance of the soldiers displayed by the same dutiful regard
for the civil power, which they had testified after the
unfortunate death of Aurelian. The election of Carus was decided
without expecting the approbation of the senate, and the new
emperor contented himself with announcing, in a cold and stately
epistle, that he had ascended the vacant throne. A behavior so
very opposite to that of his amiable predecessor afforded no
favorable presage of the new reign: and the Romans, deprived of
power and freedom, asserted their privilege of licentious
murmurs. The voice of congratulation and flattery was not,
however, silent; and we may still peruse, with pleasure and
contempt, an eclogue, which was composed on the accession of the
emperor Carus. Two shepherds, avoiding the noontide heat, retire
into the cave of Faunus. On a spreading beech they discover some
recent characters. The rural deity had described, in prophetic
verses, the felicity promised to the empire under the reign of so
great a prince. Faunus hails the approach of that hero, who,
receiving on his shoulders the sinking weight of the Roman world,
shall extinguish war and faction, and once again restore the
innocence and security of the golden age.
It is more than probable, that these elegant trifles never
reached the ears of a veteran general, who, with the consent of
the legions, was preparing to execute the long-suspended design
of the Persian war. Before his departure for this distant
expedition, Carus conferred on his two sons, Carinus and
Numerian, the title of Cæsar, and investing the former with
almost an equal share of the Imperial power, directed the young
prince first to suppress some troubles which had arisen in Gaul,
and afterwards to fix the seat of his residence at Rome, and to
assume the government of the Western provinces. The safety of
Illyricum was confirmed by a memorable defeat of the Sarmatians;
sixteen thousand of those barbarians remained on the field of
battle, and the number of captives amounted to twenty thousand.
The old emperor, animated with the fame and prospect of victory,
pursued his march, in the midst of winter, through the countries
of Thrace and Asia Minor, and at length, with his younger son,
Numerian, arrived on the confines of the Persian monarchy. There,
encamping on the summit of a lofty mountain, he pointed out to
his troops the opulence and luxury of the enemy whom they were
about to invade.
The successor of Artaxerxes, * Varanes, or Bahram, though he had
subdued the Segestans, one of the most warlike nations of Upper
Asia, was alarmed at the approach of the Romans, and endeavored
to retard their progress by a negotiation of peace. His
ambassadors entered the camp about sunset, at the time when the
troops were satisfying their hunger with a frugal repast. The
Persians expressed their desire of being introduced to the
presence of the Roman emperor. They were at length conducted to a
soldier, who was seated on the grass. A piece of stale bacon and
a few hard peas composed his supper. A coarse woollen garment of
purple was the only circumstance that announced his dignity. The
conference was conducted with the same disregard of courtly
elegance. Carus, taking off a cap which he wore to conceal his
baldness, assured the ambassadors, that, unless their master
acknowledged the superiority of Rome, he would speedily render
Persia as naked of trees as his own head was destitute of hair.
Notwithstanding some traces of art and preparation, we may
discover in this scene the manners of Carus, and the severe
simplicity which the martial princes, who succeeded Gallienus,
had already restored in the Roman camps. The ministers of the
Great King trembled and retired.
The threats of Carus were not without effect. He ravaged
Mesopotamia, cut in pieces whatever opposed his passage, made
himself master of the great cities of Seleucia and Ctesiphon,
(which seemed to have surrendered without resistance,) and
carried his victorious arms beyond the Tigris. He had seized the
favorable moment for an invasion. The Persian councils were
distracted by domestic factions, and the greater part of their
forces were detained on the frontiers of India. Rome and the East
received with transport the news of such important advantages.
Flattery and hope painted, in the most lively colors, the fall of
Persia, the conquest of Arabia, the submission of Egypt, and a
lasting deliverance from the inroads of the Scythian nations. But
the reign of Carus was destined to expose the vanity of
predictions. They were scarcely uttered before they were
contradicted by his death; an event attended with such ambiguous
circumstances, that it may be related in a letter from his own
secretary to the præfect of the city. “Carus,” says he, “our
dearest emperor, was confined by sickness to his bed, when a
furious tempest arose in the camp. The darkness which overspread
the sky was so thick, that we could no longer distinguish each
other; and the incessant flashes of lightning took from us the
knowledge of all that passed in the general confusion.
Immediately after the most violent clap of thunder, we heard a
sudden cry that the emperor was dead; and it soon appeared, that
his chamberlains, in a rage of grief, had set fire to the royal
pavilion; a circumstance which gave rise to the report that Carus
was killed by lightning. But, as far as we have been able to
investigate the truth, his death was the natural effect of his
disorder.”
Chapter XII: Reigns Of Tacitus, Probus, Carus And His Sons.—Part
III.
The vacancy of the throne was not productive of any disturbance.
The ambition of the aspiring generals was checked by their
natural fears, and young Numerian, with his absent brother
Carinus, were unanimously acknowledged as Roman emperors. The
public expected that the successor of Carus would pursue his
father’s footsteps, and, without allowing the Persians to recover
from their consternation, would advance sword in hand to the
palaces of Susa and Ecbatana. But the legions, however strong in
numbers and discipline, were dismayed by the most abject
superstition. Notwithstanding all the arts that were practised to
disguise the manner of the late emperor’s death, it was found
impossible to remove the opinion of the multitude, and the power
of opinion is irresistible. Places or persons struck with
lightning were considered by the ancients with pious horror, as
singularly devoted to the wrath of Heaven. An oracle was
remembered, which marked the River Tigris as the fatal boundary
of the Roman arms. The troops, terrified with the fate of Carus
and with their own danger, called aloud on young Numerian to obey
the will of the gods, and to lead them away from this
inauspicious scene of war. The feeble emperor was unable to
subdue their obstinate prejudice, and the Persians wondered at
the unexpected retreat of a victorious enemy.
The intelligence of the mysterious fate of the late emperor was
soon carried from the frontiers of Persia to Rome; and the
senate, as well as the provinces, congratulated the accession of
the sons of Carus. These fortunate youths were strangers,
however, to that conscious superiority, either of birth or of
merit, which can alone render the possession of a throne easy,
and, as it were, natural. Born and educated in a private station,
the election of their father raised them at once to the rank of
princes; and his death, which happened about sixteen months
afterwards, left them the unexpected legacy of a vast empire. To
sustain with temper this rapid elevation, an uncommon share of
virtue and prudence was requisite; and Carinus, the elder of the
brothers, was more than commonly deficient in those qualities. In
the Gallic war he discovered some degree of personal courage; but
from the moment of his arrival at Rome, he abandoned himself to
the luxury of the capital, and to the abuse of his fortune. He
was soft, yet cruel; devoted to pleasure, but destitute of taste;
and though exquisitely susceptible of vanity, indifferent to the
public esteem. In the course of a few months, he successively
married and divorced nine wives, most of whom he left pregnant;
and notwithstanding this legal inconstancy, found time to indulge
such a variety of irregular appetites, as brought dishonor on
himself and on the noblest houses of Rome. He beheld with
inveterate hatred all those who might remember his former
obscurity, or censure his present conduct. He banished, or put to
death, the friends and counsellors whom his father had placed
about him, to guide his inexperienced youth; and he persecuted
with the meanest revenge his school-fellows and companions who
had not sufficiently respected the latent majesty of the emperor.
With the senators, Carinus affected a lofty and regal demeanor,
frequently declaring, that he designed to distribute their
estates among the populace of Rome. From the dregs of that
populace he selected his favorites, and even his ministers. The
palace, and even the Imperial table, were filled with singers,
dancers, prostitutes, and all the various retinue of vice and
folly. One of his doorkeepers he intrusted with the government of
the city. In the room of the Prætorian præfect, whom he put to
death, Carinus substituted one of the ministers of his looser
pleasures. Another, who possessed the same, or even a more
infamous, title to favor, was invested with the consulship. A
confidential secretary, who had acquired uncommon skill in the
art of forgery, delivered the indolent emperor, with his own
consent from the irksome duty of signing his name.
When the emperor Carus undertook the Persian war, he was induced,
by motives of affection as well as policy, to secure the fortunes
of his family, by leaving in the hands of his eldest son the
armies and provinces of the West. The intelligence which he soon
received of the conduct of Carinus filled him with shame and
regret; nor had he concealed his resolution of satisfying the
republic by a severe act of justice, and of adopting, in the
place of an unworthy son, the brave and virtuous Constantius, who
at that time was governor of Dalmatia. But the elevation of
Constantius was for a while deferred; and as soon as the father’s
death had released Carinus from the control of fear or decency,
he displayed to the Romans the extravagancies of Elagabalus,
aggravated by the cruelty of Domitian.
The only merit of the administration of Carinus that history
could record, or poetry celebrate, was the uncommon splendor with
which, in his own and his brother’s name, he exhibited the Roman
games of the theatre, the circus, and the amphitheatre. More than
twenty years afterwards, when the courtiers of Diocletian
represented to their frugal sovereign the fame and popularity of
his munificent predecessor, he acknowledged that the reign of
Carinus had indeed been a reign of pleasure. But this vain
prodigality, which the prudence of Diocletian might justly
despise, was enjoyed with surprise and transport by the Roman
people. The oldest of the citizens, recollecting the spectacles
of former days, the triumphal pomp of Probus or Aurelian, and the
secular games of the emperor Philip, acknowledged that they were
all surpassed by the superior magnificence of Carinus.
The spectacles of Carinus may therefore be best illustrated by
the observation of some particulars, which history has
condescended to relate concerning those of his predecessors. If
we confine ourselves solely to the hunting of wild beasts,
however we may censure the vanity of the design or the cruelty of
the execution, we are obliged to confess that neither before nor
since the time of the Romans so much art and expense have ever
been lavished for the amusement of the people. By the order of
Probus, a great quantity of large trees, torn up by the roots,
were transplanted into the midst of the circus. The spacious and
shady forest was immediately filled with a thousand ostriches, a
thousand stags, a thousand fallow deer, and a thousand wild
boars; and all this variety of game was abandoned to the riotous
impetuosity of the multitude. The tragedy of the succeeding day
consisted in the massacre of a hundred lions, an equal number of
lionesses, two hundred leopards, and three hundred bears. The
collection prepared by the younger Gordian for his triumph, and
which his successor exhibited in the secular games, was less
remarkable by the number than by the singularity of the animals.
Twenty zebras displayed their elegant forms and variegated beauty
to the eyes of the Roman people. Ten elks, and as many
camelopards, the loftiest and most harmless creatures that wander
over the plains of Sarmatia and Æthiopia, were contrasted with
thirty African hyænas and ten Indian tigers, the most implacable
savages of the torrid zone. The unoffending strength with which
Nature has endowed the greater quadrupeds was admired in the
rhinoceros, the hippopotamus of the Nile, and a majestic troop of
thirty-two elephants. While the populace gazed with stupid wonder
on the splendid show, the naturalist might indeed observe the
figure and properties of so many different species, transported
from every part of the ancient world into the amphitheatre of
Rome. But this accidental benefit, which science might derive
from folly, is surely insufficient to justify such a wanton abuse
of the public riches. There occurs, however, a single instance in
the first Punic war, in which the senate wisely connected this
amusement of the multitude with the interest of the state. A
considerable number of elephants, taken in the defeat of the
Carthaginian army, were driven through the circus by a few
slaves, armed only with blunt javelins. The useful spectacle
served to impress the Roman soldier with a just contempt for
those unwieldy animals; and he no longer dreaded to encounter
them in the ranks of war.
The hunting or exhibition of wild beasts was conducted with a
magnificence suitable to a people who styled themselves the
masters of the world; nor was the edifice appropriated to that
entertainment less expressive of Roman greatness. Posterity
admires, and will long admire, the awful remains of the
amphitheatre of Titus, which so well deserved the epithet of
Colossal. It was a building of an elliptic figure, five hundred
and sixty-four feet in length, and four hundred and sixty-seven
in breadth, founded on fourscore arches, and rising, with four
successive orders of architecture, to the height of one hundred
and forty feet. The outside of the edifice was encrusted with
marble, and decorated with statues. The slopes of the vast
concave, which formed the inside, were filled and surrounded with
sixty or eighty rows of seats of marble likewise, covered with
cushions, and capable of receiving with ease about fourscore
thousand spectators. Sixty-four vomitories (for by that name the
doors were very aptly distinguished) poured forth the immense
multitude; and the entrances, passages, and staircases were
contrived with such exquisite skill, that each person, whether of
the senatorial, the equestrian, or the plebeian order, arrived at
his destined place without trouble or confusion. Nothing was
omitted, which, in any respect, could be subservient to the
convenience and pleasure of the spectators. They were protected
from the sun and rain by an ample canopy, occasionally drawn over
their heads. The air was continally refreshed by the playing of
fountains, and profusely impregnated by the grateful scent of
aromatics. In the centre of the edifice, the arena, or stage, was
strewed with the finest sand, and successively assumed the most
different forms. At one moment it seemed to rise out of the
earth, like the garden of the Hesperides, and was afterwards
broken into the rocks and caverns of Thrace. The subterraneous
pipes conveyed an inexhaustible supply of water; and what had
just before appeared a level plain, might be suddenly converted
into a wide lake, covered with armed vessels, and replenished
with the monsters of the deep. In the decoration of these scenes,
the Roman emperors displayed their wealth and liberality; and we
read on various occasions that the whole furniture of the
amphitheatre consisted either of silver, or of gold, or of amber.
The poet who describes the games of Carinus, in the character of
a shepherd, attracted to the capital by the fame of their
magnificence, affirms that the nets designed as a defence against
the wild beasts were of gold wire; that the porticos were gilded;
and that the belt or circle which divided the several ranks of
spectators from each other was studded with a precious mosaic of
beautiful stones.
In the midst of this glittering pageantry, the emperor Carinus,
secure of his fortune, enjoyed the acclamations of the people,
the flattery of his courtiers, and the songs of the poets, who,
for want of a more essential merit, were reduced to celebrate the
divine graces of his person. In the same hour, but at the
distance of nine hundred miles from Rome, his brother expired;
and a sudden revolution transferred into the hands of a stranger
the sceptre of the house of Carus.
The sons of Carus never saw each other after their father’s
death. The arrangements which their new situation required were
probably deferred till the return of the younger brother to Rome,
where a triumph was decreed to the young emperors for the
glorious success of the Persian war. It is uncertain whether they
intended to divide between them the administration, or the
provinces, of the empire; but it is very unlikely that their
union would have proved of any long duration. The jealousy of
power must have been inflamed by the opposition of characters. In
the most corrupt of times, Carinus was unworthy to live: Numerian
deserved to reign in a happier period. His affable manners and
gentle virtues secured him, as soon as they became known, the
regard and affections of the public. He possessed the elegant
accomplishments of a poet and orator, which dignify as well as
adorn the humblest and the most exalted station. His eloquence,
however it was applauded by the senate, was formed not so much on
the model of Cicero, as on that of the modern declaimers; but in
an age very far from being destitute of poetical merit, he
contended for the prize with the most celebrated of his
contemporaries, and still remained the friend of his rivals; a
circumstance which evinces either the goodness of his heart, or
the superiority of his genius. But the talents of Numerian were
rather of the contemplative than of the active kind. When his
father’s elevation reluctantly forced him from the shade of
retirement, neither his temper nor his pursuits had qualified him
for the command of armies. His constitution was destroyed by the
hardships of the Persian war; and he had contracted, from the
heat of the climate, such a weakness in his eyes, as obliged him,
in the course of a long retreat, to confine himself to the
solitude and darkness of a tent or litter. The administration of
all affairs, civil as well as military, was devolved on Arrius
Aper, the Prætorian præfect, who to the power of his important
office added the honor of being father-in-law to Numerian. The
Imperial pavilion was strictly guarded by his most trusty
adherents; and during many days, Aper delivered to the army the
supposed mandates of their invisible sovereign.
It was not till eight months after the death of Carus, that the
Roman army, returning by slow marches from the banks of the
Tigris, arrived on those of the Thracian Bosphorus. The legions
halted at Chalcedon in Asia, while the court passed over to
Heraclea, on the European side of the Propontis. But a report
soon circulated through the camp, at first in secret whispers,
and at length in loud clamors, of the emperor’s death, and of the
presumption of his ambitious minister, who still exercised the
sovereign power in the name of a prince who was no more. The
impatience of the soldiers could not long support a state of
suspense. With rude curiosity they broke into the Imperial tent,
and discovered only the corpse of Numerian. The gradual decline
of his health might have induced them to believe that his death
was natural; but the concealment was interpreted as an evidence
of guilt, and the measures which Aper had taken to secure his
election became the immediate occasion of his ruin. Yet, even in
the transport of their rage and grief, the troops observed a
regular proceeding, which proves how firmly discipline had been
reëstablished by the martial successors of Gallienus. A general
assembly of the army was appointed to be held at Chalcedon,
whither Aper was transported in chains, as a prisoner and a
criminal. A vacant tribunal was erected in the midst of the camp,
and the generals and tribunes formed a great military council.
They soon announced to the multitude that their choice had fallen
on Diocletian, commander of the domestics or body-guards, as the
person the most capable of revenging and succeeding their beloved
emperor. The future fortunes of the candidate depended on the
chance or conduct of the present hour. Conscious that the station
which he had filled exposed him to some suspicions, Diocletian
ascended the tribunal, and raising his eyes towards the Sun, made
a solemn profession of his own innocence, in the presence of that
all-seeing Deity. Then, assuming the tone of a sovereign and a
judge, he commanded that Aper should be brought in chains to the
foot of the tribunal. “This man,” said he, “is the murderer of
Numerian;” and without giving him time to enter on a dangerous
justification, drew his sword, and buried it in the breast of the
unfortunate præfect. A charge supported by such decisive proof
was admitted without contradiction, and the legions, with
repeated acclamations, acknowledged the justice and authority of
the emperor Diocletian.
Before we enter upon the memorable reign of that prince, it will
be proper to punish and dismiss the unworthy brother of Numerian.
Carinus possessed arms and treasures sufficient to support his
legal title to the empire. But his personal vices overbalanced
every advantage of birth and situation. The most faithful
servants of the father despised the incapacity, and dreaded the
cruel arrogance, of the son. The hearts of the people were
engaged in favor of his rival, and even the senate was inclined
to prefer a usurper to a tyrant. The arts of Diocletian inflamed
the general discontent; and the winter was employed in secret
intrigues, and open preparations for a civil war. In the spring,
the forces of the East and of the West encountered each other in
the plains of Margus, a small city of Mæsia, in the neighborhood
of the Danube. The troops, so lately returned from the Persian
war, had acquired their glory at the expense of health and
numbers; nor were they in a condition to contend with the
unexhausted strength of the legions of Europe. Their ranks were
broken, and, for a moment, Diocletian despaired of the purple and
of life. But the advantage which Carinus had obtained by the
valor of his soldiers, he quickly lost by the infidelity of his
officers. A tribune, whose wife he had seduced, seized the
opportunity of revenge, and, by a single blow, extinguished civil
discord in the blood of the adulterer.
Chapter XIII: Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates.—Part
I.
The Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates, Maximian, Galerius,
And Constantius.—General Reestablishment Of Order And Tranquillity.—The
Persian War, Victory, And Triumph.—The New Form Of
Administration.—Abdication And Retirement Of Diocletian And Maximian.
As the reign of Diocletian was more illustrious than that of any
of his predecessors, so was his birth more abject and obscure.
The strong claims of merit and of violence had frequently
superseded the ideal prerogatives of nobility; but a distinct
line of separation was hitherto preserved between the free and
the servile part of mankind. The parents of Diocletian had been
slaves in the house of Anulinus, a Roman senator; nor was he
himself distinguished by any other name than that which he
derived from a small town in Dalmatia, from whence his mother
deduced her origin. It is, however, probable that his father
obtained the freedom of the family, and that he soon acquired an
office of scribe, which was commonly exercised by persons of his
condition. Favorable oracles, or rather the consciousness of
superior merit, prompted his aspiring son to pursue the
profession of arms and the hopes of fortune; and it would be
extremely curious to observe the gradation of arts and accidents
which enabled him in the end to fulfil those oracles, and to
display that merit to the world. Diocletian was successively
promoted to the government of Mæsia, the honors of the
consulship, and the important command of the guards of the
palace. He distinguished his abilities in the Persian war; and
after the death of Numerian, the slave, by the confession and
judgment of his rivals, was declared the most worthy of the
Imperial throne. The malice of religious zeal, whilst it arraigns
the savage fierceness of his colleague Maximian, has affected to
cast suspicions on the personal courage of the emperor
Diocletian. It would not be easy to persuade us of the cowardice
of a soldier of fortune, who acquired and preserved the esteem of
the legions as well as the favor of so many warlike princes. Yet
even calumny is sagacious enough to discover and to attack the
most vulnerable part. The valor of Diocletian was never found
inadequate to his duty, or to the occasion; but he appears not to
have possessed the daring and generous spirit of a hero, who
courts danger and fame, disdains artifice, and boldly challenges
the allegiance of his equals. His abilities were useful rather
than splendid; a vigorous mind, improved by the experience and
study of mankind; dexterity and application in business; a
judicious mixture of liberality and economy, of mildness and
rigor; profound dissimulation, under the disguise of military
frankness; steadiness to pursue his ends; flexibility to vary his
means; and, above all, the great art of submitting his own
passions, as well as those of others, to the interest of his
ambition, and of coloring his ambition with the most specious
pretences of justice and public utility. Like Augustus,
Diocletian may be considered as the founder of a new empire. Like
the adopted son of Cæsar, he was distinguished as a statesman
rather than as a warrior; nor did either of those princes employ
force, whenever their purpose could be effected by policy.
The victory of Diocletian was remarkable for its singular
mildness. A people accustomed to applaud the clemency of the
conqueror, if the usual punishments of death, exile, and
confiscation, were inflicted with any degree of temper and
equity, beheld, with the most pleasing astonishment, a civil war,
the flames of which were extinguished in the field of battle.
Diocletian received into his confidence Aristobulus, the
principal minister of the house of Carus, respected the lives,
the fortunes, and the dignity, of his adversaries, and even
continued in their respective stations the greater number of the
servants of Carinus. It is not improbable that motives of
prudence might assist the humanity of the artful Dalmatian; of
these servants, many had purchased his favor by secret treachery;
in others, he esteemed their grateful fidelity to an unfortunate
master. The discerning judgment of Aurelian, of Probus, and of
Carus, had filled the several departments of the state and army
with officers of approved merit, whose removal would have injured
the public service, without promoting the interest of his
successor. Such a conduct, however, displayed to the Roman world
the fairest prospect of the new reign, and the emperor affected
to confirm this favorable prepossession, by declaring, that,
among all the virtues of his predecessors, he was the most
ambitious of imitating the humane philosophy of Marcus Antoninus.
The first considerable action of his reign seemed to evince his
sincerity as well as his moderation. After the example of Marcus,
he gave himself a colleague in the person of Maximian, on whom he
bestowed at first the title of Cæsar, and afterwards that of
Augustus. But the motives of his conduct, as well as the object
of his choice, were of a very different nature from those of his
admired predecessor. By investing a luxurious youth with the
honors of the purple, Marcus had discharged a debt of private
gratitude, at the expense, indeed, of the happiness of the state.
By associating a friend and a fellow-soldier to the labors of
government, Diocletian, in a time of public danger, provided for
the defence both of the East and of the West. Maximian was born a
peasant, and, like Aurelian, in the territory of Sirmium.
Ignorant of letters, careless of laws, the rusticity of his
appearance and manners still betrayed in the most elevated
fortune the meanness of his extraction. War was the only art
which he professed. In a long course of service he had
distinguished himself on every frontier of the empire; and though
his military talents were formed to obey rather than to command,
though, perhaps, he never attained the skill of a consummate
general, he was capable, by his valor, constancy, and experience,
of executing the most arduous undertakings. Nor were the vices of
Maximian less useful to his benefactor. Insensible to pity, and
fearless of consequences, he was the ready instrument of every
act of cruelty which the policy of that artful prince might at
once suggest and disclaim. As soon as a bloody sacrifice had been
offered to prudence or to revenge, Diocletian, by his seasonable
intercession, saved the remaining few whom he had never designed
to punish, gently censured the severity of his stern colleague,
and enjoyed the comparison of a golden and an iron age, which was
universally applied to their opposite maxims of government.
Notwithstanding the difference of their characters, the two
emperors maintained, on the throne, that friendship which they
had contracted in a private station. The haughty, turbulent
spirit of Maximian, so fatal, afterwards, to himself and to the
public peace, was accustomed to respect the genius of Diocletian,
and confessed the ascendant of reason over brutal violence. From
a motive either of pride or superstition, the two emperors
assumed the titles, the one of Jovius, the other of Herculius.
Whilst the motion of the world (such was the language of their
venal orators) was maintained by the all-seeing wisdom of
Jupiter, the invincible arm of Hercules purged the earth from
monsters and tyrants.
But even the omnipotence of Jovius and Herculius was insufficient
to sustain the weight of the public administration. The prudence
of Diocletian discovered that the empire, assailed on every side
by the barbarians, required on every side the presence of a great
army, and of an emperor. With this view, he resolved once more to
divide his unwieldy power, and with the inferior title of Cæsars,
* to confer on two generals of approved merit an unequal share of
the sovereign authority. Galerius, surnamed Armentarius, from his
original profession of a herdsman, and Constantius, who from his
pale complexion had acquired the denomination of Chlorus, were
the two persons invested with the second honors of the Imperial
purple. In describing the country, extraction, and manners of
Herculius, we have already delineated those of Galerius, who was
often, and not improperly, styled the younger Maximian, though,
in many instances both of virtue and ability, he appears to have
possessed a manifest superiority over the elder. The birth of
Constantius was less obscure than that of his colleagues.
Eutropius, his father, was one of the most considerable nobles of
Dardania, and his mother was the niece of the emperor Claudius.
Although the youth of Constantius had been spent in arms, he was
endowed with a mild and amiable disposition, and the popular
voice had long since acknowledged him worthy of the rank which he
at last attained. To strengthen the bonds of political, by those
of domestic, union, each of the emperors assumed the character of
a father to one of the Cæsars, Diocletian to Galerius, and
Maximian to Constantius; and each, obliging them to repudiate
their former wives, bestowed his daughter in marriage or his
adopted son. These four princes distributed among themselves the
wide extent of the Roman empire. The defence of Gaul, Spain, and
Britain, was intrusted to Constantius: Galerius was stationed on
the banks of the Danube, as the safeguard of the Illyrian
provinces. Italy and Africa were considered as the department of
Maximian; and for his peculiar portion, Diocletian reserved
Thrace, Egypt, and the rich countries of Asia. Every one was
sovereign with his own jurisdiction; but their united authority
extended over the whole monarchy, and each of them was prepared
to assist his colleagues with his counsels or presence. The
Cæsars, in their exalted rank, revered the majesty of the
emperors, and the three younger princes invariably acknowledged,
by their gratitude and obedience, the common parent of their
fortunes. The suspicious jealousy of power found not any place
among them; and the singular happiness of their union has been
compared to a chorus of music, whose harmony was regulated and
maintained by the skilful hand of the first artist.
This important measure was not carried into execution till about
six years after the association of Maximian, and that interval of
time had not been destitute of memorable incidents. But we have
preferred, for the sake of perspicuity, first to describe the
more perfect form of Diocletian’s government, and afterwards to
relate the actions of his reign, following rather the natural
order of the events, than the dates of a very doubtful
chronology.
The first exploit of Maximian, though it is mentioned in a few
words by our imperfect writers, deserves, from its singularity,
to be recorded in a history of human manners. He suppressed the
peasants of Gaul, who, under the appellation of Bagaudæ, had
risen in a general insurrection; very similar to those which in
the fourteenth century successively afflicted both France and
England. It should seem that very many of those institutions,
referred by an easy solution to the feudal system, are derived
from the Celtic barbarians. When Cæsar subdued the Gauls, that
great nation was already divided into three orders of men; the
clergy, the nobility, and the common people. The first governed
by superstition, the second by arms, but the third and last was
not of any weight or account in their public councils. It was
very natural for the plebeians, oppressed by debt, or
apprehensive of injuries, to implore the protection of some
powerful chief, who acquired over their persons and property the
same absolute right as, among the Greeks and Romans, a master
exercised over his slaves. The greatest part of the nation was
gradually reduced into a state of servitude; compelled to
perpetual labor on the estates of the Gallic nobles, and confined
to the soil, either by the real weight of fetters, or by the no
less cruel and forcible restraints of the laws. During the long
series of troubles which agitated Gaul, from the reign of
Gallienus to that of Diocletian, the condition of these servile
peasants was peculiarly miserable; and they experienced at once
the complicated tyranny of their masters, of the barbarians, of
the soldiers, and of the officers of the revenue.
Their patience was at last provoked into despair. On every side
they rose in multitudes, armed with rustic weapons, and with
irresistible fury. The ploughman became a foot soldier, the
shepherd mounted on horseback, the deserted villages and open
towns were abandoned to the flames, and the ravages of the
peasants equalled those of the fiercest barbarians. They asserted
the natural rights of men, but they asserted those rights with
the most savage cruelty. The Gallic nobles, justly dreading their
revenge, either took refuge in the fortified cities, or fled from
the wild scene of anarchy. The peasants reigned without control;
and two of their most daring leaders had the folly and rashness
to assume the Imperial ornaments. Their power soon expired at the
approach of the legions. The strength of union and discipline
obtained an easy victory over a licentious and divided multitude.
A severe retaliation was inflicted on the peasants who were found
in arms; the affrighted remnant returned to their respective
habitations, and their unsuccessful effort for freedom served
only to confirm their slavery. So strong and uniform is the
current of popular passions, that we might almost venture, from
very scanty materials, to relate the particulars of this war; but
we are not disposed to believe that the principal leaders,
Ælianus and Amandus, were Christians, or to insinuate, that the
rebellion, as it happened in the time of Luther, was occasioned
by the abuse of those benevolent principles of Christianity,
which inculcate the natural freedom of mankind.
Maximian had no sooner recovered Gaul from the hands of the
peasants, than he lost Britain by the usurpation of Carausius.
Ever since the rash but successful enterprise of the Franks under
the reign of Probus, their daring countrymen had constructed
squadrons of light brigantines, in which they incessantly ravaged
the provinces adjacent to the ocean. To repel their desultory
incursions, it was found necessary to create a naval power; and
the judicious measure was prosecuted with prudence and vigor.
Gessoriacum, or Boulogne, in the straits of the British Channel,
was chosen by the emperor for the station of the Roman fleet; and
the command of it was intrusted to Carausius, a Menapian of the
meanest origin, but who had long signalized his skill as a pilot,
and his valor as a soldier. The integrity of the new admiral
corresponded not with his abilities. When the German pirates
sailed from their own harbors, he connived at their passage, but
he diligently intercepted their return, and appropriated to his
own use an ample share of the spoil which they had acquired. The
wealth of Carausius was, on this occasion, very justly considered
as an evidence of his guilt; and Maximian had already given
orders for his death. But the crafty Menapian foresaw and
prevented the severity of the emperor. By his liberality he had
attached to his fortunes the fleet which he commanded, and
secured the barbarians in his interest. From the port of Boulogne
he sailed over to Britain, persuaded the legion, and the
auxiliaries which guarded that island, to embrace his party, and
boldly assuming, with the Imperial purple, the title of Augustus,
defied the justice and the arms of his injured sovereign.
When Britain was thus dismembered from the empire, its importance
was sensibly felt, and its loss sincerely lamented. The Romans
celebrated, and perhaps magnified, the extent of that noble
island, provided on every side with convenient harbors; the
temperature of the climate, and the fertility of the soil, alike
adapted for the production of corn or of vines; the valuable
minerals with which it abounded; its rich pastures covered with
innumerable flocks, and its woods free from wild beasts or
venomous serpents. Above all, they regretted the large amount of
the revenue of Britain, whilst they confessed, that such a
province well deserved to become the seat of an independent
monarchy. During the space of seven years it was possessed by
Carausius; and fortune continued propitious to a rebellion
supported with courage and ability. The British emperor defended
the frontiers of his dominions against the Caledonians of the
North, invited, from the continent, a great number of skilful
artists, and displayed, on a variety of coins that are still
extant, his taste and opulence. Born on the confines of the
Franks, he courted the friendship of that formidable people, by
the flattering imitation of their dress and manners. The bravest
of their youth he enlisted among his land or sea forces; and, in
return for their useful alliance, he communicated to the
barbarians the dangerous knowledge of military and naval arts.
Carausius still preserved the possession of Boulogne and the
adjacent country. His fleets rode triumphant in the channel,
commanded the mouths of the Seine and of the Rhine, ravaged the
coasts of the ocean, and diffused beyond the columns of Hercules
the terror of his name. Under his command, Britain, destined in a
future age to obtain the empire of the sea, already assumed its
natural and respectable station of a maritime power.
By seizing the fleet of Boulogne, Carausius had deprived his
master of the means of pursuit and revenge. And when, after a
vast expense of time and labor, a new armament was launched into
the water, the Imperial troops, unaccustomed to that element,
were easily baffled and defeated by the veteran sailors of the
usurper. This disappointed effort was soon productive of a treaty
of peace. Diocletian and his colleague, who justly dreaded the
enterprising spirit of Carausius, resigned to him the sovereignty
of Britain, and reluctantly admitted their perfidious servant to
a participation of the Imperial honors. But the adoption of the
two Cæsars restored new vigor to the Romans arms; and while the
Rhine was guarded by the presence of Maximian, his brave
associate Constantius assumed the conduct of the British war. His
first enterprise was against the important place of Boulogne. A
stupendous mole, raised across the entrance of the harbor,
intercepted all hopes of relief. The town surrendered after an
obstinate defence; and a considerable part of the naval strength
of Carausius fell into the hands of the besiegers. During the
three years which Constantius employed in preparing a fleet
adequate to the conquest of Britain, he secured the coast of
Gaul, invaded the country of the Franks, and deprived the usurper
of the assistance of those powerful allies.
Before the preparations were finished, Constantius received the
intelligence of the tyrant’s death, and it was considered as a
sure presage of the approaching victory. The servants of
Carausius imitated the example of treason which he had given. He
was murdered by his first minister, Allectus, and the assassin
succeeded to his power and to his danger. But he possessed not
equal abilities either to exercise the one or to repel the other.
He beheld, with anxious terror, the opposite shores of the
continent already filled with arms, with troops, and with
vessels; for Constantius had very prudently divided his forces,
that he might likewise divide the attention and resistance of the
enemy. The attack was at length made by the principal squadron,
which, under the command of the præfect Asclepiodatus, an officer
of distinguished merit, had been assembled in the north of the
Seine. So imperfect in those times was the art of navigation,
that orators have celebrated the daring courage of the Romans,
who ventured to set sail with a side-wind, and on a stormy day.
The weather proved favorable to their enterprise. Under the cover
of a thick fog, they escaped the fleet of Allectus, which had
been stationed off the Isle of Wight to receive them, landed in
safety on some part of the western coast, and convinced the
Britons, that a superiority of naval strength will not always
protect their country from a foreign invasion. Asclepiodatus had
no sooner disembarked the imperial troops, then he set fire to
his ships; and, as the expedition proved fortunate, his heroic
conduct was universally admired. The usurper had posted himself
near London, to expect the formidable attack of Constantius, who
commanded in person the fleet of Boulogne; but the descent of a
new enemy required his immediate presence in the West. He
performed this long march in so precipitate a manner, that he
encountered the whole force of the præfect with a small body of
harassed and disheartened troops. The engagement was soon
terminated by the total defeat and death of Allectus; a single
battle, as it has often happened, decided the fate of this great
island; and when Constantius landed on the shores of Kent, he
found them covered with obedient subjects. Their acclamations
were loud and unanimous; and the virtues of the conqueror may
induce us to believe, that they sincerely rejoiced in a
revolution, which, after a separation of ten years, restored
Britain to the body of the Roman empire.
Chapter XIII: Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates.—Part
II.
Britain had none but domestic enemies to dread; and as long as
the governors preserved their fidelity, and the troops their
discipline, the incursions of the naked savages of Scotland or
Ireland could never materially affect the safety of the province.
The peace of the continent, and the defence of the principal
rivers which bounded the empire, were objects of far greater
difficulty and importance. The policy of Diocletian, which
inspired the councils of his associates, provided for the public
tranquility, by encouraging a spirit of dissension among the
barbarians, and by strengthening the fortifications of the Roman
limit. In the East he fixed a line of camps from Egypt to the
Persian dominions, and for every camp, he instituted an adequate
number of stationary troops, commanded by their respective
officers, and supplied with every kind of arms, from the new
arsenals which he had formed at Antioch, Emesa, and Damascus. Nor
was the precaution of the emperor less watchful against the
well-known valor of the barbarians of Europe. From the mouth of
the Rhine to that of the Danube, the ancient camps, towns, and
citidels, were diligently reëstablished, and, in the most exposed
places, new ones were skilfully constructed: the strictest
vigilance was introduced among the garrisons of the frontier, and
every expedient was practised that could render the long chain of
fortifications firm and impenetrable. A barrier so respectable
was seldom violated, and the barbarians often turned against each
other their disappointed rage. The Goths, the Vandals, the
Gepidæ, the Burgundians, the Alemanni, wasted each other’s
strength by destructive hostilities: and whosoever vanquished,
they vanquished the enemies of Rome. The subjects of Diocletian
enjoyed the bloody spectacle, and congratulated each other, that
the mischiefs of civil war were now experienced only by the
barbarians.
Notwithstanding the policy of Diocletian, it was impossible to
maintain an equal and undisturbed tranquillity during a reign of
twenty years, and along a frontier of many hundred miles.
Sometimes the barbarians suspended their domestic animosities,
and the relaxed vigilance of the garrisons sometimes gave a
passage to their strength or dexterity. Whenever the provinces
were invaded, Diocletian conducted himself with that calm dignity
which he always affected or possessed; reserved his presence for
such occasions as were worthy of his interposition, never exposed
his person or reputation to any unnecessary danger, insured his
success by every means that prudence could suggest, and
displayed, with ostentation, the consequences of his victory. In
wars of a more difficult nature, and more doubtful event, he
employed the rough valor of Maximian; and that faithful soldier
was content to ascribe his own victories to the wise counsels and
auspicious influence of his benefactor. But after the adoption of
the two Cæsars, the emperors themselves, retiring to a less
laborious scene of action, devolved on their adopted sons the
defence of the Danube and of the Rhine. The vigilant Galerius was
never reduced to the necessity of vanquishing an army of
barbarians on the Roman territory. The brave and active
Constantius delivered Gaul from a very furious inroad of the
Alemanni; and his victories of Langres and Vindonissa appear to
have been actions of considerable danger and merit. As he
traversed the open country with a feeble guard, he was
encompassed on a sudden by the superior multitude of the enemy.
He retreated with difficulty towards Langres; but, in the general
consternation, the citizens refused to open their gates, and the
wounded prince was drawn up the wall by the means of a rope. But,
on the news of his distress, the Roman troops hastened from all
sides to his relief, and before the evening he had satisfied his
honor and revenge by the slaughter of six thousand Alemanni. From
the monuments of those times, the obscure traces of several other
victories over the barbarians of Sarmatia and Germany might
possibly be collected; but the tedious search would not be
rewarded either with amusement or with instruction.
The conduct which the emperor Probus had adopted in the disposal
of the vanquished was imitated by Diocletian and his associates.
The captive barbarians, exchanging death for slavery, were
distributed among the provincials, and assigned to those
districts (in Gaul, the territories of Amiens, Beauvais, Cambray,
Treves, Langres, and Troyes, are particularly specified ) which
had been depopulated by the calamities of war. They were usefully
employed as shepherds and husbandmen, but were denied the
exercise of arms, except when it was found expedient to enroll
them in the military service. Nor did the emperors refuse the
property of lands, with a less servile tenure, to such of the
barbarians as solicited the protection of Rome. They granted a
settlement to several colonies of the Carpi, the Bastarnæ, and
the Sarmatians; and, by a dangerous indulgence, permitted them in
some measure to retain their national manners and independence.
Among the provincials, it was a subject of flattering exultation,
that the barbarian, so lately an object of terror, now cultivated
their lands, drove their cattle to the neighboring fair, and
contributed by his labor to the public plenty. They congratulated
their masters on the powerful accession of subjects and soldiers;
but they forgot to observe, that multitudes of secret enemies,
insolent from favor, or desperate from oppression, were
introduced into the heart of the empire.
While the Cæsars exercised their valor on the banks of the Rhine
and Danube, the presence of the emperors was required on the
southern confines of the Roman world. From the Nile to Mount
Atlas, Africa was in arms. A confederacy of five Moorish nations
issued from their deserts to invade the peaceful provinces.
Julian had assumed the purple at Carthage. Achilleus at
Alexandria, and even the Blemmyes, renewed, or rather continued,
their incursions into the Upper Egypt. Scarcely any circumstances
have been preserved of the exploits of Maximian in the western
parts of Africa; but it appears, by the event, that the progress
of his arms was rapid and decisive, that he vanquished the
fiercest barbarians of Mauritania, and that he removed them from
the mountains, whose inaccessible strength had inspired their
inhabitants with a lawless confidence, and habituated them to a
life of rapine and violence. Diocletian, on his side, opened the
campaign in Egypt by the siege of Alexandria, cut off the
aqueducts which conveyed the waters of the Nile into every
quarter of that immense city, and rendering his camp impregnable
to the sallies of the besieged multitude, he pushed his
reiterated attacks with caution and vigor. After a siege of eight
months, Alexandria, wasted by the sword and by fire, implored the
clemency of the conqueror, but it experienced the full extent of
his severity. Many thousands of the citizens perished in a
promiscuous slaughter, and there were few obnoxious persons in
Egypt who escaped a sentence either of death or at least of
exile. The fate of Busiris and of Coptos was still more
melancholy than that of Alexandria: those proud cities, the
former distinguished by its antiquity, the latter enriched by the
passage of the Indian trade, were utterly destroyed by the arms
and by the severe order of Diocletian. The character of the
Egyptian nation, insensible to kindness, but extremely
susceptible of fear, could alone justify this excessive rigor.
The seditions of Alexandria had often affected the tranquillity
and subsistence of Rome itself. Since the usurpation of Firmus,
the province of Upper Egypt, incessantly relapsing into
rebellion, had embraced the alliance of the savages of Æthiopia.
The number of the Blemmyes, scattered between the Island of Meroe
and the Red Sea, was very inconsiderable, their disposition was
unwarlike, their weapons rude and inoffensive. Yet in the public
disorders, these barbarians, whom antiquity, shocked with the
deformity of their figure, had almost excluded from the human
species, presumed to rank themselves among the enemies of Rome.
Such had been the unworthy allies of the Egyptians; and while the
attention of the state was engaged in more serious wars, their
vexatious inroads might again harass the repose of the province.
With a view of opposing to the Blemmyes a suitable adversary,
Diocletian persuaded the Nobatæ, or people of Nubia, to remove
from their ancient habitations in the deserts of Libya, and
resigned to them an extensive but unprofitable territory above
Syene and the cataracts of the Nile, with the stipulation, that
they should ever respect and guard the frontier of the empire.
The treaty long subsisted; and till the establishment of
Christianity introduced stricter notions of religious worship, it
was annually ratified by a solemn sacrifice in the isle of
Elephantine, in which the Romans, as well as the barbarians,
adored the same visible or invisible powers of the universe.
At the same time that Diocletian chastised the past crimes of the
Egyptians, he provided for their future safety and happiness by
many wise regulations, which were confirmed and enforced under
the succeeding reigns. One very remarkable edict which he
published, instead of being condemned as the effect of jealous
tyranny, deserves to be applauded as an act of prudence and
humanity. He caused a diligent inquiry to be made “for all the
ancient books which treated of the admirable art of making gold
and silver, and without pity, committed them to the flames;
apprehensive, as we are assumed, lest the opulence of the
Egyptians should inspire them with confidence to rebel against
the empire.” But if Diocletian had been convinced of the reality
of that valuable art, far from extinguishing the memory, he would
have converted the operation of it to the benefit of the public
revenue. It is much more likely, that his good sense discovered
to him the folly of such magnificent pretensions, and that he was
desirous of preserving the reason and fortunes of his subjects
from the mischievous pursuit. It may be remarked, that these
ancient books, so liberally ascribed to Pythagoras, to Solomon,
or to Hermes, were the pious frauds of more recent adepts. The
Greeks were inattentive either to the use or to the abuse of
chemistry. In that immense register, where Pliny has deposited
the discoveries, the arts, and the errors of mankind, there is
not the least mention of the transmutation of metals; and the
persecution of Diocletian is the first authentic event in the
history of alchemy. The conquest of Egypt by the Arabs diffused
that vain science over the globe. Congenial to the avarice of the
human heart, it was studied in China as in Europe, with equal
eagerness, and with equal success. The darkness of the middle
ages insured a favorable reception to every tale of wonder, and
the revival of learning gave new vigor to hope, and suggested
more specious arts of deception. Philosophy, with the aid of
experience, has at length banished the study of alchemy; and the
present age, however desirous of riches, is content to seek them
by the humbler means of commerce and industry.
The reduction of Egypt was immediately followed by the Persian
war. It was reserved for the reign of Diocletian to vanquish that
powerful nation, and to extort a confession from the successors
of Artaxerxes, of the superior majesty of the Roman empire.
We have observed, under the reign of Valerian, that Armenia was
subdued by the perfidy and the arms of the Persians, and that,
after the assassination of Chosroes, his son Tiridates, the
infant heir of the monarchy, was saved by the fidelity of his
friends, and educated under the protection of the emperors.
Tiridates derived from his exile such advantages as he could
never have obtained on the throne of Armenia; the early knowledge
of adversity, of mankind, and of the Roman discipline. He
signalized his youth by deeds of valor, and displayed a matchless
dexterity, as well as strength, in every martial exercise, and
even in the less honorable contests of the Olympian games. Those
qualities were more nobly exerted in the defence of his
benefactor Licinius. That officer, in the sedition which
occasioned the death of Probus, was exposed to the most imminent
danger, and the enraged soldiers were forcing their way into his
tent, when they were checked by the single arm of the Armenian
prince. The gratitude of Tiridates contributed soon afterwards to
his restoration. Licinius was in every station the friend and
companion of Galerius, and the merit of Galerius, long before he
was raised to the dignity of Cæsar, had been known and esteemed
by Diocletian. In the third year of that emperor’s reign
Tiridates was invested with the kingdom of Armenia. The justice
of the measure was not less evident than its expediency. It was
time to rescue from the usurpation of the Persian monarch an
important territory, which, since the reign of Nero, had been
always granted under the protection of the empire to a younger
branch of the house of Arsaces.
When Tiridates appeared on the frontiers of Armenia, he was
received with an unfeigned transport of joy and loyalty. During
twenty-six years, the country had experienced the real and
imaginary hardships of a foreign yoke. The Persian monarchs
adorned their new conquest with magnificent buildings; but those
monuments had been erected at the expense of the people, and were
abhorred as badges of slavery. The apprehension of a revolt had
inspired the most rigorous precautions: oppression had been
aggravated by insult, and the consciousness of the public hatred
had been productive of every measure that could render it still
more implacable. We have already remarked the intolerant spirit
of the Magian religion. The statues of the deified kings of
Armenia, and the sacred images of the sun and moon, were broke in
pieces by the zeal of the conqueror; and the perpetual fire of
Ormuzd was kindled and preserved upon an altar erected on the
summit of Mount Bagavan. It was natural, that a people
exasperated by so many injuries, should arm with zeal in the
cause of their independence, their religion, and their hereditary
sovereign. The torrent bore down every obstacle, and the Persian
garrisons retreated before its fury. The nobles of Armenia flew
to the standard of Tiridates, all alleging their past merit,
offering their future service, and soliciting from the new king
those honors and rewards from which they had been excluded with
disdain under the foreign government. The command of the army was
bestowed on Artavasdes, whose father had saved the infancy of
Tiridates, and whose family had been massacred for that generous
action. The brother of Artavasdes obtained the government of a
province. One of the first military dignities was conferred on
the satrap Otas, a man of singular temperance and fortitude, who
presented to the king his sister and a considerable treasure,
both of which, in a sequestered fortress, Otas had preserved from
violation. Among the Armenian nobles appeared an ally, whose
fortunes are too remarkable to pass unnoticed. His name was
Mamgo, his origin was Scythian, and the horde which acknowledge
his authority had encamped a very few years before on the skirts
of the Chinese empire, which at that time extended as far as the
neighborhood of Sogdiana. Having incurred the displeasure of his
master, Mamgo, with his followers, retired to the banks of the
Oxus, and implored the protection of Sapor. The emperor of China
claimed the fugitive, and alleged the rights of sovereignty. The
Persian monarch pleaded the laws of hospitality, and with some
difficulty avoided a war, by the promise that he would banish
Mamgo to the uttermost parts of the West, a punishment, as he
described it, not less dreadful than death itself. Armenia was
chosen for the place of exile, and a large district was assigned
to the Scythian horde, on which they might feed their flocks and
herds, and remove their encampment from one place to another,
according to the different seasons of the year. They were
employed to repel the invasion of Tiridates; but their leader,
after weighing the obligations and injuries which he had received
from the Persian monarch, resolved to abandon his party. The
Armenian prince, who was well acquainted with the merit as well
as power of Mamgo, treated him with distinguished respect; and,
by admitting him into his confidence, acquired a brave and
faithful servant, who contributed very effectually to his
restoration.
For a while, fortune appeared to favor the enterprising valor of
Tiridates. He not only expelled the enemies of his family and
country from the whole extent of Armenia, but in the prosecution
of his revenge he carried his arms, or at least his incursions,
into the heart of Assyria. The historian, who has preserved the
name of Tiridates from oblivion, celebrates, with a degree of
national enthusiasm, his personal prowess: and, in the true
spirit of eastern romance, describes the giants and the elephants
that fell beneath his invincible arm. It is from other
information that we discover the distracted state of the Persian
monarchy, to which the king of Armenia was indebted for some part
of his advantages. The throne was disputed by the ambition of
contending brothers; and Hormuz, after exerting without success
the strength of his own party, had recourse to the dangerous
assistance of the barbarians who inhabited the banks of the
Caspian Sea. The civil war was, however, soon terminated, either
by a victor or by a reconciliation; and Narses, who was
universally acknowledged as king of Persia, directed his whole
force against the foreign enemy. The contest then became too
unequal; nor was the valor of the hero able to withstand the
power of the monarch. Tiridates, a second time expelled from the
throne of Armenia, once more took refuge in the court of the
emperors. * Narses soon reëstablished his authority over the
revolted province; and loudly complaining of the protection
afforded by the Romans to rebels and fugitives, aspired to the
conquest of the East.
Neither prudence nor honor could permit the emperors to forsake
the cause of the Armenian king, and it was resolved to exert the
force of the empire in the Persian war. Diocletian, with the calm
dignity which he constantly assumed, fixed his own station in the
city of Antioch, from whence he prepared and directed the
military operations. The conduct of the legions was intrusted to
the intrepid valor of Galerius, who, for that important purpose,
was removed from the banks of the Danube to those of the
Euphrates. The armies soon encountered each other in the plains
of Mesopotamia, and two battles were fought with various and
doubtful success; but the third engagement was of a more decisive
nature; and the Roman army received a total overthrow, which is
attributed to the rashness of Galerius, who, with an
inconsiderable body of troops, attacked the innumerable host of
the Persians. But the consideration of the country that was the
scene of action, may suggest another reason for his defeat. The
same ground on which Galerius was vanquished, had been rendered
memorable by the death of Crassus, and the slaughter of ten
legions. It was a plain of more than sixty miles, which extended
from the hills of Carrhæ to the Euphrates; a smooth and barren
surface of sandy desert, without a hillock, without a tree, and
without a spring of fresh water. The steady infantry of the
Romans, fainting with heat and thirst, could neither hope for
victory if they preserved their ranks, nor break their ranks
without exposing themselves to the most imminent danger. In this
situation they were gradually encompassed by the superior
numbers, harassed by the rapid evolutions, and destroyed by the
arrows of the barbarian cavalry. The king of Armenia had
signalized his valor in the battle, and acquired personal glory
by the public misfortune. He was pursued as far as the Euphrates;
his horse was wounded, and it appeared impossible for him to
escape the victorious enemy. In this extremity Tiridates embraced
the only refuge which appeared before him: he dismounted and
plunged into the stream. His armor was heavy, the river very
deep, and at those parts at least half a mile in breadth; yet
such was his strength and dexterity, that he reached in safety
the opposite bank. With regard to the Roman general, we are
ignorant of the circumstances of his escape; but when he returned
to Antioch, Diocletian received him, not with the tenderness of a
friend and colleague, but with the indignation of an offended
sovereign. The haughtiest of men, clothed in his purple, but
humbled by the sense of his fault and misfortune, was obliged to
follow the emperor’s chariot above a mile on foot, and to
exhibit, before the whole court, the spectacle of his disgrace.
As soon as Diocletian had indulged his private resentment, and
asserted the majesty of supreme power, he yielded to the
submissive entreaties of the Cæsar, and permitted him to retrieve
his own honor, as well as that of the Roman arms. In the room of
the unwarlike troops of Asia, which had most probably served in
the first expedition, a second army was drawn from the veterans
and new levies of the Illyrian frontier, and a considerable body
of Gothic auxiliaries were taken into the Imperial pay. At the
head of a chosen army of twenty-five thousand men, Galerius again
passed the Euphrates; but, instead of exposing his legions in the
open plains of Mesopotamia he advanced through the mountains of
Armenia, where he found the inhabitants devoted to his cause, and
the country as favorable to the operations of infantry as it was
inconvenient for the motions of cavalry. Adversity had confirmed
the Roman discipline, while the barbarians, elated by success,
were become so negligent and remiss, that in the moment when they
least expected it, they were surprised by the active conduct of
Galerius, who, attended only by two horsemen, had with his own
eyes secretly examined the state and position of their camp. A
surprise, especially in the night time, was for the most part
fatal to a Persian army. “Their horses were tied, and generally
shackled, to prevent their running away; and if an alarm
happened, a Persian had his housing to fix, his horse to bridle,
and his corselet to put on, before he could mount.” On this
occasion, the impetuous attack of Galerius spread disorder and
dismay over the camp of the barbarians. A slight resistance was
followed by a dreadful carnage, and, in the general confusion,
the wounded monarch (for Narses commanded his armies in person)
fled towards the deserts of Media. His sumptuous tents, and those
of his satraps, afforded an immense booty to the conqueror; and
an incident is mentioned, which proves the rustic but martial
ignorance of the legions in the elegant superfluities of life. A
bag of shining leather, filled with pearls, fell into the hands
of a private soldier; he carefully preserved the bag, but he
threw away its contents, judging that whatever was of no use
could not possibly be of any value. The principal loss of Narses
was of a much more affecting nature. Several of his wives, his
sisters, and children, who had attended the army, were made
captives in the defeat. But though the character of Galerius had
in general very little affinity with that of Alexander, he
imitated, after his victory, the amiable behavior of the
Macedonian towards the family of Darius. The wives and children
of Narses were protected from violence and rapine, conveyed to a
place of safety, and treated with every mark of respect and
tenderness, that was due from a generous enemy to their age,
their sex, and their royal dignity.
Chapter XIII: Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates.—Part
III.
While the East anxiously expected the decision of this great
contest, the emperor Diocletian, having assembled in Syria a
strong army of observation, displayed from a distance the
resources of the Roman power, and reserved himself for any future
emergency of the war. On the intelligence of the victory he
condescended to advance towards the frontier, with a view of
moderating, by his presence and counsels, the pride of Galerius.
The interview of the Roman princes at Nisibis was accompanied
with every expression of respect on one side, and of esteem on
the other. It was in that city that they soon afterwards gave
audience to the ambassador of the Great King. The power, or at
least the spirit, of Narses, had been broken by his last defeat;
and he considered an immediate peace as the only means that could
stop the progress of the Roman arms. He despatched Apharban, a
servant who possessed his favor and confidence, with a commission
to negotiate a treaty, or rather to receive whatever conditions
the conqueror should impose. Apharban opened the conference by
expressing his master’s gratitude for the generous treatment of
his family, and by soliciting the liberty of those illustrious
captives. He celebrated the valor of Galerius, without degrading
the reputation of Narses, and thought it no dishonor to confess
the superiority of the victorious Cæsar, over a monarch who had
surpassed in glory all the princes of his race. Notwithstanding
the justice of the Persian cause, he was empowered to submit the
present differences to the decision of the emperors themselves;
convinced as he was, that, in the midst of prosperity, they would
not be unmindful of the vicissitudes of fortune. Apharban
concluded his discourse in the style of eastern allegory, by
observing that the Roman and Persian monarchies were the two eyes
of the world, which would remain imperfect and mutilated if
either of them should be put out.
“It well becomes the Persians,” replied Galerius, with a
transport of fury, which seemed to convulse his whole frame, “it
well becomes the Persians to expatiate on the vicissitudes of
fortune, and calmly to read us lectures on the virtues of
moderation. Let them remember their own _moderation_ towards the
unhappy Valerian. They vanquished him by fraud, they treated him
with indignity. They detained him till the last moment of his
life in shameful captivity, and after his death they exposed his
body to perpetual ignominy.” Softening, however, his tone,
Galerius insinuated to the ambassador, that it had never been the
practice of the Romans to trample on a prostrate enemy; and that,
on this occasion, they should consult their own dignity rather
than the Persian merit. He dismissed Apharban with a hope that
Narses would soon be informed on what conditions he might obtain,
from the clemency of the emperors, a lasting peace, and the
restoration of his wives and children. In this conference we may
discover the fierce passions of Galerius, as well as his
deference to the superior wisdom and authority of Diocletian. The
ambition of the former grasped at the conquest of the East, and
had proposed to reduce Persia into the state of a province. The
prudence of the latter, who adhered to the moderate policy of
Augustus and the Antonines, embraced the favorable opportunity of
terminating a successful war by an honorable and advantageous
peace.
In pursuance of their promise, the emperors soon afterwards
appointed Sicorius Probus, one of their secretaries, to acquaint
the Persian court with their final resolution. As the minister of
peace, he was received with every mark of politeness and
friendship; but, under the pretence of allowing him the necessary
repose after so long a journey, the audience of Probus was
deferred from day to day; and he attended the slow motions of the
king, till at length he was admitted to his presence, near the
River Asprudus in Media. The secret motive of Narses, in this
delay, had been to collect such a military force as might enable
him, though sincerely desirous of peace, to negotiate with the
greater weight and dignity. Three persons only assisted at this
important conference, the minister Apharban, the præfect of the
guards, and an officer who had commanded on the Armenian
frontier. The first condition proposed by the ambassador is not
at present of a very intelligible nature; that the city of
Nisibis might be established for the place of mutual exchange,
or, as we should formerly have termed it, for the staple of
trade, between the two empires. There is no difficulty in
conceiving the intention of the Roman princes to improve their
revenue by some restraints upon commerce; but as Nisibis was
situated within their own dominions, and as they were masters
both of the imports and exports, it should seem that such
restraints were the objects of an internal law, rather than of a
foreign treaty. To render them more effectual, some stipulations
were probably required on the side of the king of Persia, which
appeared so very repugnant either to his interest or to his
dignity, that Narses could not be persuaded to subscribe them. As
this was the only article to which he refused his consent, it was
no longer insisted on; and the emperors either suffered the trade
to flow in its natural channels, or contented themselves with
such restrictions, as it depended on their own authority to
establish.
As soon as this difficulty was removed, a solemn peace was
concluded and ratified between the two nations. The conditions of
a treaty so glorious to the empire, and so necessary to Persia,
may deserve a more peculiar attention, as the history of Rome
presents very few transactions of a similar nature; most of her
wars having either been terminated by absolute conquest, or waged
against barbarians ignorant of the use of letters. I. The Aboras,
or, as it is called by Xenophon, the Araxes, was fixed as the
boundary between the two monarchies. That river, which rose near
the Tigris, was increased, a few miles below Nisibis, by the
little stream of the Mygdonius, passed under the walls of
Singara, and fell into the Euphrates at Circesium, a frontier
town, which, by the care of Diocletian, was very strongly
fortified. Mesopotomia, the object of so many wars, was ceded to
the empire; and the Persians, by this treaty, renounced all
pretensions to that great province. II. They relinquished to the
Romans five provinces beyond the Tigris. Their situation formed a
very useful barrier, and their natural strength was soon improved
by art and military skill. Four of these, to the north of the
river, were districts of obscure fame and inconsiderable extent;
Intiline, Zabdicene, Arzanene, and Moxoene; but on the east of
the Tigris, the empire acquired the large and mountainous
territory of Carduene, the ancient seat of the Carduchians, who
preserved for many ages their manly freedom in the heart of the
despotic monarchies of Asia. The ten thousand Greeks traversed
their country, after a painful march, or rather engagement, of
seven days; and it is confessed by their leader, in his
incomparable relation of the retreat, that they suffered more
from the arrows of the Carduchians, than from the power of the
Great King. Their posterity, the Curds, with very little
alteration either of name or manners, * acknowledged the nominal
sovereignty of the Turkish sultan. III. It is almost needless to
observe, that Tiridates, the faithful ally of Rome, was restored
to the throne of his fathers, and that the rights of the Imperial
supremacy were fully asserted and secured. The limits of Armenia
were extended as far as the fortress of Sintha in Media, and this
increase of dominion was not so much an act of liberality as of
justice. Of the provinces already mentioned beyond the Tigris,
the four first had been dismembered by the Parthians from the
crown of Armenia; and when the Romans acquired the possession of
them, they stipulated, at the expense of the usurpers, an ample
compensation, which invested their ally with the extensive and
fertile country of Atropatene. Its principal city, in the same
situation perhaps as the modern Tauris, was frequently honored by
the residence of Tiridates; and as it sometimes bore the name of
Ecbatana, he imitated, in the buildings and fortifications, the
splendid capital of the Medes. IV. The country of Iberia was
barren, its inhabitants rude and savage. But they were accustomed
to the use of arms, and they separated from the empire barbarians
much fiercer and more formidable than themselves. The narrow
defiles of Mount Caucasus were in their hands, and it was in
their choice, either to admit or to exclude the wandering tribes
of Sarmatia, whenever a rapacious spirit urged them to penetrate
into the richer climes of the South. The nomination of the kings
of Iberia, which was resigned by the Persian monarch to the
emperors, contributed to the strength and security of the Roman
power in Asia. The East enjoyed a profound tranquillity during
forty years; and the treaty between the rival monarchies was
strictly observed till the death of Tiridates; when a new
generation, animated with different views and different passions,
succeeded to the government of the world; and the grandson of
Narses undertook a long and memorable war against the princes of
the house of Constantine.
The arduous work of rescuing the distressed empire from tyrants
and barbarians had now been completely achieved by a succession
of Illyrian peasants. As soon as Diocletian entered into the
twentieth year of his reign, he celebrated that memorable æra, as
well as the success of his arms, by the pomp of a Roman triumph.
Maximian, the equal partner of his power, was his only companion
in the glory of that day. The two Cæsars had fought and
conquered, but the merit of their exploits was ascribed,
according to the rigor of ancient maxims, to the auspicious
influence of their fathers and emperors. The triumph of
Diocletian and Maximian was less magnificent, perhaps, than those
of Aurelian and Probus, but it was dignified by several
circumstances of superior fame and good fortune. Africa and
Britain, the Rhine, the Danube, and the Nile, furnished their
respective trophies; but the most distinguished ornament was of a
more singular nature, a Persian victory followed by an important
conquest. The representations of rivers, mountains, and
provinces, were carried before the Imperial car. The images of
the captive wives, the sisters, and the children of the Great
King, afforded a new and grateful spectacle to the vanity of the
people. In the eyes of posterity, this triumph is remarkable, by
a distinction of a less honorable kind. It was the last that Rome
ever beheld. Soon after this period, the emperors ceased to
vanquish, and Rome ceased to be the capital of the empire.
The spot on which Rome was founded had been consecrated by
ancient ceremonies and imaginary miracles. The presence of some
god, or the memory of some hero, seemed to animate every part of
the city, and the empire of the world had been promised to the
Capitol. The native Romans felt and confessed the power of this
agreeable illusion. It was derived from their ancestors, had
grown up with their earliest habits of life, and was protected,
in some measure, by the opinion of political utility. The form
and the seat of government were intimately blended together, nor
was it esteemed possible to transport the one without destroying
the other. But the sovereignty of the capital was gradually
annihilated in the extent of conquest; the provinces rose to the
same level, and the vanquished nations acquired the name and
privileges, without imbibing the partial affections, of Romans.
During a long period, however, the remains of the ancient
constitution, and the influence of custom, preserved the dignity
of Rome. The emperors, though perhaps of African or Illyrian
extraction, respected their adopted country, as the seat of their
power, and the centre of their extensive dominions. The
emergencies of war very frequently required their presence on the
frontiers; but Diocletian and Maximian were the first Roman
princes who fixed, in time of peace, their ordinary residence in
the provinces; and their conduct, however it might be suggested
by private motives, was justified by very specious considerations
of policy. The court of the emperor of the West was, for the most
part, established at Milan, whose situation, at the foot of the
Alps, appeared far more convenient than that of Rome, for the
important purpose of watching the motions of the barbarians of
Germany. Milan soon assumed the splendor of an Imperial city. The
houses are described as numerous and well built; the manners of
the people as polished and liberal. A circus, a theatre, a mint,
a palace, baths, which bore the name of their founder Maximian;
porticos adorned with statues, and a double circumference of
walls, contributed to the beauty of the new capital; nor did it
seem oppressed even by the proximity of Rome. To rival the
majesty of Rome was the ambition likewise of Diocletian, who
employed his leisure, and the wealth of the East, in the
embellishment of Nicomedia, a city placed on the verge of Europe
and Asia, almost at an equal distance between the Danube and the
Euphrates. By the taste of the monarch, and at the expense of the
people, Nicomedia acquired, in the space of a few years, a degree
of magnificence which might appear to have required the labor of
ages, and became inferior only to Rome, Alexandria, and Antioch,
in extent of populousness. The life of Diocletian and Maximian
was a life of action, and a considerable portion of it was spent
in camps, or in the long and frequent marches; but whenever the
public business allowed them any relaxation, they seemed to have
retired with pleasure to their favorite residences of Nicomedia
and Milan. Till Diocletian, in the twentieth year of his reign,
celebrated his Roman triumph, it is extremely doubtful whether he
ever visited the ancient capital of the empire. Even on that
memorable occasion his stay did not exceed two months. Disgusted
with the licentious familiarity of the people, he quitted Rome
with precipitation thirteen days before it was expected that he
should have appeared in the senate, invested with the ensigns of
the consular dignity.
The dislike expressed by Diocletian towards Rome and Roman
freedom was not the effect of momentary caprice, but the result
of the most artful policy. That crafty prince had framed a new
system of Imperial government, which was afterwards completed by
the family of Constantine; and as the image of the old
constitution was religiously preserved in the senate, he resolved
to deprive that order of its small remains of power and
consideration. We may recollect, about eight years before the
elevation of Diocletian, the transient greatness, and the
ambitious hopes, of the Roman senate. As long as that enthusiasm
prevailed, many of the nobles imprudently displayed their zeal in
the cause of freedom; and after the successes of Probus had
withdrawn their countenance from the republican party, the
senators were unable to disguise their impotent resentment.
As the sovereign of Italy, Maximian was intrusted with the care
of extinguishing this troublesome, rather than dangerous spirit,
and the task was perfectly suited to his cruel temper. The most
illustrious members of the senate, whom Diocletian always
affected to esteem, were involved, by his colleague, in the
accusation of imaginary plots; and the possession of an elegant
villa, or a well-cultivated estate, was interpreted as a
convincing evidence of guilt. The camp of the Prætorians, which
had so long oppressed, began to protect, the majesty of Rome; and
as those haughty troops were conscious of the decline of their
power, they were naturally disposed to unite their strength with
the authority of the senate. By the prudent measures of
Diocletian, the numbers of the Prætorians were insensibly
reduced, their privileges abolished, and their place supplied by
two faithful legions of Illyricum, who, under the new titles of
Jovians and Herculians, were appointed to perform the service of
the Imperial guards. But the most fatal though secret wound,
which the senate received from the hands of Diocletian and
Maximian, was inflicted by the inevitable operation of their
absence. As long as the emperors resided at Rome, that assembly
might be oppressed, but it could scarcely be neglected. The
successors of Augustus exercised the power of dictating whatever
laws their wisdom or caprice might suggest; but those laws were
ratified by the sanction of the senate. The model of ancient
freedom was preserved in its deliberations and decrees; and wise
princes, who respected the prejudices of the Roman people, were
in some measure obliged to assume the language and behavior
suitable to the general and first magistrate of the republic. In
the armies and in the provinces, they displayed the dignity of
monarchs; and when they fixed their residence at a distance from
the capital, they forever laid aside the dissimulation which
Augustus had recommended to his successors. In the exercise of
the legislative as well as the executive power, the sovereign
advised with his ministers, instead of consulting the great
council of the nation. The name of the senate was mentioned with
honor till the last period of the empire; the vanity of its
members was still flattered with honorary distinctions; but the
assembly which had so long been the source, and so long the
instrument of power, was respectfully suffered to sink into
oblivion. The senate of Rome, losing all connection with the
Imperial court and the actual constitution, was left a venerable
but useless monument of antiquity on the Capitoline hill.
Chapter XIII: Reign Of Diocletian And His Three Associates.—Part
IV.
When the Roman princes had lost sight of the senate and of their
ancient capital, they easily forgot the origin and nature of
their legal power. The civil offices of consul, of proconsul, of
censor, and of tribune, by the union of which it had been formed,
betrayed to the people its republican extraction. Those modest
titles were laid aside; and if they still distinguished their
high station by the appellation of Emperor, or Imperator, that
word was understood in a new and more dignified sense, and no
longer denoted the general of the Roman armies, but the sovereign
of the Roman world. The name of Emperor, which was at first of a
military nature, was associated with another of a more servile
kind. The epithet of Dominus, or Lord, in its primitive
signification, was expressive not of the authority of a prince
over his subjects, or of a commander over his soldiers, but of
the despotic power of a master over his domestic slaves. Viewing
it in that odious light, it had been rejected with abhorrence by
the first Cæsars. Their resistance insensibly became more feeble,
and the name less odious; till at length the style of _our Lord
and Emperor_ was not only bestowed by flattery, but was regularly
admitted into the laws and public monuments. Such lofty epithets
were sufficient to elate and satisfy the most excessive vanity;
and if the successors of Diocletian still declined the title of
King, it seems to have been the effect not so much of their
moderation as of their delicacy. Wherever the Latin tongue was in
use, (and it was the language of government throughout the
empire,) the Imperial title, as it was peculiar to themselves,
conveyed a more respectable idea than the name of king, which
they must have shared with a hundred barbarian chieftains; or
which, at the best, they could derive only from Romulus, or from
Tarquin. But the sentiments of the East were very different from
those of the West. From the earliest period of history, the
sovereigns of Asia had been celebrated in the Greek language by
the title of Basileus, or King; and since it was considered as
the first distinction among men, it was soon employed by the
servile provincials of the East, in their humble addresses to the
Roman throne. Even the attributes, or at least the titles, of the
Divinity, were usurped by Diocletian and Maximian, who
transmitted them to a succession of Christian emperors. Such
extravagant compliments, however, soon lose their impiety by
losing their meaning; and when the ear is once accustomed to the
sound, they are heard with indifference, as vague though
excessive professions of respect.
From the time of Augustus to that of Diocletian, the Roman
princes, conversing in a familiar manner among their
fellow-citizens, were saluted only with the same respect that was
usually paid to senators and magistrates. Their principal
distinction was the Imperial or military robe of purple; whilst
the senatorial garment was marked by a broad, and the equestrian
by a narrow, band or stripe of the same honorable color. The
pride, or rather the policy, of Diocletian engaged that artful
prince to introduce the stately magnificence of the court of
Persia. He ventured to assume the diadem, an ornament detested by
the Romans as the odious ensign of royalty, and the use of which
had been considered as the most desperate act of the madness of
Caligula. It was no more than a broad white fillet set with
pearls, which encircled the emperor’s head. The sumptuous robes
of Diocletian and his successors were of silk and gold; and it is
remarked with indignation that even their shoes were studded with
the most precious gems. The access to their sacred person was
every day rendered more difficult by the institution of new forms
and ceremonies. The avenues of the palace were strictly guarded
by the various _schools_, as they began to be called, of domestic
officers. The interior apartments were intrusted to the jealous
vigilance of the eunuchs, the increase of whose numbers and
influence was the most infallible symptom of the progress of
despotism. When a subject was at length admitted to the Imperial
presence, he was obliged, whatever might be his rank, to fall
prostrate on the ground, and to adore, according to the eastern
fashion, the divinity of his lord and master. Diocletian was a
man of sense, who, in the course of private as well as public
life, had formed a just estimate both of himself and of mankind;
nor is it easy to conceive that in substituting the manners of
Persia to those of Rome he was seriously actuated by so mean a
principle as that of vanity. He flattered himself that an
ostentation of splendor and luxury would subdue the imagination
of the multitude; that the monarch would be less exposed to the
rude license of the people and the soldiers, as his person was
secluded from the public view; and that habits of submission
would insensibly be productive of sentiments of veneration. Like
the modesty affected by Augustus, the state maintained by
Diocletian was a theatrical representation; but it must be
confessed, that of the two comedies, the former was of a much
more liberal and manly character than the latter. It was the aim
of the one to disguise, and the object of the other to display,
the unbounded power which the emperors possessed over the Roman
world.
Ostentation was the first principle of the new system instituted
by Diocletian. The second was division. He divided the empire,
the provinces, and every branch of the civil as well as military
administration. He multiplied the wheels of the machine of
government, and rendered its operations less rapid, but more
secure. Whatever advantages and whatever defects might attend
these innovations, they must be ascribed in a very great degree
to the first inventor; but as the new frame of policy was
gradually improved and completed by succeeding princes, it will
be more satisfactory to delay the consideration of it till the
season of its full maturity and perfection. Reserving, therefore,
for the reign of Constantine a more exact picture of the new
empire, we shall content ourselves with describing the principal
and decisive outline, as it was traced by the hand of Diocletian.
He had associated three colleagues in the exercise of the supreme
power; and as he was convinced that the abilities of a single man
were inadequate to the public defence, he considered the joint
administration of four princes not as a temporary expedient, but
as a fundamental law of the constitution. It was his intention
that the two elder princes should be distinguished by the use of
the diadem, and the title of _Augusti_; that, as affection or
esteem might direct their choice, they should regularly call to
their assistance two subordinate colleagues; and that the
_Cæsars_, rising in their turn to the first rank, should supply
an uninterrupted succession of emperors. The empire was divided
into four parts. The East and Italy were the most honorable, the
Danube and the Rhine the most laborious stations. The former
claimed the presence of the _Augusti_, the latter were intrusted
to the administration of the _Cæsars_. The strength of the
legions was in the hands of the four partners of sovereignty, and
the despair of successively vanquishing four formidable rivals
might intimidate the ambition of an aspiring general. In their
civil government the emperors were supposed to exercise the
undivided power of the monarch, and their edicts, inscribed with
their joint names, were received in all the provinces, as
promulgated by their mutual councils and authority.
Notwithstanding these precautions, the political union of the
Roman world was gradually dissolved, and a principle of division
was introduced, which, in the course of a few years, occasioned
the perpetual separation of the Eastern and Western Empires.
The system of Diocletian was accompanied with another very
material disadvantage, which cannot even at present be totally
overlooked; a more expensive establishment, and consequently an
increase of taxes, and the oppression of the people. Instead of a
modest family of slaves and freedmen, such as had contented the
simple greatness of Augustus and Trajan, three or four
magnificent courts were established in the various parts of the
empire, and as many Roman _kings_ contended with each other and
with the Persian monarch for the vain superiority of pomp and
luxury. The number of ministers, of magistrates, of officers, and
of servants, who filled the different departments of the state,
was multiplied beyond the example of former times; and (if we may
borrow the warm expression of a contemporary) “when the
proportion of those who received exceeded the proportion of those
who contributed, the provinces were oppressed by the weight of
tributes.” From this period to the extinction of the empire, it
would be easy to deduce an uninterrupted series of clamors and
complaints. According to his religion and situation, each writer
chooses either Diocletian, or Constantine, or Valens, or
Theodosius, for the object of his invectives; but they
unanimously agree in representing the burden of the public
impositions, and particularly the land tax and capitation, as the
intolerable and increasing grievance of their own times. From
such a concurrence, an impartial historian, who is obliged to
extract truth from satire, as well as from panegyric, will be
inclined to divide the blame among the princes whom they accuse,
and to ascribe their exactions much less to their personal vices,
than to the uniform system of their administration. * The emperor
Diocletian was indeed the author of that system; but during his
reign, the growing evil was confined within the bounds of modesty
and discretion, and he deserves the reproach of establishing
pernicious precedents, rather than of exercising actual
oppression. It may be added, that his revenues were managed with
prudent economy; and that after all the current expenses were
discharged, there still remained in the Imperial treasury an
ample provision either for judicious liberality or for any
emergency of the state.
It was in the twenty first year of his reign that Diocletian
executed his memorable resolution of abdicating the empire; an
action more naturally to have been expected from the elder or the
younger Antoninus, than from a prince who had never practised the
lessons of philosophy either in the attainment or in the use of
supreme power. Diocletian acquired the glory of giving to the
world the first example of a resignation, which has not been very
frequently imitated by succeeding monarchs. The parallel of
Charles the Fifth, however, will naturally offer itself to our
mind, not only since the eloquence of a modern historian has
rendered that name so familiar to an English reader, but from the
very striking resemblance between the characters of the two
emperors, whose political abilities were superior to their
military genius, and whose specious virtues were much less the
effect of nature than of art. The abdication of Charles appears
to have been hastened by the vicissitudes of fortune; and the
disappointment of his favorite schemes urged him to relinquish a
power which he found inadequate to his ambition. But the reign of
Diocletian had flowed with a tide of uninterrupted success; nor
was it till after he had vanquished all his enemies, and
accomplished all his designs, that he seems to have entertained
any serious thoughts of resigning the empire. Neither Charles nor
Diocletian were arrived at a very advanced period of life; since
the one was only fifty-five, and the other was no more than
fifty-nine years of age; but the active life of those princes,
their wars and journeys, the cares of royalty, and their
application to business, had already impaired their constitution,
and brought on the infirmities of a premature old age.
Notwithstanding the severity of a very cold and rainy winter,
Diocletian left Italy soon after the ceremony of his triumph, and
began his progress towards the East round the circuit of the
Illyrian provinces. From the inclemency of the weather, and the
fatigue of the journey, he soon contracted a slow illness; and
though he made easy marches, and was generally carried in a close
litter, his disorder, before he arrived at Nicomedia, about the
end of the summer, was become very serious and alarming. During
the whole winter he was confined to his palace: his danger
inspired a general and unaffected concern; but the people could
only judge of the various alterations of his health, from the joy
or consternation which they discovered in the countenances and
behavior of his attendants. The rumor of his death was for some
time universally believed, and it was supposed to be concealed
with a view to prevent the troubles that might have happened
during the absence of the Cæsar Galerius. At length, however, on
the first of March, Diocletian once more appeared in public, but
so pale and emaciated, that he could scarcely have been
recognized by those to whom his person was the most familiar. It
was time to put an end to the painful struggle, which he had
sustained during more than a year, between the care of his health
and that of his dignity. The former required indulgence and
relaxation, the latter compelled him to direct, from the bed of
sickness, the administration of a great empire. He resolved to
pass the remainder of his days in honorable repose, to place his
glory beyond the reach of fortune, and to relinquish the theatre
of the world to his younger and more active associates.
The ceremony of his abdication was performed in a spacious plain,
about three miles from Nicomedia. The emperor ascended a lofty
throne, and in a speech, full of reason and dignity, declared his
intention, both to the people and to the soldiers who were
assembled on this extraordinary occasion. As soon as he had
divested himself of his purple, he withdrew from the gazing
multitude; and traversing the city in a covered chariot,
proceeded, without delay, to the favorite retirement which he had
chosen in his native country of Dalmatia. On the same day, which
was the first of May, Maximian, as it had been previously
concerted, made his resignation of the Imperial dignity at Milan.
Even in the splendor of the Roman triumph, Diocletian had
meditated his design of abdicating the government. As he wished
to secure the obedience of Maximian, he exacted from him either a
general assurance that he would submit his actions to the
authority of his benefactor, or a particular promise that he
would descend from the throne, whenever he should receive the
advice and the example. This engagement, though it was confirmed
by the solemnity of an oath before the altar of the Capitoline
Jupiter, would have proved a feeble restraint on the fierce
temper of Maximian, whose passion was the love of power, and who
neither desired present tranquility nor future reputation. But he
yielded, however reluctantly, to the ascendant which his wiser
colleague had acquired over him, and retired, immediately after
his abdication, to a villa in Lucania, where it was almost
impossible that such an impatient spirit could find any lasting
tranquility.
Diocletian, who, from a servile origin, had raised himself to the
throne, passed the nine last years of his life in a private
condition. Reason had dictated, and content seems to have
accompanied, his retreat, in which he enjoyed, for a long time,
the respect of those princes to whom he had resigned the
possession of the world. It is seldom that minds long exercised
in business have formed any habits of conversing with themselves,
and in the loss of power they principally regret the want of
occupation. The amusements of letters and of devotion, which
afford so many resources in solitude, were incapable of fixing
the attention of Diocletian; but he had preserved, or at least he
soon recovered, a taste for the most innocent as well as natural
pleasures, and his leisure hours were sufficiently employed in
building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is
deservedly celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man
to reassume the reins of government, and the Imperial purple. He
rejected the temptation with a smile of pity, calmly observing,
that if he could show Maximian the cabbages which he had planted
with his own hands at Salona, he should no longer be urged to
relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power.
In his conversations with his friends, he frequently
acknowledged, that of all arts, the most difficult was the art of
reigning; and he expressed himself on that favorite topic with a
degree of warmth which could be the result only of experience.
“How often,” was he accustomed to say, “is it the interest of
four or five ministers to combine together to deceive their
sovereign! Secluded from mankind by his exalted dignity, the
truth is concealed from his knowledge; he can see only with their
eyes, he hears nothing but their misrepresentations. He confers
the most important offices upon vice and weakness, and disgraces
the most virtuous and deserving among his subjects. By such
infamous arts,” added Diocletian, “the best and wisest princes
are sold to the venal corruption of their courtiers.” A just
estimate of greatness, and the assurance of immortal fame,
improve our relish for the pleasures of retirement; but the Roman
emperor had filled too important a character in the world, to
enjoy without alloy the comforts and security of a private
condition. It was impossible that he could remain ignorant of the
troubles which afflicted the empire after his abdication. It was
impossible that he could be indifferent to their consequences.
Fear, sorrow, and discontent, sometimes pursued him into the
solitude of Salona. His tenderness, or at least his pride, was
deeply wounded by the misfortunes of his wife and daughter; and
the last moments of Diocletian were imbittered by some affronts,
which Licinius and Constantine might have spared the father of so
many emperors, and the first author of their own fortune. A
report, though of a very doubtful nature, has reached our times,
that he prudently withdrew himself from their power by a
voluntary death.
Before we dismiss the consideration of the life and character of
Diocletian, we may, for a moment, direct our view to the place of
his retirement. Salona, a principal city of his native province
of Dalmatia, was near two hundred Roman miles (according to the
measurement of the public highways) from Aquileia and the
confines of Italy, and about two hundred and seventy from
Sirmium, the usual residence of the emperors whenever they
visited the Illyrian frontier. A miserable village still
preserves the name of Salona; but so late as the sixteenth
century, the remains of a theatre, and a confused prospect of
broken arches and marble columns, continued to attest its ancient
splendor. About six or seven miles from the city Diocletian
constructed a magnificent palace, and we may infer, from the
greatness of the work, how long he had meditated his design of
abdicating the empire. The choice of a spot which united all that
could contribute either to health or to luxury did not require
the partiality of a native. “The soil was dry and fertile, the
air is pure and wholesome, and, though extremely hot during the
summer months, this country seldom feels those sultry and noxious
winds to which the coasts of Istria and some parts of Italy are
exposed. The views from the palace are no less beautiful than the
soil and climate were inviting. Towards the west lies the fertile
shore that stretches along the Adriatic, in which a number of
small islands are scattered in such a manner as to give this part
of the sea the appearance of a great lake. On the north side lies
the bay, which led to the ancient city of Salona; and the country
beyond it, appearing in sight, forms a proper contrast to that
more extensive prospect of water, which the Adriatic presents
both to the south and to the east. Towards the north, the view is
terminated by high and irregular mountains, situated at a proper
distance, and in many places covered with villages, woods, and
vineyards.”
Though Constantine, from a very obvious prejudice, affects to
mention the palace of Diocletian with contempt, yet one of their
successors, who could only see it in a neglected and mutilated
state, celebrates its magnificence in terms of the highest
admiration. It covered an extent of ground consisting of between
nine and ten English acres. The form was quadrangular, flanked
with sixteen towers. Two of the sides were near six hundred, and
the other two near seven hundred feet in length. The whole was
constructed of a beautiful freestone, extracted from the
neighboring quarries of Trau, or Tragutium, and very little
inferior to marble itself. Four streets, intersecting each other
at right angles, divided the several parts of this great edifice,
and the approach to the principal apartment was from a very
stately entrance, which is still denominated the Golden Gate. The
approach was terminated by a peristylium of granite columns, on
one side of which we discover the square temple of Æsculapius, on
the other the octagon temple of Jupiter. The latter of those
deities Diocletian revered as the patron of his fortunes, the
former as the protector of his health. By comparing the present
remains with the precepts of Vitruvius, the several parts of the
building, the baths, bedchamber, the atrium, the basilica, and
the Cyzicene, Corinthian, and Egyptian halls have been described
with some degree of precision, or at least of probability. Their
forms were various, their proportions just; but they all were
attended with two imperfections, very repugnant to our modern
notions of taste and conveniency. These stately rooms had neither
windows nor chimneys. They were lighted from the top, (for the
building seems to have consisted of no more than one story,) and
they received their heat by the help of pipes that were conveyed
along the walls. The range of principal apartments was protected
towards the south-west by a portico five hundred and seventeen
feet long, which must have formed a very noble and delightful
walk, when the beauties of painting and sculpture were added to
those of the prospect.
Had this magnificent edifice remained in a solitary country, it
would have been exposed to the ravages of time; but it might,
perhaps, have escaped the rapacious industry of man. The village
of Aspalathus, and, long afterwards, the provincial town of
Spalatro, have grown out of its ruins. The Golden Gate now opens
into the market-place. St. John the Baptist has usurped the
honors of Æsculapius; and the temple of Jupiter, under the
protection of the Virgin, is converted into the cathedral church.
For this account of Diocletian’s palace we are principally
indebted to an ingenious artist of our own time and country, whom
a very liberal curiosity carried into the heart of Dalmatia. But
there is room to suspect that the elegance of his designs and
engraving has somewhat flattered the objects which it was their
purpose to represent. We are informed by a more recent and very
judicious traveller, that the awful ruins of Spalatro are not
less expressive of the decline of the art than of the greatness
of the Roman empire in the time of Diocletian. If such was indeed
the state of architecture, we must naturally believe that
painting and sculpture had experienced a still more sensible
decay. The practice of architecture is directed by a few general
and even mechanical rules. But sculpture, and, above all,
painting, propose to themselves the imitation not only of the
forms of nature, but of the characters and passions of the human
soul. In those sublime arts the dexterity of the hand is of
little avail, unless it is animated by fancy, and guided by the
most correct taste and observation.
It is almost unnecessary to remark, that the civil distractions
of the empire, the license of the soldiers, the inroads of the
barbarians, and the progress of despotism, had proved very
unfavorable to genius, and even to learning. The succession of
Illyrian princes restored the empire without restoring the
sciences. Their military education was not calculated to inspire
them with the love of letters; and even the mind of Diocletian,
however active and capacious in business, was totally uninformed
by study or speculation. The professions of law and physic are of
such common use and certain profit that they will always secure a
sufficient number of practitioners endowed with a reasonable
degree of abilities and knowledge; but it does not appear that
the students in those two faculties appeal to any celebrated
masters who have flourished within that period. The voice of
poetry was silent. History was reduced to dry and confused
abridgments, alike destitute of amusement and instruction. A
languid and affected eloquence was still retained in the pay and
service of the emperors, who encouraged not any arts except those
which contributed to the gratification of their pride, or the
defence of their power.
The declining age of learning and of mankind is marked, however,
by the rise and rapid progress of the new Platonists. The school
of Alexandria silenced those of Athens; and the ancient sects
enrolled themselves under the banners of the more fashionable
teachers, who recommended their system by the novelty of their
method, and the austerity of their manners. Several of these
masters, Ammonius, Plotinus, Amelius, and Porphyry, were men of
profound thought and intense application; but by mistaking the
true object of philosophy, their labors contributed much less to
improve than to corrupt the human understanding. The knowledge
that is suited to our situation and powers, the whole compass of
moral, natural, and mathematical science, was neglected by the
new Platonists; whilst they exhausted their strength in the
verbal disputes of metaphysics, attempted to explore the secrets
of the invisible world, and studied to reconcile Aristotle with
Plato, on subjects of which both these philosophers were as
ignorant as the rest of mankind. Consuming their reason in these
deep but unsubstantial meditations, their minds were exposed to
illusions of fancy. They flattered themselves that they possessed
the secret of disengaging the soul from its corporal prison;
claimed a familiar intercourse with demons and spirits; and, by a
very singular revolution, converted the study of philosophy into
that of magic. The ancient sages had derided the popular
superstition; after disguising its extravagance by the thin
pretence of allegory, the disciples of Plotinus and Porphyry
became its most zealous defenders. As they agreed with the
Christians in a few mysterious points of faith, they attacked the
remainder of their theological system with all the fury of civil
war. The new Platonists would scarcely deserve a place in the
history of science, but in that of the church the mention of them
will very frequently occur.
Chapter XIV: Six Emperors At The Same Time, Reunion Of The
Empire.—Part I.
Troubles After The Abdication Of Diocletian.—Death Of
Constantius.—Elevation Of Constantine And Maxentius. Six Emperors At
The Same Time.—Death Of Maximian And Galerius.— Victories Of
Constantine Over Maxentius And Licinus.— Reunion Of The Empire Under
The Authority Of Constantine.
The balance of power established by Diocletian subsisted no
longer than while it was sustained by the firm and dexterous hand
of the founder. It required such a fortunate mixture of different
tempers and abilities as could scarcely be found or even expected
a second time; two emperors without jealousy, two Cæsars without
ambition, and the same general interest invariably pursued by
four independent princes. The abdication of Diocletian and
Maximian was succeeded by eighteen years of discord and
confusion. The empire was afflicted by five civil wars; and the
remainder of the time was not so much a state of tranquillity as
a suspension of arms between several hostile monarchs, who,
viewing each other with an eye of fear and hatred, strove to
increase their respective forces at the expense of their
subjects.
As soon as Diocletian and Maximian had resigned the purple, their
station, according to the rules of the new constitution, was
filled by the two Cæsars, Constantius and Galerius, who
immediately assumed the title of Augustus.
The honors of seniority and precedence were allowed to the former
of those princes, and he continued under a new appellation to
administer his ancient department of Gaul, Spain, and Britain.
The government of those ample provinces was sufficient to
exercise his talents and to satisfy his ambition. Clemency,
temperance, and moderation, distinguished the amiable character
of Constantius, and his fortunate subjects had frequently
occasion to compare the virtues of their sovereign with the
passions of Maximian, and even with the arts of Diocletian.
Instead of imitating their eastern pride and magnificence,
Constantius preserved the modesty of a Roman prince. He declared,
with unaffected sincerity, that his most valued treasure was in
the hearts of his people, and that, whenever the dignity of the
throne, or the danger of the state, required any extraordinary
supply, he could depend with confidence on their gratitude and
liberality. The provincials of Gaul, Spain, and Britain, sensible
of his worth, and of their own happiness, reflected with anxiety
on the declining health of the emperor Constantius, and the
tender age of his numerous family, the issue of his second
marriage with the daughter of Maximian.
The stern temper of Galerius was cast in a very different mould;
and while he commanded the esteem of his subjects, he seldom
condescended to solicit their affections. His fame in arms, and,
above all, the success of the Persian war, had elated his haughty
mind, which was naturally impatient of a superior, or even of an
equal. If it were possible to rely on the partial testimony of an
injudicious writer, we might ascribe the abdication of Diocletian
to the menaces of Galerius, and relate the particulars of a
_private_ conversation between the two princes, in which the
former discovered as much pusillanimity as the latter displayed
ingratitude and arrogance. But these obscure anecdotes are
sufficiently refuted by an impartial view of the character and
conduct of Diocletian. Whatever might otherwise have been his
intentions, if he had apprehended any danger from the violence of
Galerius, his good sense would have instructed him to prevent the
ignominious contest; and as he had held the sceptre with glory,
he would have resigned it without disgrace.
After the elevation of Constantius and Galerius to the rank of
_Augusti_, two new _Cæsars_ were required to supply their place,
and to complete the system of the Imperial government. Diocletian
was sincerely desirous of withdrawing himself from the world; he
considered Galerius, who had married his daughter, as the firmest
support of his family and of the empire; and he consented,
without reluctance, that his successor should assume the merit as
well as the envy of the important nomination. It was fixed
without consulting the interest or inclination of the princes of
the West. Each of them had a son who was arrived at the age of
manhood, and who might have been deemed the most natural
candidates for the vacant honor. But the impotent resentment of
Maximian was no longer to be dreaded; and the moderate
Constantius, though he might despise the dangers, was humanely
apprehensive of the calamities, of civil war. The two persons
whom Galerius promoted to the rank of Cæsar were much better
suited to serve the views of his ambition; and their principal
recommendation seems to have consisted in the want of merit or
personal consequence. The first of these was Daza, or, as he was
afterwards called, Maximin, whose mother was the sister of
Galerius. The unexperienced youth still betrayed, by his manners
and language, his rustic education, when, to his own
astonishment, as well as that of the world, he was invested by
Diocletian with the purple, exalted to the dignity of Cæsar, and
intrusted with the sovereign command of Egypt and Syria. At the
same time, Severus, a faithful servant, addicted to pleasure, but
not incapable of business, was sent to Milan, to receive, from
the reluctant hands of Maximian, the Cæsarian ornaments, and the
possession of Italy and Africa. According to the forms of the
constitution, Severus acknowledged the supremacy of the western
emperor; but he was absolutely devoted to the commands of his
benefactor Galerius, who, reserving to himself the intermediate
countries from the confines of Italy to those of Syria, firmly
established his power over three fourths of the monarchy. In the
full confidence that the approaching death of Constantius would
leave him sole master of the Roman world, we are assured that he
had arranged in his mind a long succession of future princes, and
that he meditated his own retreat from public life, after he
should have accomplished a glorious reign of about twenty years.
But within less than eighteen months, two unexpected revolutions
overturned the ambitious schemes of Galerius. The hopes of
uniting the western provinces to his empire were disappointed by
the elevation of Constantine, whilst Italy and Africa were lost
by the successful revolt of Maxentius.
I. The fame of Constantine has rendered posterity attentive to
the most minute circumstances of his life and actions. The place
of his birth, as well as the condition of his mother Helena, have
been the subject, not only of literary, but of national disputes.
Notwithstanding the recent tradition, which assigns for her
father a British king, we are obliged to confess, that Helena was
the daughter of an innkeeper; but at the same time, we may defend
the legality of her marriage, against those who have represented
her as the concubine of Constantius. The great Constantine was
most probably born at Naissus, in Dacia; and it is not surprising
that, in a family and province distinguished only by the
profession of arms, the youth should discover very little
inclination to improve his mind by the acquisition of knowledge.
He was about eighteen years of age when his father was promoted
to the rank of Cæsar; but that fortunate event was attended with
his mother’s divorce; and the splendor of an Imperial alliance
reduced the son of Helena to a state of disgrace and humiliation.
Instead of following Constantius in the West, he remained in the
service of Diocletian, signalized his valor in the wars of Egypt
and Persia, and gradually rose to the honorable station of a
tribune of the first order. The figure of Constantine was tall
and majestic; he was dexterous in all his exercises, intrepid in
war, affable in peace; in his whole conduct, the active spirit of
youth was tempered by habitual prudence; and while his mind was
engrossed by ambition, he appeared cold and insensible to the
allurements of pleasure. The favor of the people and soldiers,
who had named him as a worthy candidate for the rank of Cæsar,
served only to exasperate the jealousy of Galerius; and though
prudence might restrain him from exercising any open violence, an
absolute monarch is seldom at a loss how to execute a sure and
secret evenge. Every hour increased the danger of Constantine,
and the anxiety of his father, who, by repeated letters,
expressed the warmest desire of embracing his son. For some time
the policy of Galerius supplied him with delays and excuses; but
it was impossible long to refuse so natural a request of his
associate, without maintaining his refusal by arms. The
permission of the journey was reluctantly granted, and whatever
precautions the emperor might have taken to intercept a return,
the consequences of which he, with so much reason, apprehended,
they were effectually disappointed by the incredible diligence of
Constantine. Leaving the palace of Nicomedia in the night, he
travelled post through Bithynia, Thrace, Dacia, Pannonia, Italy,
and Gaul, and, amidst the joyful acclamations of the people,
reached the port of Boulogne in the very moment when his father
was preparing to embark for Britain.
The British expedition, and an easy victory over the barbarians
of Caledonia, were the last exploits of the reign of Constantius.
He ended his life in the Imperial palace of York, fifteen months
after he had received the title of Augustus, and almost fourteen
years and a half after he had been promoted to the rank of Cæsar.
His death was immediately succeeded by the elevation of
Constantine. The ideas of inheritance and succession are so very
familiar, that the generality of mankind consider them as founded
not only in reason but in nature itself. Our imagination readily
transfers the same principles from private property to public
dominion: and whenever a virtuous father leaves behind him a son
whose merit seems to justify the esteem, or even the hopes, of
the people, the joint influence of prejudice and of affection
operates with irresistible weight. The flower of the western
armies had followed Constantius into Britain, and the national
troops were reënforced by a numerous body of Alemanni, who obeyed
the orders of Crocus, one of their hereditary chieftains. The
opinion of their own importance, and the assurance that Britain,
Gaul, and Spain would acquiesce in their nomination, were
diligently inculcated to the legions by the adherents of
Constantine. The soldiers were asked, whether they could hesitate
a moment between the honor of placing at their head the worthy
son of their beloved emperor, and the ignominy of tamely
expecting the arrival of some obscure stranger, on whom it might
please the sovereign of Asia to bestow the armies and provinces
of the West. It was insinuated to them, that gratitude and
liberality held a distinguished place among the virtues of
Constantine; nor did that artful prince show himself to the
troops, till they were prepared to salute him with the names of
Augustus and Emperor. The throne was the object of his desires;
and had he been less actuated by ambition, it was his only means
of safety. He was well acquainted with the character and
sentiments of Galerius, and sufficiently apprised, that if he
wished to live he must determine to reign. The decent and even
obstinate resistance which he chose to affect, was contrived to
justify his usurpation; nor did he yield to the acclamations of
the army, till he had provided the proper materials for a letter,
which he immediately despatched to the emperor of the East.
Constantine informed him of the melancholy event of his father’s
death, modestly asserted his natural claim to the succession, and
respectfully lamented, that the affectionate violence of his
troops had not permitted him to solicit the Imperial purple in
the regular and constitutional manner. The first emotions of
Galerius were those of surprise, disappointment, and rage; and as
he could seldom restrain his passions, he loudly threatened, that
he would commit to the flames both the letter and the messenger.
But his resentment insensibly subsided; and when he recollected
the doubtful chance of war, when he had weighed the character and
strength of his adversary, he consented to embrace the honorable
accommodation which the prudence of Constantine had left open to
him. Without either condemning or ratifying the choice of the
British army, Galerius accepted the son of his deceased colleague
as the sovereign of the provinces beyond the Alps; but he gave
him only the title of Cæsar, and the fourth rank among the Roman
princes, whilst he conferred the vacant place of Augustus on his
favorite Severus. The apparent harmony of the empire was still
preserved, and Constantine, who already possessed the substance,
expected, without impatience, an opportunity of obtaining the
honors, of supreme power.
The children of Constantius by his second marriage were six in
number, three of either sex, and whose Imperial descent might
have solicited a preference over the meaner extraction of the son
of Helena. But Constantine was in the thirty-second year of his
age, in the full vigor both of mind and body, at the time when
the eldest of his brothers could not possibly be more than
thirteen years old. His claim of superior merit had been allowed
and ratified by the dying emperor. In his last moments
Constantius bequeathed to his eldest son the care of the safety
as well as greatness of the family; conjuring him to assume both
the authority and the sentiments of a father with regard to the
children of Theodora. Their liberal education, advantageous
marriages, the secure dignity of their lives, and the first
honors of the state with which they were invested, attest the
fraternal affection of Constantine; and as those princes
possessed a mild and grateful disposition, they submitted without
reluctance to the superiority of his genius and fortune.
II. The ambitious spirit of Galerius was scarcely reconciled to
the disappointment of his views upon the Gallic provinces, before
the unexpected loss of Italy wounded his pride as well as power
in a still more sensible part. The long absence of the emperors
had filled Rome with discontent and indignation; and the people
gradually discovered, that the preference given to Nicomedia and
Milan was not to be ascribed to the particular inclination of
Diocletian, but to the permanent form of government which he had
instituted. It was in vain that, a few months after his
abdication, his successors dedicated, under his name, those
magnificent baths, whose ruins still supply the ground as well as
the materials for so many churches and convents. The tranquility
of those elegant recesses of ease and luxury was disturbed by the
impatient murmurs of the Romans, and a report was insensibly
circulated, that the sums expended in erecting those buildings
would soon be required at their hands. About that time the
avarice of Galerius, or perhaps the exigencies of the state, had
induced him to make a very strict and rigorous inquisition into
the property of his subjects, for the purpose of a general
taxation, both on their lands and on their persons. A very minute
survey appears to have been taken of their real estates; and
wherever there was the slightest suspicion of concealment,
torture was very freely employed to obtain a sincere declaration
of their personal wealth. The privileges which had exalted Italy
above the rank of the provinces were no longer regarded: * and
the officers of the revenue already began to number the Roman
people, and to settle the proportion of the new taxes. Even when
the spirit of freedom had been utterly extinguished, the tamest
subjects have sometimes ventured to resist an unprecedented
invasion of their property; but on this occasion the injury was
aggravated by the insult, and the sense of private interest was
quickened by that of national honor. The conquest of Macedonia,
as we have already observed, had delivered the Roman people from
the weight of personal taxes. Though they had experienced every
form of despotism, they had now enjoyed that exemption near five
hundred years; nor could they patiently brook the insolence of an
Illyrian peasant, who, from his distant residence in Asia,
presumed to number Rome among the tributary cities of his empire.
The rising fury of the people was encouraged by the authority, or
at least the connivance, of the senate; and the feeble remains of
the Prætorian guards, who had reason to apprehend their own
dissolution, embraced so honorable a pretence, and declared their
readiness to draw their swords in the service of their oppressed
country. It was the wish, and it soon became the hope, of every
citizen, that after expelling from Italy their foreign tyrants,
they should elect a prince who, by the place of his residence,
and by his maxims of government, might once more deserve the
title of Roman emperor. The name, as well as the situation, of
Maxentius determined in his favor the popular enthusiasm.
Maxentius was the son of the emperor Maximian, and he had married
the daughter of Galerius. His birth and alliance seemed to offer
him the fairest promise of succeeding to the empire; but his
vices and incapacity procured him the same exclusion from the
dignity of Cæsar, which Constantine had deserved by a dangerous
superiority of merit. The policy of Galerius preferred such
associates as would never disgrace the choice, nor dispute the
commands, of their benefactor. An obscure stranger was therefore
raised to the throne of Italy, and the son of the late emperor of
the West was left to enjoy the luxury of a private fortune in a
villa a few miles distant from the capital. The gloomy passions
of his soul, shame, vexation, and rage, were inflamed by envy on
the news of Constantine’s success; but the hopes of Maxentius
revived with the public discontent, and he was easily persuaded
to unite his personal injury and pretensions with the cause of
the Roman people. Two Prætorian tribunes and a commissary of
provisions undertook the management of the conspiracy; and as
every order of men was actuated by the same spirit, the immediate
event was neither doubtful nor difficult. The præfect of the
city, and a few magistrates, who maintained their fidelity to
Severus, were massacred by the guards; and Maxentius, invested
with the Imperial ornaments, was acknowledged by the applauding
senate and people as the protector of the Roman freedom and
dignity. It is uncertain whether Maximian was previously
acquainted with the conspiracy; but as soon as the standard of
rebellion was erected at Rome, the old emperor broke from the
retirement where the authority of Diocletian had condemned him to
pass a life of melancholy and solitude, and concealed his
returning ambition under the disguise of paternal tenderness. At
the request of his son and of the senate, he condescended to
reassume the purple. His ancient dignity, his experience, and his
fame in arms, added strength as well as reputation to the party
of Maxentius.
According to the advice, or rather the orders, of his colleague,
the emperor Severus immediately hastened to Rome, in the full
confidence, that, by his unexpected celerity, he should easily
suppress the tumult of an unwarlike populace, commanded by a
licentious youth. But he found on his arrival the gates of the
city shut against him, the walls filled with men and arms, an
experienced general at the head of the rebels, and his own troops
without spirit or affection. A large body of Moors deserted to
the enemy, allured by the promise of a large donative; and, if it
be true that they had been levied by Maximian in his African war,
preferring the natural feelings of gratitude to the artificial
ties of allegiance. Anulinus, the Prætorian præfect, declared
himself in favor of Maxentius, and drew after him the most
considerable part of the troops, accustomed to obey his commands.
Rome, according to the expression of an orator, recalled her
armies; and the unfortunate Severus, destitute of force and of
counsel, retired, or rather fled, with precipitation, to Ravenna.
Here he might for some time have been safe. The fortifications of
Ravenna were able to resist the attempts, and the morasses that
surrounded the town were sufficient to prevent the approach, of
the Italian army. The sea, which Severus commanded with a
powerful fleet, secured him an inexhaustible supply of
provisions, and gave a free entrance to the legions, which, on
the return of spring, would advance to his assistance from
Illyricum and the East. Maximian, who conducted the siege in
person, was soon convinced that he might waste his time and his
army in the fruitless enterprise, and that he had nothing to hope
either from force or famine. With an art more suitable to the
character of Diocletian than to his own, he directed his attack,
not so much against the walls of Ravenna, as against the mind of
Severus. The treachery which he had experienced disposed that
unhappy prince to distrust the most sincere of his friends and
adherents. The emissaries of Maximian easily persuaded his
credulity, that a conspiracy was formed to betray the town, and
prevailed upon his fears not to expose himself to the discretion
of an irritated conqueror, but to accept the faith of an
honorable capitulation. He was at first received with humanity
and treated with respect. Maximian conducted the captive emperor
to Rome, and gave him the most solemn assurances that he had
secured his life by the resignation of the purple. But Severus
could obtain only an easy death and an Imperial funeral. When the
sentence was signified to him, the manner of executing it was
left to his own choice; he preferred the favorite mode of the
ancients, that of opening his veins; and as soon as he expired,
his body was carried to the sepulchre which had been constructed
for the family of Gallienus.
Chapter XIV: Six Emperors At The Same Time, Reunion Of The
Empire.—Part II.
Though the characters of Constantine and Maxentius had very
little affinity with each other, their situation and interest
were the same; and prudence seemed to require that they should
unite their forces against the common enemy. Notwithstanding the
superiority of his age and dignity, the indefatigable Maximian
passed the Alps, and, courting a personal interview with the
sovereign of Gaul, carried with him his daughter Fausta as the
pledge of the new alliance. The marriage was celebrated at Arles
with every circumstance of magnificence; and the ancient
colleague of Diocletian, who again asserted his claim to the
Western empire, conferred on his son-in-law and ally the title of
Augustus. By consenting to receive that honor from Maximian,
Constantine seemed to embrace the cause of Rome and of the
senate; but his professions were ambiguous, and his assistance
slow and ineffectual. He considered with attention the
approaching contest between the masters of Italy and the emperor
of the East, and was prepared to consult his own safety or
ambition in the event of the war.
The importance of the occasion called for the presence and
abilities of Galerius. At the head of a powerful army, collected
from Illyricum and the East, he entered Italy, resolved to
revenge the death of Severus, and to chastise the rebellious
Romans; or, as he expressed his intentions, in the furious
language of a barbarian, to extirpate the senate, and to destroy
the people by the sword. But the skill of Maximian had concerted
a prudent system of defence. The invader found every place
hostile, fortified, and inaccessible; and though he forced his
way as far as Narni, within sixty miles of Rome, his dominion in
Italy was confined to the narrow limits of his camp. Sensible of
the increasing difficulties of his enterprise, the haughty
Galerius made the first advances towards a reconciliation, and
despatched two of his most considerable officers to tempt the
Roman princes by the offer of a conference, and the declaration
of his paternal regard for Maxentius, who might obtain much more
from his liberality than he could hope from the doubtful chance
of war. The offers of Galerius were rejected with firmness, his
perfidious friendship refused with contempt, and it was not long
before he discovered, that, unless he provided for his safety by
a timely retreat, he had some reason to apprehend the fate of
Severus. The wealth which the Romans defended against his
rapacious tyranny, they freely contributed for his destruction.
The name of Maximian, the popular arts of his son, the secret
distribution of large sums, and the promise of still more liberal
rewards, checked the ardor and corrupted the fidelity of the
Illyrian legions; and when Galerius at length gave the signal of
the retreat, it was with some difficulty that he could prevail on
his veterans not to desert a banner which had so often conducted
them to victory and honor. A contemporary writer assigns two
other causes for the failure of the expedition; but they are both
of such a nature, that a cautious historian will scarcely venture
to adopt them. We are told that Galerius, who had formed a very
imperfect notion of the greatness of Rome by the cities of the
East with which he was acquainted, found his forces inadequate to
the siege of that immense capital. But the extent of a city
serves only to render it more accessible to the enemy: Rome had
long since been accustomed to submit on the approach of a
conqueror; nor could the temporary enthusiasm of the people have
long contended against the discipline and valor of the legions.
We are likewise informed that the legions themselves were struck
with horror and remorse, and that those pious sons of the
republic refused to violate the sanctity of their venerable
parent. But when we recollect with how much ease, in the more
ancient civil wars, the zeal of party and the habits of military
obedience had converted the native citizens of Rome into her most
implacable enemies, we shall be inclined to distrust this extreme
delicacy of strangers and barbarians, who had never beheld Italy
till they entered it in a hostile manner. Had they not been
restrained by motives of a more interested nature, they would
probably have answered Galerius in the words of Cæsar’s veterans:
“If our general wishes to lead us to the banks of the Tyber, we
are prepared to trace out his camp. Whatsoever walls he has
determined to level with the ground, our hands are ready to work
the engines: nor shall we hesitate, should the name of the
devoted city be Rome itself.” These are indeed the expressions of
a poet; but of a poet who has been distinguished, and even
censured, for his strict adherence to the truth of history.
The legions of Galerius exhibited a very melancholy proof of
their disposition, by the ravages which they committed in their
retreat. They murdered, they ravished, they plundered, they drove
away the flocks and herds of the Italians; they burnt the
villages through which they passed, and they endeavored to
destroy the country which it had not been in their power to
subdue. During the whole march, Maxentius hung on their rear, but
he very prudently declined a general engagement with those brave
and desperate veterans. His father had undertaken a second
journey into Gaul, with the hope of persuading Constantine, who
had assembled an army on the frontier, to join in the pursuit,
and to complete the victory. But the actions of Constantine were
guided by reason, and not by resentment. He persisted in the wise
resolution of maintaining a balance of power in the divided
empire, and he no longer hated Galerius, when that aspiring
prince had ceased to be an object of terror.
The mind of Galerius was the most susceptible of the sterner
passions, but it was not, however, incapable of a sincere and
lasting friendship. Licinius, whose manners as well as character
were not unlike his own, seems to have engaged both his affection
and esteem. Their intimacy had commenced in the happier period
perhaps of their youth and obscurity. It had been cemented by the
freedom and dangers of a military life; they had advanced almost
by equal steps through the successive honors of the service; and
as soon as Galerius was invested with the Imperial dignity, he
seems to have conceived the design of raising his companion to
the same rank with himself. During the short period of his
prosperity, he considered the rank of Cæsar as unworthy of the
age and merit of Licinius, and rather chose to reserve for him
the place of Constantius, and the empire of the West. While the
emperor was employed in the Italian war, he intrusted his friend
with the defence of the Danube; and immediately after his return
from that unfortunate expedition, he invested Licinius with the
vacant purple of Severus, resigning to his immediate command the
provinces of Illyricum. The news of his promotion was no sooner
carried into the East, than Maximin, who governed, or rather
oppressed, the countries of Egypt and Syria, betrayed his envy
and discontent, disdained the inferior name of Cæsar, and,
notwithstanding the prayers as well as arguments of Galerius,
exacted, almost by violence, the equal title of Augustus. For the
first, and indeed for the last time, the Roman world was
administered by six emperors. In the West, Constantine and
Maxentius affected to reverence their father Maximian. In the
East, Licinius and Maximin honored with more real consideration
their benefactor Galerius. The opposition of interest, and the
memory of a recent war, divided the empire into two great hostile
powers; but their mutual fears produced an apparent tranquillity,
and even a feigned reconciliation, till the death of the elder
princes, of Maximian, and more particularly of Galerius, gave a
new direction to the views and passions of their surviving
associates.
When Maximian had reluctantly abdicated the empire, the venal
orators of the times applauded his philosophic moderation. When
his ambition excited, or at least encouraged, a civil war, they
returned thanks to his generous patriotism, and gently censured
that love of ease and retirement which had withdrawn him from the
public service. But it was impossible that minds like those of
Maximian and his son could long possess in harmony an undivided
power. Maxentius considered himself as the legal sovereign of
Italy, elected by the Roman senate and people; nor would he
endure the control of his father, who arrogantly declared that by
his name and abilities the rash youth had been established on the
throne. The cause was solemnly pleaded before the Prætorian
guards; and those troops, who dreaded the severity of the old
emperor, espoused the party of Maxentius. The life and freedom of
Maximian were, however, respected, and he retired from Italy into
Illyricum, affecting to lament his past conduct, and secretly
contriving new mischiefs. But Galerius, who was well acquainted
with his character, soon obliged him to leave his dominions, and
the last refuge of the disappointed Maximian was the court of his
son-in-law Constantine. He was received with respect by that
artful prince, and with the appearance of filial tenderness by
the empress Fausta. That he might remove every suspicion, he
resigned the Imperial purple a second time, professing himself at
length convinced of the vanity of greatness and ambition. Had he
persevered in this resolution, he might have ended his life with
less dignity, indeed, than in his first retirement, yet, however,
with comfort and reputation. But the near prospect of a throne
brought back to his remembrance the state from whence he was
fallen, and he resolved, by a desperate effort, either to reign
or to perish. An incursion of the Franks had summoned
Constantine, with a part of his army, to the banks of the Rhine;
the remainder of the troops were stationed in the southern
provinces of Gaul, which lay exposed to the enterprises of the
Italian emperor, and a considerable treasure was deposited in the
city of Arles. Maximian either craftily invented, or easily
credited, a vain report of the death of Constantine. Without
hesitation he ascended the throne, seized the treasure, and
scattering it with his accustomed profusion among the soldiers,
endeavored to awake in their minds the memory of his ancient
dignity and exploits. Before he could establish his authority, or
finish the negotiation which he appears to have entered into with
his son Maxentius, the celerity of Constantine defeated all his
hopes. On the first news of his perfidy and ingratitude, that
prince returned by rapid marches from the Rhine to the Saone,
embarked on the last-mentioned river at Chalons, and, at Lyons
trusting himself to the rapidity of the Rhone, arrived at the
gates of Arles with a military force which it was impossible for
Maximian to resist, and which scarcely permitted him to take
refuge in the neighboring city of Marseilles. The narrow neck of
land which joined that place to the continent was fortified
against the besiegers, whilst the sea was open, either for the
escape of Maximian, or for the succor of Maxentius, if the latter
should choose to disguise his invasion of Gaul under the
honorable pretence of defending a distressed, or, as he might
allege, an injured father. Apprehensive of the fatal consequences
of delay, Constantine gave orders for an immediate assault; but
the scaling-ladders were found too short for the height of the
walls, and Marseilles might have sustained as long a siege as it
formerly did against the arms of Cæsar, if the garrison,
conscious either of their fault or of their danger, had not
purchased their pardon by delivering up the city and the person
of Maximian. A secret but irrevocable sentence of death was
pronounced against the usurper; he obtained only the same favor
which he had indulged to Severus, and it was published to the
world, that, oppressed by the remorse of his repeated crimes, he
strangled himself with his own hands. After he had lost the
assistance, and disdained the moderate counsels, of Diocletian,
the second period of his active life was a series of public
calamities and personal mortifications, which were terminated, in
about three years, by an ignominious death. He deserved his fate;
but we should find more reason to applaud the humanity of
Constantine, if he had spared an old man, the benefactor of his
father, and the father of his wife. During the whole of this
melancholy transaction, it appears that Fausta sacrificed the
sentiments of nature to her conjugal duties.
The last years of Galerius were less shameful and unfortunate;
and though he had filled with more glory the subordinate station
of Cæsar than the superior rank of Augustus, he preserved, till
the moment of his death, the first place among the princes of the
Roman world. He survived his retreat from Italy about four years;
and wisely relinquishing his views of universal empire, he
devoted the remainder of his life to the enjoyment of pleasure,
and to the execution of some works of public utility, among which
we may distinguish the discharging into the Danube the
superfluous waters of the Lake Pelso, and the cutting down the
immense forests that encompassed it; an operation worthy of a
monarch, since it gave an extensive country to the agriculture of
his Pannonian subjects. His death was occasioned by a very
painful and lingering disorder. His body, swelled by an
intemperate course of life to an unwieldy corpulence, was covered
with ulcers, and devoured by innumerable swarms of those insects
which have given their name to a most loathsome disease; but as
Galerius had offended a very zealous and powerful party among his
subjects, his sufferings, instead of exciting their compassion,
have been celebrated as the visible effects of divine justice. He
had no sooner expired in his palace of Nicomedia, than the two
emperors who were indebted for their purple to his favors, began
to collect their forces, with the intention either of disputing,
or of dividing, the dominions which he had left without a master.
They were persuaded, however, to desist from the former design,
and to agree in the latter. The provinces of Asia fell to the
share of Maximin, and those of Europe augmented the portion of
Licinius. The Hellespont and the Thracian Bosphorus formed their
mutual boundary, and the banks of those narrow seas, which flowed
in the midst of the Roman world, were covered with soldiers, with
arms, and with fortifications. The deaths of Maximian and of
Galerius reduced the number of emperors to four. The sense of
their true interest soon connected Licinius and Constantine; a
secret alliance was concluded between Maximin and Maxentius, and
their unhappy subjects expected with terror the bloody
consequences of their inevitable dissensions, which were no
longer restrained by the fear or the respect which they had
entertained for Galerius.
Among so many crimes and misfortunes, occasioned by the passions
of the Roman princes, there is some pleasure in discovering a
single action which may be ascribed to their virtue. In the sixth
year of his reign, Constantine visited the city of Autun, and
generously remitted the arrears of tribute, reducing at the same
time the proportion of their assessment from twenty-five to
eighteen thousand heads, subject to the real and personal
capitation. Yet even this indulgence affords the most
unquestionable proof of the public misery. This tax was so
extremely oppressive, either in itself or in the mode of
collecting it, that whilst the revenue was increased by
extortion, it was diminished by despair: a considerable part of
the territory of Autun was left uncultivated; and great numbers
of the provincials rather chose to live as exiles and outlaws,
than to support the weight of civil society. It is but too
probable, that the bountiful emperor relieved, by a partial act
of liberality, one among the many evils which he had caused by
his general maxims of administration. But even those maxims were
less the effect of choice than of necessity. And if we except the
death of Maximian, the reign of Constantine in Gaul seems to have
been the most innocent and even virtuous period of his life. The
provinces were protected by his presence from the inroads of the
barbarians, who either dreaded or experienced his active valor.
After a signal victory over the Franks and Alemanni, several of
their princes were exposed by his order to the wild beasts in the
amphitheatre of Treves, and the people seem to have enjoyed the
spectacle, without discovering, in such a treatment of royal
captives, any thing that was repugnant to the laws of nations or
of humanity. *
The virtues of Constantine were rendered more illustrious by the
vices of Maxentius. Whilst the Gallic provinces enjoyed as much
happiness as the condition of the times was capable of receiving,
Italy and Africa groaned under the dominion of a tyrant, as
contemptible as he was odious. The zeal of flattery and faction
has indeed too frequently sacrificed the reputation of the
vanquished to the glory of their successful rivals; but even
those writers who have revealed, with the most freedom and
pleasure, the faults of Constantine, unanimously confess that
Maxentius was cruel, rapacious, and profligate. He had the good
fortune to suppress a slight rebellion in Africa. The governor
and a few adherents had been guilty; the province suffered for
their crime. The flourishing cities of Cirtha and Carthage, and
the whole extent of that fertile country, were wasted by fire and
sword. The abuse of victory was followed by the abuse of law and
justice. A formidable army of sycophants and delators invaded
Africa; the rich and the noble were easily convicted of a
connection with the rebels; and those among them who experienced
the emperor’s clemency, were only punished by the confiscation of
their estates. So signal a victory was celebrated by a
magnificent triumph, and Maxentius exposed to the eyes of the
people the spoils and captives of a Roman province. The state of
the capital was no less deserving of compassion than that of
Africa. The wealth of Rome supplied an inexhaustible fund for his
vain and prodigal expenses, and the ministers of his revenue were
skilled in the arts of rapine. It was under his reign that the
method of exacting a _free gift_ from the senators was first
invented; and as the sum was insensibly increased, the pretences
of levying it, a victory, a birth, a marriage, or an imperial
consulship, were proportionably multiplied. Maxentius had imbibed
the same implacable aversion to the senate, which had
characterized most of the former tyrants of Rome; nor was it
possible for his ungrateful temper to forgive the generous
fidelity which had raised him to the throne, and supported him
against all his enemies. The lives of the senators were exposed
to his jealous suspicions, the dishonor of their wives and
daughters heightened the gratification of his sensual passions.
It may be presumed that an Imperial lover was seldom reduced to
sigh in vain; but whenever persuasion proved ineffectual, he had
recourse to violence; and there remains _one_ memorable example
of a noble matron, who preserved her chastity by a voluntary
death. The soldiers were the only order of men whom he appeared
to respect, or studied to please. He filled Rome and Italy with
armed troops, connived at their tumults, suffered them with
impunity to plunder, and even to massacre, the defenceless
people; and indulging them in the same licentiousness which their
emperor enjoyed, Maxentius often bestowed on his military
favorites the splendid villa, or the beautiful wife, of a
senator. A prince of such a character, alike incapable of
governing, either in peace or in war, might purchase the support,
but he could never obtain the esteem, of the army. Yet his pride
was equal to his other vices. Whilst he passed his indolent life
either within the walls of his palace, or in the neighboring
gardens of Sallust, he was repeatedly heard to declare, that _he_
_alone_ was emperor, and that the other princes were no more than
his lieutenants, on whom he had devolved the defence of the
frontier provinces, that he might enjoy without interruption the
elegant luxury of the capital. Rome, which had so long regretted
the absence, lamented, during the six years of his reign, the
presence of her sovereign.
Though Constantine might view the conduct of Maxentius with
abhorrence, and the situation of the Romans with compassion, we
have no reason to presume that he would have taken up arms to
punish the one or to relieve the other. But the tyrant of Italy
rashly ventured to provoke a formidable enemy, whose ambition had
been hitherto restrained by considerations of prudence, rather
than by principles of justice. After the death of Maximian, his
titles, according to the established custom, had been erased, and
his statues thrown down with ignominy. His son, who had
persecuted and deserted him when alive, effected to display the
most pious regard for his memory, and gave orders that a similar
treatment should be immediately inflicted on all the statues that
had been erected in Italy and Africa to the honor of Constantine.
That wise prince, who sincerely wished to decline a war, with the
difficulty and importance of which he was sufficiently
acquainted, at first dissembled the insult, and sought for
redress by the milder expedient of negotiation, till he was
convinced that the hostile and ambitious designs of the Italian
emperor made it necessary for him to arm in his own defence.
Maxentius, who openly avowed his pretensions to the whole
monarchy of the West, had already prepared a very considerable
force to invade the Gallic provinces on the side of Rhætia; and
though he could not expect any assistance from Licinius, he was
flattered with the hope that the legions of Illyricum, allured by
his presents and promises, would desert the standard of that
prince, and unanimously declare themselves his soldiers and
subjects. Constantine no longer hesitated. He had deliberated
with caution, he acted with vigor. He gave a private audience to
the ambassadors, who, in the name of the senate and people,
conjured him to deliver Rome from a detested tyrant; and without
regarding the timid remonstrances of his council, he resolved to
prevent the enemy, and to carry the war into the heart of Italy.
The enterprise was as full of danger as of glory; and the
unsuccessful event of two former invasions was sufficient to
inspire the most serious apprehensions. The veteran troops, who
revered the name of Maximian, had embraced in both those wars the
party of his son, and were now restrained by a sense of honor, as
well as of interest, from entertaining an idea of a second
desertion. Maxentius, who considered the Prætorian guards as the
firmest defence of his throne, had increased them to their
ancient establishment; and they composed, including the rest of
the Italians who were enlisted into his service, a formidable
body of fourscore thousand men. Forty thousand Moors and
Carthaginians had been raised since the reduction of Africa. Even
Sicily furnished its proportion of troops; and the armies of
Maxentius amounted to one hundred and seventy thousand foot and
eighteen thousand horse. The wealth of Italy supplied the
expenses of the war; and the adjacent provinces were exhausted,
to form immense magazines of corn and every other kind of
provisions.
The whole force of Constantine consisted of ninety thousand foot
and eight thousand horse; and as the defence of the Rhine
required an extraordinary attention during the absence of the
emperor, it was not in his power to employ above half his troops
in the Italian expedition, unless he sacrificed the public safety
to his private quarrel. At the head of about forty thousand
soldiers he marched to encounter an enemy whose numbers were at
least four times superior to his own. But the armies of Rome,
placed at a secure distance from danger, were enervated by
indulgence and luxury. Habituated to the baths and theatres of
Rome, they took the field with reluctance, and were chiefly
composed of veterans who had almost forgotten, or of new levies
who had never acquired, the use of arms and the practice of war.
The hardy legions of Gaul had long defended the frontiers of the
empire against the barbarians of the North; and in the
performance of that laborious service, their valor was exercised
and their discipline confirmed. There appeared the same
difference between the leaders as between the armies. Caprice or
flattery had tempted Maxentius with the hopes of conquest; but
these aspiring hopes soon gave way to the habits of pleasure and
the consciousness of his inexperience. The intrepid mind of
Constantine had been trained from his earliest youth to war, to
action, and to military command.
Chapter XIV: Six Emperors At The Same Time, Reunion Of The
Empire.—Part III.
When Hannibal marched from Gaul into Italy, he was obliged, first
to discover, and then to open, a way over mountains, and through
savage nations, that had never yielded a passage to a regular
army. The Alps were then guarded by nature, they are now
fortified by art. Citadels, constructed with no less skill than
labor and expense, command every avenue into the plain, and on
that side render Italy almost inaccessible to the enemies of the
king of Sardinia. But in the course of the intermediate period,
the generals, who have attempted the passage, have seldom
experienced any difficulty or resistance. In the age of
Constantine, the peasants of the mountains were civilized and
obedient subjects; the country was plentifully stocked with
provisions, and the stupendous highways, which the Romans had
carried over the Alps, opened several communications between Gaul
and Italy. Constantine preferred the road of the Cottian Alps,
or, as it is now called, of Mount Cenis, and led his troops with
such active diligence, that he descended into the plain of
Piedmont before the court of Maxentius had received any certain
intelligence of his departure from the banks of the Rhine. The
city of Susa, however, which is situated at the foot of Mount
Cenis, was surrounded with walls, and provided with a garrison
sufficiently numerous to check the progress of an invader; but
the impatience of Constantine’s troops disdained the tedious
forms of a siege. The same day that they appeared before Susa,
they applied fire to the gates, and ladders to the walls; and
mounting to the assault amidst a shower of stones and arrows,
they entered the place sword in hand, and cut in pieces the
greatest part of the garrison. The flames were extinguished by
the care of Constantine, and the remains of Susa preserved from
total destruction. About forty miles from thence, a more severe
contest awaited him. A numerous army of Italians was assembled
under the lieutenants of Maxentius, in the plains of Turin. Its
principal strength consisted in a species of heavy cavalry, which
the Romans, since the decline of their discipline, had borrowed
from the nations of the East. The horses, as well as the men,
were clothed in complete armor, the joints of which were artfully
adapted to the motions of their bodies. The aspect of this
cavalry was formidable, their weight almost irresistible; and as,
on this occasion, their generals had drawn them up in a compact
column or wedge, with a sharp point, and with spreading flanks,
they flattered themselves that they could easily break and
trample down the army of Constantine. They might, perhaps, have
succeeded in their design, had not their experienced adversary
embraced the same method of defence, which in similar
circumstances had been practised by Aurelian. The skilful
evolutions of Constantine divided and baffled this massy column
of cavalry. The troops of Maxentius fled in confusion towards
Turin; and as the gates of the city were shut against them, very
few escaped the sword of the victorious pursuers. By this
important service, Turin deserved to experience the clemency and
even favor of the conqueror. He made his entry into the Imperial
palace of Milan, and almost all the cities of Italy between the
Alps and the Po not only acknowledged the power, but embraced
with zeal the party, of Constantine.
From Milan to Rome, the Æmilian and Flaminian highways offered an
easy march of about four hundred miles; but though Constantine
was impatient to encounter the tyrant, he prudently directed his
operations against another army of Italians, who, by their
strength and position, might either oppose his progress, or, in
case of a misfortune, might intercept his retreat. Ruricius
Pompeianus, a general distinguished by his valor and ability, had
under his command the city of Verona, and all the troops that
were stationed in the province of Venetia. As soon as he was
informed that Constantine was advancing towards him, he detached
a large body of cavalry, which was defeated in an engagement near
Brescia, and pursued by the Gallic legions as far as the gates of
Verona. The necessity, the importance, and the difficulties of
the siege of Verona, immediately presented themselves to the
sagacious mind of Constantine. The city was accessible only by a
narrow peninsula towards the west, as the other three sides were
surrounded by the Adige, a rapid river, which covered the
province of Venetia, from whence the besieged derived an
inexhaustible supply of men and provisions. It was not without
great difficulty, and after several fruitless attempts, that
Constantine found means to pass the river at some distance above
the city, and in a place where the torrent was less violent. He
then encompassed Verona with strong lines, pushed his attacks
with prudent vigor, and repelled a desperate sally of Pompeianus.
That intrepid general, when he had used every means of defence
that the strength of the place or that of the garrison could
afford, secretly escaped from Verona, anxious not for his own,
but for the public safety. With indefatigable diligence he soon
collected an army sufficient either to meet Constantine in the
field, or to attack him if he obstinately remained within his
lines. The emperor, attentive to the motions, and informed of the
approach of so formidable an enemy, left a part of his legions to
continue the operations of the siege, whilst, at the head of
those troops on whose valor and fidelity he more particularly
depended, he advanced in person to engage the general of
Maxentius. The army of Gaul was drawn up in two lines, according
to the usual practice of war; but their experienced leader,
perceiving that the numbers of the Italians far exceeded his own,
suddenly changed his disposition, and, reducing the second,
extended the front of his first line to a just proportion with
that of the enemy. Such evolutions, which only veteran troops can
execute without confusion in a moment of danger, commonly prove
decisive; but as this engagement began towards the close of the
day, and was contested with great obstinacy during the whole
night, there was less room for the conduct of the generals than
for the courage of the soldiers. The return of light displayed
the victory of Constantine, and a field of carnage covered with
many thousands of the vanquished Italians. Their general,
Pompeianus, was found among the slain; Verona immediately
surrendered at discretion, and the garrison was made prisoners of
war. When the officers of the victorious army congratulated their
master on this important success, they ventured to add some
respectful complaints, of such a nature, however, as the most
jealous monarchs will listen to without displeasure. They
represented to Constantine, that, not contented with all the
duties of a commander, he had exposed his own person with an
excess of valor which almost degenerated into rashness; and they
conjured him for the future to pay more regard to the
preservation of a life in which the safety of Rome and of the
empire was involved.
While Constantine signalized his conduct and valor in the field,
the sovereign of Italy appeared insensible of the calamities and
danger of a civil war which reigned in the heart of his
dominions. Pleasure was still the only business of Maxentius.
Concealing, or at least attempting to conceal, from the public
knowledge the misfortunes of his arms, he indulged himself in a
vain confidence which deferred the remedies of the approaching
evil, without deferring the evil itself. The rapid progress of
Constantine was scarcely sufficient to awaken him from his fatal
security; he flattered himself, that his well-known liberality,
and the majesty of the Roman name, which had already delivered
him from two invasions, would dissipate with the same facility
the rebellious army of Gaul. The officers of experience and
ability, who had served under the banners of Maximian, were at
length compelled to inform his effeminate son of the imminent
danger to which he was reduced; and, with a freedom that at once
surprised and convinced him, to urge the necessity of preventing
his ruin by a vigorous exertion of his remaining power. The
resources of Maxentius, both of men and money, were still
considerable. The Prætorian guards felt how strongly their own
interest and safety were connected with his cause; and a third
army was soon collected, more numerous than those which had been
lost in the battles of Turin and Verona. It was far from the
intention of the emperor to lead his troops in person. A stranger
to the exercises of war, he trembled at the apprehension of so
dangerous a contest; and as fear is commonly superstitious, he
listened with melancholy attention to the rumors of omens and
presages which seemed to menace his life and empire. Shame at
length supplied the place of courage, and forced him to take the
field. He was unable to sustain the contempt of the Roman people.
The circus resounded with their indignant clamors, and they
tumultuously besieged the gates of the palace, reproaching the
pusillanimity of their indolent sovereign, and celebrating the
heroic spirit of Constantine. Before Maxentius left Rome, he
consulted the Sibylline books. The guardians of these ancient
oracles were as well versed in the arts of this world as they
were ignorant of the secrets of fate; and they returned him a
very prudent answer, which might adapt itself to the event, and
secure their reputation, whatever should be the chance of arms.
The celerity of Constantine’s march has been compared to the
rapid conquest of Italy by the first of the Cæsars; nor is the
flattering parallel repugnant to the truth of history, since no
more than fifty-eight days elapsed between the surrender of
Verona and the final decision of the war. Constantine had always
apprehended that the tyrant would consult the dictates of fear,
and perhaps of prudence; and that, instead of risking his last
hopes in a general engagement, he would shut himself up within
the walls of Rome. His ample magazines secured him against the
danger of famine; and as the situation of Constantine admitted
not of delay, he might have been reduced to the sad necessity of
destroying with fire and sword the Imperial city, the noblest
reward of his victory, and the deliverance of which had been the
motive, or rather indeed the pretence, of the civil war. It was
with equal surprise and pleasure, that on his arrival at a place
called Saxa Rubra, about nine miles from Rome, he discovered the
army of Maxentius prepared to give him battle. Their long front
filled a very spacious plain, and their deep array reached to the
banks of the Tyber, which covered their rear, and forbade their
retreat. We are informed, and we may believe, that Constantine
disposed his troops with consummate skill, and that he chose for
himself the post of honor and danger. Distinguished by the
splendor of his arms, he charged in person the cavalry of his
rival; and his irresistible attack determined the fortune of the
day. The cavalry of Maxentius was principally composed either of
unwieldy cuirassiers, or of light Moors and Numidians. They
yielded to the vigor of the Gallic horse, which possessed more
activity than the one, more firmness than the other. The defeat
of the two wings left the infantry without any protection on its
flanks, and the undisciplined Italians fled without reluctance
from the standard of a tyrant whom they had always hated, and
whom they no longer feared. The Prætorians, conscious that their
offences were beyond the reach of mercy, were animated by revenge
and despair. Notwithstanding their repeated efforts, those brave
veterans were unable to recover the victory: they obtained,
however, an honorable death; and it was observed that their
bodies covered the same ground which had been occupied by their
ranks. The confusion then became general, and the dismayed troops
of Maxentius, pursued by an implacable enemy, rushed by thousands
into the deep and rapid stream of the Tyber. The emperor himself
attempted to escape back into the city over the Milvian bridge;
but the crowds which pressed together through that narrow passage
forced him into the river, where he was immediately drowned by
the weight of his armor. His body, which had sunk very deep into
the mud, was found with some difficulty the next day. The sight
of his head, when it was exposed to the eyes of the people,
convinced them of their deliverance, and admonished them to
receive with acclamations of loyalty and gratitude the fortunate
Constantine, who thus achieved by his valor and ability the most
splendid enterprise of his life.
In the use of victory, Constantine neither deserved the praise of
clemency, nor incurred the censure of immoderate rigor. He
inflicted the same treatment to which a defeat would have exposed
his own person and family, put to death the two sons of the
tyrant, and carefully extirpated his whole race. The most
distinguished adherents of Maxentius must have expected to share
his fate, as they had shared his prosperity and his crimes; but
when the Roman people loudly demanded a greater number of
victims, the conqueror resisted, with firmness and humanity,
those servile clamors, which were dictated by flattery as well as
by resentment. Informers were punished and discouraged; the
innocent, who had suffered under the late tyranny, were recalled
from exile, and restored to their estates. A general act of
oblivion quieted the minds and settled the property of the
people, both in Italy and in Africa. The first time that
Constantine honored the senate with his presence, he
recapitulated his own services and exploits in a modest oration,
assured that illustrious order of his sincere regard, and
promised to reëstablish its ancient dignity and privileges. The
grateful senate repaid these unmeaning professions by the empty
titles of honor, which it was yet in their power to bestow; and
without presuming to ratify the authority of Constantine, they
passed a decree to assign him the first rank among the three
_Augusti_ who governed the Roman world. Games and festivals were
instituted to preserve the fame of his victory, and several
edifices, raised at the expense of Maxentius, were dedicated to
the honor of his successful rival. The triumphal arch of
Constantine still remains a melancholy proof of the decline of
the arts, and a singular testimony of the meanest vanity. As it
was not possible to find in the capital of the empire a sculptor
who was capable of adorning that public monument, the arch of
Trajan, without any respect either for his memory or for the
rules of propriety, was stripped of its most elegant figures. The
difference of times and persons, of actions and characters, was
totally disregarded. The Parthian captives appear prostrate at
the feet of a prince who never carried his arms beyond the
Euphrates; and curious antiquarians can still discover the head
of Trajan on the trophies of Constantine. The new ornaments which
it was necessary to introduce between the vacancies of ancient
sculpture are executed in the rudest and most unskilful manner.
The final abolition of the Prætorian guards was a measure of
prudence as well as of revenge. Those haughty troops, whose
numbers and privileges had been restored, and even augmented, by
Maxentius, were forever suppressed by Constantine. Their
fortified camp was destroyed, and the few Prætorians who had
escaped the fury of the sword were dispersed among the legions,
and banished to the frontiers of the empire, where they might be
serviceable without again becoming dangerous. By suppressing the
troops which were usually stationed in Rome, Constantine gave the
fatal blow to the dignity of the senate and people, and the
disarmed capital was exposed without protection to the insults or
neglect of its distant master. We may observe, that in this last
effort to preserve their expiring freedom, the Romans, from the
apprehension of a tribute, had raised Maxentius to the throne. He
exacted that tribute from the senate under the name of a free
gift. They implored the assistance of Constantine. He vanquished
the tyrant, and converted the free gift into a perpetual tax. The
senators, according to the declaration which was required of
their property, were divided into several classes. The most
opulent paid annually eight pounds of gold, the next class paid
four, the last two, and those whose poverty might have claimed an
exemption, were assessed, however, at seven pieces of gold.
Besides the regular members of the senate, their sons, their
descendants, and even their relations, enjoyed the vain
privileges, and supported the heavy burdens, of the senatorial
order; nor will it any longer excite our surprise, that
Constantine should be attentive to increase the number of persons
who were included under so useful a description. After the defeat
of Maxentius, the victorious emperor passed no more than two or
three months in Rome, which he visited twice during the remainder
of his life, to celebrate the solemn festivals of the tenth and
of the twentieth years of his reign. Constantine was almost
perpetually in motion, to exercise the legions, or to inspect the
state of the provinces. Treves, Milan, Aquileia, Sirmium,
Naissus, and Thessalonica, were the occasional places of his
residence, till he founded a new Rome on the confines of Europe
and Asia.
Before Constantine marched into Italy, he had secured the
friendship, or at least the neutrality, of Licinius, the Illyrian
emperor. He had promised his sister Constantia in marriage to
that prince; but the celebration of the nuptials was deferred
till after the conclusion of the war, and the interview of the
two emperors at Milan, which was appointed for that purpose,
appeared to cement the union of their families and interests. In
the midst of the public festivity they were suddenly obliged to
take leave of each other. An inroad of the Franks summoned
Constantine to the Rhine, and the hostile approach of the
sovereign of Asia demanded the immediate presence of Licinius.
Maximin had been the secret ally of Maxentius, and without being
discouraged by his fate, he resolved to try the fortune of a
civil war. He moved out of Syria, towards the frontiers of
Bithynia, in the depth of winter. The season was severe and
tempestuous; great numbers of men as well as horses perished in
the snow; and as the roads were broken up by incessant rains, he
was obliged to leave behind him a considerable part of the heavy
baggage, which was unable to follow the rapidity of his forced
marches. By this extraordinary effort of diligence, he arrived
with a harassed but formidable army, on the banks of the Thracian
Bosphorus before the lieutenants of Licinius were apprised of his
hostile intentions. Byzantium surrendered to the power of
Maximin, after a siege of eleven days. He was detained some days
under the walls of Heraclea; and he had no sooner taken
possession of that city than he was alarmed by the intelligence
that Licinius had pitched his camp at the distance of only
eighteen miles. After a fruitless negotiation, in which the two
princes attempted to seduce the fidelity of each other’s
adherents, they had recourse to arms. The emperor of the East
commanded a disciplined and veteran army of above seventy
thousand men; and Licinius, who had collected about thirty
thousand Illyrians, was at first oppressed by the superiority of
numbers. His military skill, and the firmness of his troops,
restored the day, and obtained a decisive victory. The incredible
speed which Maximin exerted in his flight is much more celebrated
than his prowess in the battle. Twenty-four hours afterwards he
was seen, pale, trembling, and without his Imperial ornaments, at
Nicomedia, one hundred and sixty miles from the place of his
defeat. The wealth of Asia was yet unexhausted; and though the
flower of his veterans had fallen in the late action, he had
still power, if he could obtain time, to draw very numerous
levies from Syria and Egypt. But he survived his misfortune only
three or four months. His death, which happened at Tarsus, was
variously ascribed to despair, to poison, and to the divine
justice. As Maximin was alike destitute of abilities and of
virtue, he was lamented neither by the people nor by the
soldiers. The provinces of the East, delivered from the terrors
of civil war, cheerfully acknowledged the authority of Licinius.
The vanquished emperor left behind him two children, a boy of
about eight, and a girl of about seven, years old. Their
inoffensive age might have excited compassion; but the compassion
of Licinius was a very feeble resource, nor did it restrain him
from _extinguishing_the name and memory of his adversary. The
death of Severianus will admit of less excuse, as it was dictated
neither by revenge nor by policy. The conqueror had never
received any injury from the father of that unhappy youth, and
the short and obscure reign of Severus, in a distant part of the
empire, was already forgotten. But the execution of Candidianus
was an act of the blackest cruelty and ingratitude. He was the
natural son of Galerius, the friend and benefactor of Licinius.
The prudent father had judged him too young to sustain the weight
of a diadem; but he hoped that, under the protection of princes
who were indebted to his favor for the Imperial purple,
Candidianus might pass a secure and honorable life. He was now
advancing towards the twentieth year of his age, and the royalty
of his birth, though unsupported either by merit or ambition, was
sufficient to exasperate the jealous mind of Licinius. To these
innocent and illustrious victims of his tyranny, we must add the
wife and daughter of the emperor Diocletian. When that prince
conferred on Galerius the title of Cæsar, he had given him in
marriage his daughter Valeria, whose melancholy adventures might
furnish a very singular subject for tragedy. She had fulfilled
and even surpassed the duties of a wife. As she had not any
children herself, she condescended to adopt the illegitimate son
of her husband, and invariably displayed towards the unhappy
Candidianus the tenderness and anxiety of a real mother. After
the death of Galerius, her ample possessions provoked the
avarice, and her personal attractions excited the desires, of his
successor, Maximin. He had a wife still alive; but divorce was
permitted by the Roman law, and the fierce passions of the tyrant
demanded an immediate gratification. The answer of Valeria was
such as became the daughter and widow of emperors; but it was
tempered by the prudence which her defenceless condition
compelled her to observe. She represented to the persons whom
Maximin had employed on this occasion, “that even if honor could
permit a woman of her character and dignity to entertain a
thought of second nuptials, decency at least must forbid her to
listen to his addresses at a time when the ashes of her husband
and his benefactor were still warm, and while the sorrows of her
mind were still expressed by her mourning garments. She ventured
to declare, that she could place very little confidence in the
professions of a man whose cruel inconstancy was capable of
repudiating a faithful and affectionate wife.” On this repulse,
the love of Maximin was converted into fury; and as witnesses and
judges were always at his disposal, it was easy for him to cover
his fury with an appearance of legal proceedings, and to assault
the reputation as well as the happiness of Valeria. Her estates
were confiscated, her eunuchs and domestics devoted to the most
inhuman tortures; and several innocent and respectable matrons,
who were honored with her friendship, suffered death, on a false
accusation of adultery. The empress herself, together with her
mother Prisca, was condemned to exile; and as they were
ignominiously hurried from place to place before they were
confined to a sequestered village in the deserts of Syria, they
exposed their shame and distress to the provinces of the East,
which, during thirty years, had respected their august dignity.
Diocletian made several ineffectual efforts to alleviate the
misfortunes of his daughter; and, as the last return that he
expected for the Imperial purple, which he had conferred upon
Maximin, he entreated that Valeria might be permitted to share
his retirement of Salona, and to close the eyes of her afflicted
father. He entreated; but as he could no longer threaten, his
prayers were received with coldness and disdain; and the pride of
Maximin was gratified, in treating Diocletian as a suppliant, and
his daughter as a criminal. The death of Maximin seemed to assure
the empresses of a favorable alteration in their fortune. The
public disorders relaxed the vigilance of their guard, and they
easily found means to escape from the place of their exile, and
to repair, though with some precaution, and in disguise, to the
court of Licinius. His behavior, in the first days of his reign,
and the honorable reception which he gave to young Candidianus,
inspired Valeria with a secret satisfaction, both on her own
account and on that of her adopted son. But these grateful
prospects were soon succeeded by horror and astonishment; and the
bloody executions which stained the palace of Nicomedia
sufficiently convinced her that the throne of Maximin was filled
by a tyrant more inhuman than himself. Valeria consulted her
safety by a hasty flight, and, still accompanied by her mother
Prisca, they wandered above fifteen months through the provinces,
concealed in the disguise of plebeian habits. They were at length
discovered at Thessalonica; and as the sentence of their death
was already pronounced, they were immediately beheaded, and their
bodies thrown into the sea. The people gazed on the melancholy
spectacle; but their grief and indignation were suppressed by the
terrors of a military guard. Such was the unworthy fate of the
wife and daughter of Diocletian. We lament their misfortunes, we
cannot discover their crimes; and whatever idea we may justly
entertain of the cruelty of Licinius, it remains a matter of
surprise that he was not contented with some more secret and
decent method of revenge.
The Roman world was now divided between Constantine and Licinius,
the former of whom was master of the West, and the latter of the
East. It might perhaps have been expected that the conquerors,
fatigued with civil war, and connected by a private as well as
public alliance, would have renounced, or at least would have
suspended, any further designs of ambition. And yet a year had
scarcely elapsed after the death of Maximin, before the
victorious emperors turned their arms against each other. The
genius, the success, and the aspiring temper of Constantine, may
seem to mark him out as the aggressor; but the perfidious
character of Licinius justifies the most unfavorable suspicions,
and by the faint light which history reflects on this
transaction, we may discover a conspiracy fomented by his arts
against the authority of his colleague. Constantine had lately
given his sister Anastasia in marriage to Bassianus, a man of a
considerable family and fortune, and had elevated his new kinsman
to the rank of Cæsar. According to the system of government
instituted by Diocletian, Italy, and perhaps Africa, were
designed for his department in the empire. But the performance of
the promised favor was either attended with so much delay, or
accompanied with so many unequal conditions, that the fidelity of
Bassianus was alienated rather than secured by the honorable
distinction which he had obtained. His nomination had been
ratified by the consent of Licinius; and that artful prince, by
the means of his emissaries, soon contrived to enter into a
secret and dangerous correspondence with the new Cæsar, to
irritate his discontents, and to urge him to the rash enterprise
of extorting by violence what he might in vain solicit from the
justice of Constantine. But the vigilant emperor discovered the
conspiracy before it was ripe for execution; and after solemnly
renouncing the alliance of Bassianus, despoiled him of the
purple, and inflicted the deserved punishment on his treason and
ingratitude. The haughty refusal of Licinius, when he was
required to deliver up the criminals who had taken refuge in his
dominions, confirmed the suspicions already entertained of his
perfidy; and the indignities offered at Æmona, on the frontiers
of Italy, to the statues of Constantine, became the signal of
discord between the two princes.
The first battle was fought near Cibalis, a city of Pannonia,
situated on the River Save, about fifty miles above Sirmium. From
the inconsiderable forces which in this important contest two
such powerful monarchs brought into the field, it may be inferred
that the one was suddenly provoked, and that the other was
unexpectedly surprised. The emperor of the West had only twenty
thousand, and the sovereign of the East no more than five and
thirty thousand, men. The inferiority of number was, however,
compensated by the advantage of the ground. Constantine had taken
post in a defile about half a mile in breadth, between a steep
hill and a deep morass, and in that situation he steadily
expected and repulsed the first attack of the enemy. He pursued
his success, and advanced into the plain. But the veteran legions
of Illyricum rallied under the standard of a leader who had been
trained to arms in the school of Probus and Diocletian. The
missile weapons on both sides were soon exhausted; the two
armies, with equal valor, rushed to a closer engagement of swords
and spears, and the doubtful contest had already lasted from the
dawn of the day to a late hour of the evening, when the right
wing, which Constantine led in person, made a vigorous and
decisive charge. The judicious retreat of Licinius saved the
remainder of his troops from a total defeat; but when he computed
his loss, which amounted to more than twenty thousand men, he
thought it unsafe to pass the night in the presence of an active
and victorious enemy. Abandoning his camp and magazines, he
marched away with secrecy and diligence at the head of the
greatest part of his cavalry, and was soon removed beyond the
danger of a pursuit. His diligence preserved his wife, his son,
and his treasures, which he had deposited at Sirmium. Licinius
passed through that city, and breaking down the bridge on the
Save, hastened to collect a new army in Dacia and Thrace. In his
flight he bestowed the precarious title of Cæsar on Valens, his
general of the Illyrian frontier.
Chapter XIV: Six Emperors At The Same Time, Reunion Of The
Empire.—Part IV.
The plain of Mardia in Thrace was the theatre of a second battle
no less obstinate and bloody than the former. The troops on both
sides displayed the same valor and discipline; and the victory
was once more decided by the superior abilities of Constantine,
who directed a body of five thousand men to gain an advantageous
height, from whence, during the heat of the action, they attacked
the rear of the enemy, and made a very considerable slaughter.
The troops of Licinius, however, presenting a double front, still
maintained their ground, till the approach of night put an end to
the combat, and secured their retreat towards the mountains of
Macedonia. The loss of two battles, and of his bravest veterans,
reduced the fierce spirit of Licinius to sue for peace. His
ambassador Mistrianus was admitted to the audience of
Constantine: he expatiated on the common topics of moderation and
humanity, which are so familiar to the eloquence of the
vanquished; represented in the most insinuating language, that
the event of the war was still doubtful, whilst its inevitable
calamities were alike pernicious to both the contending parties;
and declared that he was authorized to propose a lasting and
honorable peace in the name of the _two_ emperors his masters.
Constantine received the mention of Valens with indignation and
contempt. “It was not for such a purpose,” he sternly replied,
“that we have advanced from the shores of the western ocean in an
uninterrupted course of combats and victories, that, after
rejecting an ungrateful kinsman, we should accept for our
colleague a contemptible slave. The abdication of Valens is the
first article of the treaty.” It was necessary to accept this
humiliating condition; and the unhappy Valens, after a reign of a
few days, was deprived of the purple and of his life. As soon as
this obstacle was removed, the tranquillity of the Roman world
was easily restored. The successive defeats of Licinius had
ruined his forces, but they had displayed his courage and
abilities. His situation was almost desperate, but the efforts of
despair are sometimes formidable, and the good sense of
Constantine preferred a great and certain advantage to a third
trial of the chance of arms. He consented to leave his rival, or,
as he again styled Licinius, his friend and brother, in the
possession of Thrace, Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt; but the
provinces of Pannonia, Dalmatia, Dacia, Macedonia, and Greece,
were yielded to the Western empire, and the dominions of
Constantine now extended from the confines of Caledonia to the
extremity of Peloponnesus. It was stipulated by the same treaty,
that three royal youths, the sons of emperors, should be called
to the hopes of the succession. Crispus and the young Constantine
were soon afterwards declared Cæsars in the West, while the
younger Licinius was invested with the same dignity in the East.
In this double proportion of honors, the conqueror asserted the
superiority of his arms and power.
The reconciliation of Constantine and Licinius, though it was
imbittered by resentment and jealousy, by the remembrance of
recent injuries, and by the apprehension of future dangers,
maintained, however, above eight years, the tranquility of the
Roman world. As a very regular series of the Imperial laws
commences about this period, it would not be difficult to
transcribe the civil regulations which employed the leisure of
Constantine. But the most important of his institutions are
intimately connected with the new system of policy and religion,
which was not perfectly established till the last and peaceful
years of his reign. There are many of his laws, which, as far as
they concern the rights and property of individuals, and the
practice of the bar, are more properly referred to the private
than to the public jurisprudence of the empire; and he published
many edicts of so local and temporary a nature, that they would
ill deserve the notice of a general history. Two laws, however,
may be selected from the crowd; the one for its importance, the
other for its singularity; the former for its remarkable
benevolence, the latter for its excessive severity. 1. The horrid
practice, so familiar to the ancients, of exposing or murdering
their new-born infants, was become every day more frequent in the
provinces, and especially in Italy. It was the effect of
distress; and the distress was principally occasioned by the
intolerant burden of taxes, and by the vexatious as well as cruel
prosecutions of the officers of the revenue against their
insolvent debtors. The less opulent or less industrious part of
mankind, instead of rejoicing in an increase of family, deemed it
an act of paternal tenderness to release their children from the
impending miseries of a life which they themselves were unable to
support. The humanity of Constantine, moved, perhaps, by some
recent and extraordinary instances of despair, * engaged him to
address an edict to all the cities of Italy, and afterwards of
Africa, directing immediate and sufficient relief to be given to
those parents who should produce before the magistrates the
children whom their own poverty would not allow them to educate.
But the promise was too liberal, and the provision too vague, to
effect any general or permanent benefit. The law, though it may
merit some praise, served rather to display than to alleviate the
public distress. It still remains an authentic monument to
contradict and confound those venal orators, who were too well
satisfied with their own situation to discover either vice or
misery under the government of a generous sovereign. 2. The laws
of Constantine against rapes were dictated with very little
indulgence for the most amiable weaknesses of human nature; since
the description of that crime was applied not only to the brutal
violence which compelled, but even to the gentle seduction which
might persuade, an unmarried woman, under the age of twenty-five,
to leave the house of her parents. “The successful ravisher was
punished with death; and as if simple death was inadequate to the
enormity of his guilt, he was either burnt alive, or torn in
pieces by wild beasts in the amphitheatre. The virgin’s
declaration, that she had been carried away with her own consent,
instead of saving her lover, exposed her to share his fate. The
duty of a public prosecution was intrusted to the parents of the
guilty or unfortunate maid; and if the sentiments of nature
prevailed on them to dissemble the injury, and to repair by a
subsequent marriage the honor of their family, they were
themselves punished by exile and confiscation. The slaves,
whether male or female, who were convicted of having been
accessory to rape or seduction, were burnt alive, or put to death
by the ingenious torture of pouring down their throats a quantity
of melted lead. As the crime was of a public kind, the accusation
was permitted even to strangers. The commencement of the action
was not limited to any term of years, and the consequences of the
sentence were extended to the innocent offspring of such an
irregular union.” But whenever the offence inspires less horror
than the punishment, the rigor of penal law is obliged to give
way to the common feelings of mankind. The most odious parts of
this edict were softened or repealed in the subsequent reigns;
and even Constantine himself very frequently alleviated, by
partial acts of mercy, the stern temper of his general
institutions. Such, indeed, was the singular humor of that
emperor, who showed himself as indulgent, and even remiss, in the
execution of his laws, as he was severe, and even cruel, in the
enacting of them. It is scarcely possible to observe a more
decisive symptom of weakness, either in the character of the
prince, or in the constitution of the government.
The civil administration was sometimes interrupted by the
military defence of the empire. Crispus, a youth of the most
amiable character, who had received with the title of Cæsar the
command of the Rhine, distinguished his conduct, as well as
valor, in several victories over the Franks and Alemanni, and
taught the barbarians of that frontier to dread the eldest son of
Constantine, and the grandson of Constantius. The emperor himself
had assumed the more difficult and important province of the
Danube. The Goths, who in the time of Claudius and Aurelian had
felt the weight of the Roman arms, respected the power of the
empire, even in the midst of its intestine divisions. But the
strength of that warlike nation was now restored by a peace of
near fifty years; a new generation had arisen, who no longer
remembered the misfortunes of ancient days; the Sarmatians of the
Lake Mæotis followed the Gothic standard either as subjects or as
allies, and their united force was poured upon the countries of
Illyricum. Campona, Margus, and Benonia, appear to have been the
scenes of several memorable sieges and battles; and though
Constantine encountered a very obstinate resistance, he prevailed
at length in the contest, and the Goths were compelled to
purchase an ignominious retreat, by restoring the booty and
prisoners which they had taken. Nor was this advantage sufficient
to satisfy the indignation of the emperor. He resolved to
chastise as well as to repulse the insolent barbarians who had
dared to invade the territories of Rome. At the head of his
legions he passed the Danube, after repairing the bridge which
had been constructed by Trajan, penetrated into the strongest
recesses of Dacia, and when he had inflicted a severe revenge,
condescended to give peace to the suppliant Goths, on condition
that, as often as they were required, they should supply his
armies with a body of forty thousand soldiers. Exploits like
these were no doubt honorable to Constantine, and beneficial to
the state; but it may surely be questioned, whether they can
justify the exaggerated assertion of Eusebius, that all Scythia,
as far as the extremity of the North, divided as it was into so
many names and nations of the most various and savage manners,
had been added by his victorious arms to the Roman empire.
In this exalted state of glory, it was impossible that
Constantine should any longer endure a partner in the empire.
Confiding in the superiority of his genius and military power, he
determined, without any previous injury, to exert them for the
destruction of Licinius, whose advanced age and unpopular vices
seemed to offer a very easy conquest. But the old emperor,
awakened by the approaching danger, deceived the expectations of
his friends, as well as of his enemies. Calling forth that spirit
and those abilities by which he had deserved the friendship of
Galerius and the Imperial purple, he prepared himself for the
contest, collected the forces of the East, and soon filled the
plains of Hadrianople with his troops, and the straits of the
Hellespont with his fleet. The army consisted of one hundred and
fifty thousand foot, and fifteen thousand horse; and as the
cavalry was drawn, for the most part, from Phrygia and
Cappadocia, we may conceive a more favorable opinion of the
beauty of the horses, than of the courage and dexterity of their
riders. The fleet was composed of three hundred and fifty galleys
of three ranks of oars. A hundred and thirty of these were
furnished by Egypt and the adjacent coast of Africa. A hundred
and ten sailed from the ports of Phœnicia and the isle of Cyprus;
and the maritime countries of Bithynia, Ionia, and Caria were
likewise obliged to provide a hundred and ten galleys. The troops
of Constantine were ordered to a rendezvous at Thessalonica; they
amounted to above a hundred and twenty thousand horse and foot.
Their emperor was satisfied with their martial appearance, and
his army contained more soldiers, though fewer men, than that of
his eastern competitor. The legions of Constantine were levied in
the warlike provinces of Europe; action had confirmed their
discipline, victory had elevated their hopes, and there were
among them a great number of veterans, who, after seventeen
glorious campaigns under the same leader, prepared themselves to
deserve an honorable dismission by a last effort of their valor.
But the naval preparations of Constantine were in every respect
much inferior to those of Licinius. The maritime cities of Greece
sent their respective quotas of men and ships to the celebrated
harbor of Piræus, and their united forces consisted of no more
than two hundred small vessels—a very feeble armament, if it is
compared with those formidable fleets which were equipped and
maintained by the republic of Athens during the Peloponnesian
war. Since Italy was no longer the seat of government, the naval
establishments of Misenum and Ravenna had been gradually
neglected; and as the shipping and mariners of the empire were
supported by commerce rather than by war, it was natural that
they should the most abound in the industrious provinces of Egypt
and Asia. It is only surprising that the eastern emperor, who
possessed so great a superiority at sea, should have neglected
the opportunity of carrying an offensive war into the centre of
his rival’s dominions.
Instead of embracing such an active resolution, which might have
changed the whole face of the war, the prudent Licinius expected
the approach of his rival in a camp near Hadrianople, which he
had fortified with an anxious care that betrayed his apprehension
of the event. Constantine directed his march from Thessalonica
towards that part of Thrace, till he found himself stopped by the
broad and rapid stream of the Hebrus, and discovered the numerous
army of Licinius, which filled the steep ascent of the hill, from
the river to the city of Hadrianople. Many days were spent in
doubtful and distant skirmishes; but at length the obstacles of
the passage and of the attack were removed by the intrepid
conduct of Constantine. In this place we might relate a wonderful
exploit of Constantine, which, though it can scarcely be
paralleled either in poetry or romance, is celebrated, not by a
venal orator devoted to his fortune, but by an historian, the
partial enemy of his fame. We are assured that the valiant
emperor threw himself into the River Hebrus, accompanied only by
twelve horsemen, and that by the effort or terror of his
invincible arm, he broke, slaughtered, and put to flight a host
of a hundred and fifty thousand men. The credulity of Zosimus
prevailed so strongly over his passion, that among the events of
the memorable battle of Hadrianople, he seems to have selected
and embellished, not the most important, but the most marvellous.
The valor and danger of Constantine are attested by a slight
wound which he received in the thigh; but it may be discovered
even from an imperfect narration, and perhaps a corrupted text,
that the victory was obtained no less by the conduct of the
general than by the courage of the hero; that a body of five
thousand archers marched round to occupy a thick wood in the rear
of the enemy, whose attention was diverted by the construction of
a bridge, and that Licinius, perplexed by so many artful
evolutions, was reluctantly drawn from his advantageous post to
combat on equal ground on the plain. The contest was no longer
equal. His confused multitude of new levies was easily vanquished
by the experienced veterans of the West. Thirty-four thousand men
are reported to have been slain. The fortified camp of Licinius
was taken by assault the evening of the battle; the greater part
of the fugitives, who had retired to the mountains, surrendered
themselves the next day to the discretion of the conqueror; and
his rival, who could no longer keep the field, confined himself
within the walls of Byzantium.
The siege of Byzantium, which was immediately undertaken by
Constantine, was attended with great labor and uncertainty. In
the late civil wars, the fortifications of that place, so justly
considered as the key of Europe and Asia, had been repaired and
strengthened; and as long as Licinius remained master of the sea,
the garrison was much less exposed to the danger of famine than
the army of the besiegers. The naval commanders of Constantine
were summoned to his camp, and received his positive orders to
force the passage of the Hellespont, as the fleet of Licinius,
instead of seeking and destroying their feeble enemy, continued
inactive in those narrow straits, where its superiority of
numbers was of little use or advantage. Crispus, the emperor’s
eldest son, was intrusted with the execution of this daring
enterprise, which he performed with so much courage and success,
that he deserved the esteem, and most probably excited the
jealousy, of his father. The engagement lasted two days; and in
the evening of the first, the contending fleets, after a
considerable and mutual loss, retired into their respective
harbors of Europe and Asia. The second day, about noon, a strong
south wind sprang up, which carried the vessels of Crispus
against the enemy; and as the casual advantage was improved by
his skilful intrepidity, he soon obtained a complete victory. A
hundred and thirty vessels were destroyed, five thousand men were
slain, and Amandus, the admiral of the Asiatic fleet, escaped
with the utmost difficulty to the shores of Chalcedon. As soon as
the Hellespont was open, a plentiful convoy of provisions flowed
into the camp of Constantine, who had already advanced the
operations of the siege. He constructed artificial mounds of
earth of an equal height with the ramparts of Byzantium. The
lofty towers which were erected on that foundation galled the
besieged with large stones and darts from the military engines,
and the battering rams had shaken the walls in several places. If
Licinius persisted much longer in the defence, he exposed himself
to be involved in the ruin of the place. Before he was
surrounded, he prudently removed his person and treasures to
Chalcedon in Asia; and as he was always desirous of associating
companions to the hopes and dangers of his fortune, he now
bestowed the title of Cæsar on Martinianus, who exercised one of
the most important offices of the empire.
Such were still the resources, and such the abilities, of
Licinius, that, after so many successive defeats, he collected in
Bithynia a new army of fifty or sixty thousand men, while the
activity of Constantine was employed in the siege of Byzantium.
The vigilant emperor did not, however, neglect the last struggles
of his antagonist. A considerable part of his victorious army was
transported over the Bosphorus in small vessels, and the decisive
engagement was fought soon after their landing on the heights of
Chrysopolis, or, as it is now called, of Scutari. The troops of
Licinius, though they were lately raised, ill armed, and worse
disciplined, made head against their conquerors with fruitless
but desperate valor, till a total defeat, and a slaughter of five
and twenty thousand men, irretrievably determined the fate of
their leader. He retired to Nicomedia, rather with the view of
gaining some time for negotiation, than with the hope of any
effectual defence. Constantia, his wife, and the sister of
Constantine, interceded with her brother in favor of her husband,
and obtained from his policy, rather than from his compassion, a
solemn promise, confirmed by an oath, that after the sacrifice of
Martinianus, and the resignation of the purple, Licinius himself
should be permitted to pass the remainder of this life in peace
and affluence. The behavior of Constantia, and her relation to
the contending parties, naturally recalls the remembrance of that
virtuous matron who was the sister of Augustus, and the wife of
Antony. But the temper of mankind was altered, and it was no
longer esteemed infamous for a Roman to survive his honor and
independence. Licinius solicited and accepted the pardon of his
offences, laid himself and his purple at the feet of his lord and
master, was raised from the ground with insulting pity, was
admitted the same day to the Imperial banquet, and soon
afterwards was sent away to Thessalonica, which had been chosen
for the place of his confinement. His confinement was soon
terminated by death, and it is doubtful whether a tumult of the
soldiers, or a decree of the senate, was suggested as the motive
for his execution. According to the rules of tyranny, he was
accused of forming a conspiracy, and of holding a treasonable
correspondence with the barbarians; but as he was never
convicted, either by his own conduct or by any legal evidence, we
may perhaps be allowed, from his weakness, to presume his
innocence. The memory of Licinius was branded with infamy, his
statues were thrown down, and by a hasty edict, of such
mischievous tendency that it was almost immediately corrected,
all his laws, and all the judicial proceedings of his reign, were
at once abolished. By this victory of Constantine, the Roman
world was again united under the authority of one emperor,
thirty-seven years after Diocletian had divided his power and
provinces with his associate Maximian.
The successive steps of the elevation of Constantine, from his
first assuming the purple at York, to the resignation of
Licinius, at Nicomedia, have been related with some minuteness
and precision, not only as the events are in themselves both
interesting and important, but still more, as they contributed to
the decline of the empire by the expense of blood and treasure,
and by the perpetual increase, as well of the taxes, as of the
military establishment. The foundation of Constantinople, and the
establishment of the Christian religion, were the immediate and
memorable consequences of this revolution.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part I.
The Progress Of The Christian Religion, And The Sentiments, Manners,
Numbers, And Condition Of The Primitive Christians.
A candid but rational inquiry into the progress and establishment
of Christianity may be considered as a very essential part of the
history of the Roman empire. While that great body was invaded by
open violence, or undermined by slow decay, a pure and humble
religion gently insinuated itself into the minds of men, grew up
in silence and obscurity, derived new vigor from opposition, and
finally erected the triumphant banner of the Cross on the ruins
of the Capitol. Nor was the influence of Christianity confined to
the period or to the limits of the Roman empire. After a
revolution of thirteen or fourteen centuries, that religion is
still professed by the nations of Europe, the most distinguished
portion of human kind in arts and learning as well as in arms. By
the industry and zeal of the Europeans, it has been widely
diffused to the most distant shores of Asia and Africa; and by
the means of their colonies has been firmly established from
Canada to Chili, in a world unknown to the ancients.
But this inquiry, however useful or entertaining, is attended
with two peculiar difficulties. The scanty and suspicious
materials of ecclesiastical history seldom enable us to dispel
the dark cloud that hangs over the first age of the church. The
great law of impartiality too often obliges us to reveal the
imperfections of the uninspired teachers and believers of the
gospel; and, to a careless observer, their _faults_ may seem to
cast a shade on the faith which they professed. But the scandal
of the pious Christian, and the fallacious triumph of the
Infidel, should cease as soon as they recollect not only _by
whom_, but likewise _to whom_, the Divine Revelation was given.
The theologian may indulge the pleasing task of describing
Religion as she descended from Heaven, arrayed in her native
purity. A more melancholy duty is imposed on the historian. He
must discover the inevitable mixture of error and corruption,
which she contracted in a long residence upon earth, among a weak
and degenerate race of beings. *
Our curiosity is naturally prompted to inquire by what means the
Christian faith obtained so remarkable a victory over the
established religions of the earth. To this inquiry, an obvious
but satisfactory answer may be returned; that it was owing to the
convincing evidence of the doctrine itself, and to the ruling
providence of its great Author. But as truth and reason seldom
find so favorable a reception in the world, and as the wisdom of
Providence frequently condescends to use the passions of the
human heart, and the general circumstances of mankind, as
instruments to execute its purpose, we may still be permitted,
though with becoming submission, to ask, not indeed what were the
first, but what were the secondary causes of the rapid growth of
the Christian church. It will, perhaps, appear, that it was most
effectually favored and assisted by the five following causes: I.
The inflexible, and if we may use the expression, the intolerant
zeal of the Christians, derived, it is true, from the Jewish
religion, but purified from the narrow and unsocial spirit,
which, instead of inviting, had deterred the Gentiles from
embracing the law of Moses. II. The doctrine of a future life,
improved by every additional circumstance which could give weight
and efficacy to that important truth. III. The miraculous powers
ascribed to the primitive church. IV. The pure and austere morals
of the Christians. V. The union and discipline of the Christian
republic, which gradually formed an independent and increasing
state in the heart of the Roman empire.
I. We have already described the religious harmony of the ancient
world, and the facility * with which the most different and even
hostile nations embraced, or at least respected, each other’s
superstitions. A single people refused to join in the common
intercourse of mankind. The Jews, who, under the Assyrian and
Persian monarchies, had languished for many ages the most
despised portion of their slaves, emerged from obscurity under
the successors of Alexander; and as they multiplied to a
surprising degree in the East, and afterwards in the West, they
soon excited the curiosity and wonder of other nations. The
sullen obstinacy with which they maintained their peculiar rites
and unsocial manners seemed to mark them out as a distinct
species of men, who boldly professed, or who faintly disguised,
their implacable habits to the rest of human kind. Neither the
violence of Antiochus, nor the arts of Herod, nor the example of
the circumjacent nations, could ever persuade the Jews to
associate with the institutions of Moses the elegant mythology of
the Greeks. According to the maxims of universal toleration, the
Romans protected a superstition which they despised. The polite
Augustus condescended to give orders, that sacrifices should be
offered for his prosperity in the temple of Jerusalem; whilst the
meanest of the posterity of Abraham, who should have paid the
same homage to the Jupiter of the Capitol, would have been an
object of abhorrence to himself and to his brethren. But the
moderation of the conquerors was insufficient to appease the
jealous prejudices of their subjects, who were alarmed and
scandalized at the ensigns of paganism, which necessarily
introduced themselves into a Roman province. The mad attempt of
Caligula to place his own statue in the temple of Jerusalem was
defeated by the unanimous resolution of a people who dreaded
death much less than such an idolatrous profanation. Their
attachment to the law of Moses was equal to their detestation of
foreign religions. The current of zeal and devotion, as it was
contracted into a narrow channel, ran with the strength, and
sometimes with the fury, of a torrent.
This inflexible perseverance, which appeared so odious or so
ridiculous to the ancient world, assumes a more awful character,
since Providence has deigned to reveal to us the mysterious
history of the chosen people. But the devout and even scrupulous
attachment to the Mosaic religion, so conspicuous among the Jews
who lived under the second temple, becomes still more surprising,
if it is compared with the stubborn incredulity of their
forefathers. When the law was given in thunder from Mount Sinai,
when the tides of the ocean and the course of the planets were
suspended for the convenience of the Israelites, and when
temporal rewards and punishments were the immediate consequences
of their piety or disobedience, they perpetually relapsed into
rebellion against the visible majesty of their Divine King,
placed the idols of the nations in the sanctuary of Jehovah, and
imitated every fantastic ceremony that was practised in the tents
of the Arabs, or in the cities of Phœnicia. As the protection of
Heaven was deservedly withdrawn from the ungrateful race, their
faith acquired a proportionable degree of vigor and purity. The
contemporaries of Moses and Joshua had beheld with careless
indifference the most amazing miracles. Under the pressure of
every calamity, the belief of those miracles has preserved the
Jews of a later period from the universal contagion of idolatry;
and in contradiction to every known principle of the human mind,
that singular people seems to have yielded a stronger and more
ready assent to the traditions of their remote ancestors, than to
the evidence of their own senses.
The Jewish religion was admirably fitted for defence, but it was
never designed for conquest; and it seems probable that the
number of proselytes was never much superior to that of
apostates. The divine promises were originally made, and the
distinguishing rite of circumcision was enjoined, to a single
family. When the posterity of Abraham had multiplied like the
sands of the sea, the Deity, from whose mouth they received a
system of laws and ceremonies, declared himself the proper and as
it were the national God of Israel; and with the most jealous
care separated his favorite people from the rest of mankind. The
conquest of the land of Canaan was accompanied with so many
wonderful and with so many bloody circumstances, that the
victorious Jews were left in a state of irreconcilable hostility
with all their neighbors. They had been commanded to extirpate
some of the most idolatrous tribes, and the execution of the
divine will had seldom been retarded by the weakness of humanity.
With the other nations they were forbidden to contract any
marriages or alliances; and the prohibition of receiving them
into the congregation, which in some cases was perpetual, almost
always extended to the third, to the seventh, or even to the
tenth generation. The obligation of preaching to the Gentiles the
faith of Moses had never been inculcated as a precept of the law,
nor were the Jews inclined to impose it on themselves as a
voluntary duty.
In the admission of new citizens that unsocial people was
actuated by the selfish vanity of the Greeks, rather than by the
generous policy of Rome. The descendants of Abraham were
flattered by the opinion that they alone were the heirs of the
covenant, and they were apprehensive of diminishing the value of
their inheritance by sharing it too easily with the strangers of
the earth. A larger acquaintance with mankind extended their
knowledge without correcting their prejudices; and whenever the
God of Israel acquired any new votaries, he was much more
indebted to the inconstant humor of polytheism than to the active
zeal of his own missionaries. The religion of Moses seems to be
instituted for a particular country as well as for a single
nation; and if a strict obedience had been paid to the order,
that every male, three times in the year, should present himself
before the Lord Jehovah, it would have been impossible that the
Jews could ever have spread themselves beyond the narrow limits
of the promised land. That obstacle was indeed removed by the
destruction of the temple of Jerusalem; but the most considerable
part of the Jewish religion was involved in its destruction; and
the Pagans, who had long wondered at the strange report of an
empty sanctuary, were at a loss to discover what could be the
object, or what could be the instruments, of a worship which was
destitute of temples and of altars, of priests and of sacrifices.
Yet even in their fallen state, the Jews, still asserting their
lofty and exclusive privileges, shunned, instead of courting, the
society of strangers. They still insisted with inflexible rigor
on those parts of the law which it was in their power to
practise. Their peculiar distinctions of days, of meats, and a
variety of trivial though burdensome observances, were so many
objects of disgust and aversion for the other nations, to whose
habits and prejudices they were diametrically opposite. The
painful and even dangerous rite of circumcision was alone capable
of repelling a willing proselyte from the door of the synagogue.
Under these circumstances, Christianity offered itself to the
world, armed with the strength of the Mosaic law, and delivered
from the weight of its fetters. An exclusive zeal for the truth
of religion, and the unity of God, was as carefully inculcated in
the new as in the ancient system; and whatever was now revealed
to mankind concerning the nature and designs of the Supreme Being
was fitted to increase their reverence for that mysterious
doctrine. The divine authority of Moses and the prophets was
admitted, and even established, as the firmest basis of
Christianity. From the beginning of the world, an uninterrupted
series of predictions had announced and prepared the
long-expected coming of the Messiah, who, in compliance with the
gross apprehensions of the Jews, had been more frequently
represented under the character of a King and Conqueror, than
under that of a Prophet, a Martyr, and the Son of God. By his
expiatory sacrifice, the imperfect sacrifices of the temple were
at once consummated and abolished. The ceremonial law, which
consisted only of types and figures, was succeeded by a pure and
spiritual worship equally adapted to all climates, as well as to
every condition of mankind; and to the initiation of blood was
substituted a more harmless initiation of water. The promise of
divine favor, instead of being partially confined to the
posterity of Abraham, was universally proposed to the freeman and
the slave, to the Greek and to the barbarian, to the Jew and to
the Gentile. Every privilege that could raise the proselyte from
earth to heaven, that could exalt his devotion, secure his
happiness, or even gratify that secret pride which, under the
semblance of devotion, insinuates itself into the human heart,
was still reserved for the members of the Christian church; but
at the same time all mankind was permitted, and even solicited,
to accept the glorious distinction, which was not only proffered
as a favor, but imposed as an obligation. It became the most
sacred duty of a new convert to diffuse among his friends and
relations the inestimable blessing which he had received, and to
warn them against a refusal that would be severely punished as a
criminal disobedience to the will of a benevolent but
all-powerful Deity.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part II.
The enfranchisement of the church from the bonds of the synagogue
was a work, however, of some time and of some difficulty. The
Jewish converts, who acknowledged Jesus in the character of the
Messiah foretold by their ancient oracles, respected him as a
prophetic teacher of virtue and religion; but they obstinately
adhered to the ceremonies of their ancestors, and were desirous
of imposing them on the Gentiles, who continually augmented the
number of believers. These Judaizing Christians seem to have
argued with some degree of plausibility from the divine origin of
the Mosaic law, and from the immutable perfections of its great
Author. They affirmed, _that_ if the Being, who is the same
through all eternity, had designed to abolish those sacred rites
which had served to distinguish his chosen people, the repeal of
them would have been no less clear and solemn than their first
promulgation: _that_, instead of those frequent declarations,
which either suppose or assert the perpetuity of the Mosaic
religion, it would have been represented as a provisionary scheme
intended to last only to the coming of the Messiah, who should
instruct mankind in a more perfect mode of faith and of worship:
that the Messiah himself, and his disciples who conversed with
him on earth, instead of authorizing by their example the most
minute observances of the Mosaic law, would have published to the
world the abolition of those useless and obsolete ceremonies,
without suffering Christianity to remain during so many years
obscurely confounded among the sects of the Jewish church.
Arguments like these appear to have been used in the defence of
the expiring cause of the Mosaic law; but the industry of our
learned divines has abundantly explained the ambiguous language
of the Old Testament, and the ambiguous conduct of the apostolic
teachers. It was proper gradually to unfold the system of the
gospel, and to pronounce, with the utmost caution and tenderness,
a sentence of condemnation so repugnant to the inclination and
prejudices of the believing Jews.
The history of the church of Jerusalem affords a lively proof of
the necessity of those precautions, and of the deep impression
which the Jewish religion had made on the minds of its sectaries.
The first fifteen bishops of Jerusalem were all circumcised Jews;
and the congregation over which they presided united the law of
Moses with the doctrine of Christ. It was natural that the
primitive tradition of a church which was founded only forty days
after the death of Christ, and was governed almost as many years
under the immediate inspection of his apostle, should be received
as the standard of orthodoxy. The distant churches very
frequently appealed to the authority of their venerable Parent,
and relieved her distresses by a liberal contribution of alms.
But when numerous and opulent societies were established in the
great cities of the empire, in Antioch, Alexandria, Ephesus,
Corinth, and Rome, the reverence which Jerusalem had inspired to
all the Christian colonies insensibly diminished. The Jewish
converts, or, as they were afterwards called, the Nazarenes, who
had laid the foundations of the church, soon found themselves
overwhelmed by the increasing multitudes, that from all the
various religions of polytheism enlisted under the banner of
Christ: and the Gentiles, who, with the approbation of their
peculiar apostle, had rejected the intolerable weight of the
Mosaic ceremonies, at length refused to their more scrupulous
brethren the same toleration which at first they had humbly
solicited for their own practice. The ruin of the temple of the
city, and of the public religion of the Jews, was severely felt
by the Nazarenes; as in their manners, though not in their faith,
they maintained so intimate a connection with their impious
countrymen, whose misfortunes were attributed by the Pagans to
the contempt, and more justly ascribed by the Christians to the
wrath, of the Supreme Deity. The Nazarenes retired from the ruins
of Jerusalem * to the little town of Pella beyond the Jordan,
where that ancient church languished above sixty years in
solitude and obscurity. They still enjoyed the comfort of making
frequent and devout visits to the _Holy City_, and the hope of
being one day restored to those seats which both nature and
religion taught them to love as well as to revere. But at length,
under the reign of Hadrian, the desperate fanaticism of the Jews
filled up the measure of their calamities; and the Romans,
exasperated by their repeated rebellions, exercised the rights of
victory with unusual rigor. The emperor founded, under the name
of Ælia Capitolina, a new city on Mount Sion, to which he gave
the privileges of a colony; and denouncing the severest penalties
against any of the Jewish people who should dare to approach its
precincts, he fixed a vigilant garrison of a Roman cohort to
enforce the execution of his orders. The Nazarenes had only one
way left to escape the common proscription, and the force of
truth was on this occasion assisted by the influence of temporal
advantages. They elected Marcus for their bishop, a prelate of
the race of the Gentiles, and most probably a native either of
Italy or of some of the Latin provinces. At his persuasion, the
most considerable part of the congregation renounced the Mosaic
law, in the practice of which they had persevered above a
century. By this sacrifice of their habits and prejudices, they
purchased a free admission into the colony of Hadrian, and more
firmly cemented their union with the Catholic church.
When the name and honors of the church of Jerusalem had been
restored to Mount Sion, the crimes of heresy and schism were
imputed to the obscure remnant of the Nazarenes, which refused to
accompany their Latin bishop. They still preserved their former
habitation of Pella, spread themselves into the villages adjacent
to Damascus, and formed an inconsiderable church in the city of
Berœa, or, as it is now called, of Aleppo, in Syria. The name of
Nazarenes was deemed too honorable for those Christian Jews, and
they soon received, from the supposed poverty of their
understanding, as well as of their condition, the contemptuous
epithet of Ebionites. In a few years after the return of the
church of Jerusalem, it became a matter of doubt and controversy,
whether a man who sincerely acknowledged Jesus as the Messiah,
but who still continued to observe the law of Moses, could
possibly hope for salvation. The humane temper of Justin Martyr
inclined him to answer this question in the affirmative; and
though he expressed himself with the most guarded diffidence, he
ventured to determine in favor of such an imperfect Christian, if
he were content to practise the Mosaic ceremonies, without
pretending to assert their general use or necessity. But when
Justin was pressed to declare the sentiment of the church, he
confessed that there were very many among the orthodox
Christians, who not only excluded their Judaizing brethren from
the hope of salvation, but who declined any intercourse with them
in the common offices of friendship, hospitality, and social
life. The more rigorous opinion prevailed, as it was natural to
expect, over the milder; and an eternal bar of separation was
fixed between the disciples of Moses and those of Christ. The
unfortunate Ebionites, rejected from one religion as apostates,
and from the other as heretics, found themselves compelled to
assume a more decided character; and although some traces of that
obsolete sect may be discovered as late as the fourth century,
they insensibly melted away, either into the church or the
synagogue.
While the orthodox church preserved a just medium between
excessive veneration and improper contempt for the law of Moses,
the various heretics deviated into equal but opposite extremes of
error and extravagance. From the acknowledged truth of the Jewish
religion, the Ebionites had concluded that it could never be
abolished. From its supposed imperfections, the Gnostics as
hastily inferred that it never was instituted by the wisdom of
the Deity. There are some objections against the authority of
Moses and the prophets, which too readily present themselves to
the sceptical mind; though they can only be derived from our
ignorance of remote antiquity, and from our incapacity to form an
adequate judgment of the divine economy. These objections were
eagerly embraced and as petulantly urged by the vain science of
the Gnostics. As those heretics were, for the most part, averse
to the pleasures of sense, they morosely arraigned the polygamy
of the patriarchs, the gallantries of David, and the seraglio of
Solomon. The conquest of the land of Canaan, and the extirpation
of the unsuspecting natives, they were at a loss how to reconcile
with the common notions of humanity and justice. * But when they
recollected the sanguinary list of murders, of executions, and of
massacres, which stain almost every page of the Jewish annals,
they acknowledged that the barbarians of Palestine had exercised
as much compassion towards their idolatrous enemies, as they had
ever shown to their friends or countrymen. Passing from the
sectaries of the law to the law itself, they asserted that it was
impossible that a religion which consisted only of bloody
sacrifices and trifling ceremonies, and whose rewards as well as
punishments were all of a carnal and temporal nature, could
inspire the love of virtue, or restrain the impetuosity of
passion. The Mosaic account of the creation and fall of man was
treated with profane derision by the Gnostics, who would not
listen with patience to the repose of the Deity after six days’
labor, to the rib of Adam, the garden of Eden, the trees of life
and of knowledge, the speaking serpent, the forbidden fruit, and
the condemnation pronounced against human kind for the venial
offence of their first progenitors. The God of Israel was
impiously represented by the Gnostics as a being liable to
passion and to error, capricious in his favor, implacable in his
resentment, meanly jealous of his superstitious worship, and
confining his partial providence to a single people, and to this
transitory life. In such a character they could discover none of
the features of the wise and omnipotent Father of the universe.
They allowed that the religion of the Jews was somewhat less
criminal than the idolatry of the Gentiles; but it was their
fundamental doctrine that the Christ whom they adored as the
first and brightest emanation of the Deity appeared upon earth to
rescue mankind from their various errors, and to reveal a new
system of truth and perfection. The most learned of the fathers,
by a very singular condescension, have imprudently admitted the
sophistry of the Gnostics. * Acknowledging that the literal sense
is repugnant to every principle of faith as well as reason, they
deem themselves secure and invulnerable behind the ample veil of
allegory, which they carefully spread over every tender part of
the Mosaic dispensation.
It has been remarked with more ingenuity than truth, that the
virgin purity of the church was never violated by schism or
heresy before the reign of Trajan or Hadrian, about one hundred
years after the death of Christ. We may observe with much more
propriety, that, during that period, the disciples of the Messiah
were indulged in a freer latitude, both of faith and practice,
than has ever been allowed in succeeding ages. As the terms of
communion were insensibly narrowed, and the spiritual authority
of the prevailing party was exercised with increasing severity,
many of its most respectable adherents, who were called upon to
renounce, were provoked to assert their private opinions, to
pursue the consequences of their mistaken principles, and openly
to erect the standard of rebellion against the unity of the
church. The Gnostics were distinguished as the most polite, the
most learned, and the most wealthy of the Christian name; and
that general appellation, which expressed a superiority of
knowledge, was either assumed by their own pride, or ironically
bestowed by the envy of their adversaries. They were almost
without exception of the race of the Gentiles, and their
principal founders seem to have been natives of Syria or Egypt,
where the warmth of the climate disposes both the mind and the
body to indolent and contemplative devotion. The Gnostics blended
with the faith of Christ many sublime but obscure tenets, which
they derived from oriental philosophy, and even from the religion
of Zoroaster, concerning the eternity of matter, the existence of
two principles, and the mysterious hierarchy of the invisible
world. As soon as they launched out into that vast abyss, they
delivered themselves to the guidance of a disordered imagination;
and as the paths of error are various and infinite, the Gnostics
were imperceptibly divided into more than fifty particular sects,
of whom the most celebrated appear to have been the Basilidians,
the Valentinians, the Marcionites, and, in a still later period,
the Manichæans. Each of these sects could boast of its bishops
and congregations, of its doctors and martyrs; and, instead of
the Four Gospels adopted by the church, the heretics produced a
multitude of histories, in which the actions and discourses of
Christ and of his apostles were adapted to their respective
tenets. The success of the Gnostics was rapid and extensive. They
covered Asia and Egypt, established themselves in Rome, and
sometimes penetrated into the provinces of the West. For the most
part they arose in the second century, flourished during the
third, and were suppressed in the fourth or fifth, by the
prevalence of more fashionable controversies, and by the superior
ascendant of the reigning power. Though they constantly disturbed
the peace, and frequently disgraced the name, of religion, they
contributed to assist rather than to retard the progress of
Christianity. The Gentile converts, whose strongest objections
and prejudices were directed against the law of Moses, could find
admission into many Christian societies, which required not from
their untutored mind any belief of an antecedent revelation.
Their faith was insensibly fortified and enlarged, and the church
was ultimately benefited by the conquests of its most inveterate
enemies.
But whatever difference of opinion might subsist between the
Orthodox, the Ebionites, and the Gnostics, concerning the
divinity or the obligation of the Mosaic law, they were all
equally animated by the same exclusive zeal, and by the same
abhorrence for idolatry, which had distinguished the Jews from
the other nations of the ancient world. The philosopher, who
considered the system of polytheism as a composition of human
fraud and error, could disguise a smile of contempt under the
mask of devotion, without apprehending that either the mockery,
or the compliance, would expose him to the resentment of any
invisible, or, as he conceived them, imaginary powers. But the
established religions of Paganism were seen by the primitive
Christians in a much more odious and formidable light. It was the
universal sentiment both of the church and of heretics, that the
dæmons were the authors, the patrons, and the objects of
idolatry. Those rebellious spirits who had been degraded from the
rank of angels, and cast down into the infernal pit, were still
permitted to roam upon earth, to torment the bodies, and to
seduce the minds, of sinful men. The dæmons soon discovered and
abused the natural propensity of the human heart towards
devotion, and artfully withdrawing the adoration of mankind from
their Creator, they usurped the place and honors of the Supreme
Deity. By the success of their malicious contrivances, they at
once gratified their own vanity and revenge, and obtained the
only comfort of which they were yet susceptible, the hope of
involving the human species in the participation of their guilt
and misery. It was confessed, or at least it was imagined, that
they had distributed among themselves the most important
characters of polytheism, one dæmon assuming the name and
attributes of Jupiter, another of Æsculapius, a third of Venus,
and a fourth perhaps of Apollo; and that, by the advantage of
their long experience and ærial nature, they were enabled to
execute, with sufficient skill and dignity, the parts which they
had undertaken. They lurked in the temples, instituted festivals
and sacrifices, invented fables, pronounced oracles, and were
frequently allowed to perform miracles. The Christians, who, by
the interposition of evil spirits, could so readily explain every
præternatural appearance, were disposed and even desirous to
admit the most extravagant fictions of the Pagan mythology. But
the belief of the Christian was accompanied with horror. The most
trifling mark of respect to the national worship he considered as
a direct homage yielded to the dæmon, and as an act of rebellion
against the majesty of God.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part III.
In consequence of this opinion, it was the first but arduous duty
of a Christian to preserve himself pure and undefiled by the
practice of idolatry. The religion of the nations was not merely
a speculative doctrine professed in the schools or preached in
the temples. The innumerable deities and rites of polytheism were
closely interwoven with every circumstance of business or
pleasure, of public or of private life, and it seemed impossible
to escape the observance of them, without, at the same time,
renouncing the commerce of mankind, and all the offices and
amusements of society. The important transactions of peace and
war were prepared or concluded by solemn sacrifices, in which the
magistrate, the senator, and the soldier, were obliged to preside
or to participate. The public spectacles were an essential part
of the cheerful devotion of the Pagans, and the gods were
supposed to accept, as the most grateful offering, the games that
the prince and people celebrated in honor of their peculiar
festivals. The Christians, who with pious horror avoided the
abomination of the circus or the theatre, found himself
encompassed with infernal snares in every convivial
entertainment, as often as his friends, invoking the hospitable
deities, poured out libations to each other’s happiness. When the
bride, struggling with well-affected reluctance, was forced in
hymenæal pomp over the threshold of her new habitation, or when
the sad procession of the dead slowly moved towards the funeral
pile, the Christian, on these interesting occasions, was
compelled to desert the persons who were the dearest to him,
rather than contract the guilt inherent to those impious
ceremonies. Every art and every trade that was in the least
concerned in the framing or adorning of idols was polluted by the
stain of idolatry; a severe sentence, since it devoted to eternal
misery the far greater part of the community, which is employed
in the exercise of liberal or mechanic professions. If we cast
our eyes over the numerous remains of antiquity, we shall
perceive, that besides the immediate representations of the gods,
and the holy instruments of their worship, the elegant forms and
agreeable fictions consecrated by the imagination of the Greeks,
were introduced as the richest ornaments of the houses, the
dress, and the furniture of the Pagans. Even the arts of music
and painting, of eloquence and poetry, flowed from the same
impure origin. In the style of the fathers, Apollo and the Muses
were the organs of the infernal spirit; Homer and Virgil were the
most eminent of his servants; and the beautiful mythology which
pervades and animates the compositions of their genius, is
destined to celebrate the glory of the dæmons. Even the common
language of Greece and Rome abounded with familiar but impious
expressions, which the imprudent Christian might too carelessly
utter, or too patiently hear.
The dangerous temptations which on every side lurked in ambush to
surprise the unguarded believer, assailed him with redoubled
violence on the days of solemn festivals. So artfully were they
framed and disposed throughout the year, that superstition always
wore the appearance of pleasure, and often of virtue. Some of the
most sacred festivals in the Roman ritual were destined to salute
the new calends of January with vows of public and private
felicity; to indulge the pious remembrance of the dead and
living; to ascertain the inviolable bounds of property; to hail,
on the return of spring, the genial powers of fecundity; to
perpetuate the two memorable æras of Rome, the foundation of the
city and that of the republic; and to restore, during the humane
license of the Saturnalia, the primitive equality of mankind.
Some idea may be conceived of the abhorrence of the Christians
for such impious ceremonies, by the scrupulous delicacy which
they displayed on a much less alarming occasion. On days of
general festivity it was the custom of the ancients to adorn
their doors with lamps and with branches of laurel, and to crown
their heads with a garland of flowers. This innocent and elegant
practice might perhaps have been tolerated as a mere civil
institution. But it most unluckily happened that the doors were
under the protection of the household gods, that the laurel was
sacred to the lover of Daphne, and that garlands of flowers,
though frequently worn as a symbol either of joy or mourning, had
been dedicated in their first origin to the service of
superstition. The trembling Christians, who were persuaded in
this instance to comply with the fashion of their country, and
the commands of the magistrate, labored under the most gloomy
apprehensions, from the reproaches of his own conscience, the
censures of the church, and the denunciations of divine
vengeance.
Such was the anxious diligence which was required to guard the
chastity of the gospel from the infectious breath of idolatry.
The superstitious observances of public or private rites were
carelessly practised, from education and habit, by the followers
of the established religion. But as often as they occurred, they
afforded the Christians an opportunity of declaring and
confirming their zealous opposition. By these frequent
protestations their attachment to the faith was continually
fortified; and in proportion to the increase of zeal, they
combated with the more ardor and success in the holy war, which
they had undertaken against the empire of the demons.
II. The writings of Cicero represent in the most lively colors
the ignorance, the errors, and the uncertainty of the ancient
philosophers with regard to the immortality of the soul. When
they are desirous of arming their disciples against the fear of
death, they inculcate, as an obvious though melancholy position,
that the fatal stroke of our dissolution releases us from the
calamities of life; and that those can no longer suffer, who no
longer exist. Yet there were a few sages of Greece and Rome who
had conceived a more exalted, and, in some respects, a juster
idea of human nature, though it must be confessed, that in the
sublime inquiry, their reason had been often guided by their
imagination, and that their imagination had been prompted by
their vanity. When they viewed with complacency the extent of
their own mental powers, when they exercised the various
faculties of memory, of fancy, and of judgment, in the most
profound speculations, or the most important labors, and when
they reflected on the desire of fame, which transported them into
future ages, far beyond the bounds of death and of the grave,
they were unwilling to confound themselves with the beasts of the
field, or to suppose that a being, for whose dignity they
entertained the most sincere admiration, could be limited to a
spot of earth, and to a few years of duration. With this
favorable prepossession they summoned to their aid the science,
or rather the language, of Metaphysics. They soon discovered,
that as none of the properties of matter will apply to the
operations of the mind, the human soul must consequently be a
substance distinct from the body, pure, simple, and spiritual,
incapable of dissolution, and susceptible of a much higher degree
of virtue and happiness after the release from its corporeal
prison. From these specious and noble principles, the
philosophers who trod in the footsteps of Plato deduced a very
unjustifiable conclusion, since they asserted, not only the
future immortality, but the past eternity, of the human soul,
which they were too apt to consider as a portion of the infinite
and self-existing spirit, which pervades and sustains the
universe. A doctrine thus removed beyond the senses and the
experience of mankind might serve to amuse the leisure of a
philosophic mind; or, in the silence of solitude, it might
sometimes impart a ray of comfort to desponding virtue; but the
faint impression which had been received in the schools was soon
obliterated by the commerce and business of active life. We are
sufficiently acquainted with the eminent persons who flourished
in the age of Cicero and of the first Cæsars, with their actions,
their characters, and their motives, to be assured that their
conduct in this life was never regulated by any serious
conviction of the rewards or punishments of a future state. At
the bar and in the senate of Rome the ablest orators were not
apprehensive of giving offence to their hearers by exposing that
doctrine as an idle and extravagant opinion, which was rejected
with contempt by every man of a liberal education and
understanding.
Since therefore the most sublime efforts of philosophy can extend
no further than feebly to point out the desire, the hope, or, at
most, the probability, of a future state, there is nothing,
except a divine revelation, that can ascertain the existence and
describe the condition, of the invisible country which is
destined to receive the souls of men after their separation from
the body. But we may perceive several defects inherent to the
popular religions of Greece and Rome, which rendered them very
unequal to so arduous a task. 1. The general system of their
mythology was unsupported by any solid proofs; and the wisest
among the Pagans had already disclaimed its usurped authority. 2.
The description of the infernal regions had been abandoned to the
fancy of painters and of poets, who peopled them with so many
phantoms and monsters, who dispensed their rewards and
punishments with so little equity, that a solemn truth, the most
congenial to the human heart, was oppressed and disgraced by the
absurd mixture of the wildest fictions. 3. The doctrine of a
future state was scarcely considered among the devout polytheists
of Greece and Rome as a fundamental article of faith. The
providence of the gods, as it related to public communities
rather than to private individuals, was principally displayed on
the visible theatre of the present world. The petitions which
were offered on the altars of Jupiter or Apollo expressed the
anxiety of their worshippers for temporal happiness, and their
ignorance or indifference concerning a future life. The important
truth of the immortality of the soul was inculcated with more
diligence, as well as success, in India, in Assyria, in Egypt,
and in Gaul; and since we cannot attribute such a difference to
the superior knowledge of the barbarians, we must ascribe it to
the influence of an established priesthood, which employed the
motives of virtue as the instrument of ambition.
We might naturally expect that a principle so essential to
religion, would have been revealed in the clearest terms to the
chosen people of Palestine, and that it might safely have been
intrusted to the hereditary priesthood of Aaron. It is incumbent
on us to adore the mysterious dispensations of Providence, when
we discover that the doctrine of the immortality of the soul is
omitted in the law of Moses; it is darkly insinuated by the
prophets; and during the long period which elapsed between the
Egyptian and the Babylonian servitudes, the hopes as well as
fears of the Jews appear to have been confined within the narrow
compass of the present life. After Cyrus had permitted the exiled
nation to return into the promised land, and after Ezra had
restored the ancient records of their religion, two celebrated
sects, the Sadducees and the Pharisees, insensibly arose at
Jerusalem. The former, selected from the more opulent and
distinguished ranks of society, were strictly attached to the
literal sense of the Mosaic law, and they piously rejected the
immortality of the soul, as an opinion that received no
countenance from the divine book, which they revered as the only
rule of their faith. To the authority of Scripture the Pharisees
added that of tradition, and they accepted, under the name of
traditions, several speculative tenets from the philosophy or
religion of the eastern nations. The doctrines of fate or
predestination, of angels and spirits, and of a future state of
rewards and punishments, were in the number of these new articles
of belief; and as the Pharisees, by the austerity of their
manners, had drawn into their party the body of the Jewish
people, the immortality of the soul became the prevailing
sentiment of the synagogue, under the reign of the Asmonæan
princes and pontiffs. The temper of the Jews was incapable of
contenting itself with such a cold and languid assent as might
satisfy the mind of a Polytheist; and as soon as they admitted
the idea of a future state, they embraced it with the zeal which
has always formed the characteristic of the nation. Their zeal,
however, added nothing to its evidence, or even probability: and
it was still necessary that the doctrine of life and immortality,
which had been dictated by nature, approved by reason, and
received by superstition, should obtain the sanction of divine
truth from the authority and example of Christ.
When the promise of eternal happiness was proposed to mankind on
condition of adopting the faith, and of observing the precepts,
of the gospel, it is no wonder that so advantageous an offer
should have been accepted by great numbers of every religion, of
every rank, and of every province in the Roman empire. The
ancient Christians were animated by a contempt for their present
existence, and by a just confidence of immortality, of which the
doubtful and imperfect faith of modern ages cannot give us any
adequate notion. In the primitive church, the influence of truth
was very powerfully strengthened by an opinion, which, however it
may deserve respect for its usefulness and antiquity, has not
been found agreeable to experience. It was universally believed,
that the end of the world, and the kingdom of heaven, were at
hand. * The near approach of this wonderful event had been
predicted by the apostles; the tradition of it was preserved by
their earliest disciples, and those who understood in their
literal senses the discourse of Christ himself, were obliged to
expect the second and glorious coming of the Son of Man in the
clouds, before that generation was totally extinguished, which
had beheld his humble condition upon earth, and which might still
be witness of the calamities of the Jews under Vespasian or
Hadrian. The revolution of seventeen centuries has instructed us
not to press too closely the mysterious language of prophecy and
revelation; but as long as, for wise purposes, this error was
permitted to subsist in the church, it was productive of the most
salutary effects on the faith and practice of Christians, who
lived in the awful expectation of that moment, when the globe
itself, and all the various race of mankind, should tremble at
the appearance of their divine Judge.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part IV.
The ancient and popular doctrine of the Millennium was intimately
connected with the second coming of Christ. As the works of the
creation had been finished in six days, their duration in their
present state, according to a tradition which was attributed to
the prophet Elijah, was fixed to six thousand years. By the same
analogy it was inferred, that this long period of labor and
contention, which was now almost elapsed, would be succeeded by a
joyful Sabbath of a thousand years; and that Christ, with the
triumphant band of the saints and the elect who had escaped
death, or who had been miraculously revived, would reign upon
earth till the time appointed for the last and general
resurrection. So pleasing was this hope to the mind of believers,
that the _New Jerusalem_, the seat of this blissful kingdom, was
quickly adorned with all the gayest colors of the imagination. A
felicity consisting only of pure and spiritual pleasure would
have appeared too refined for its inhabitants, who were still
supposed to possess their human nature and senses. A garden of
Eden, with the amusements of the pastoral life, was no longer
suited to the advanced state of society which prevailed under the
Roman empire. A city was therefore erected of gold and precious
stones, and a supernatural plenty of corn and wine was bestowed
on the adjacent territory; in the free enjoyment of whose
spontaneous productions the happy and benevolent people was never
to be restrained by any jealous laws of exclusive property. The
assurance of such a Millennium was carefully inculcated by a
succession of fathers from Justin Martyr, and Irenæus, who
conversed with the immediate disciples of the apostles, down to
Lactantius, who was preceptor to the son of Constantine. Though
it might not be universally received, it appears to have been the
reigning sentiment of the orthodox believers; and it seems so
well adapted to the desires and apprehensions of mankind, that it
must have contributed in a very considerable degree to the
progress of the Christian faith. But when the edifice of the
church was almost completed, the temporary support was laid
aside. The doctrine of Christ’s reign upon earth was at first
treated as a profound allegory, was considered by degrees as a
doubtful and useless opinion, and was at length rejected as the
absurd invention of heresy and fanaticism. A mysterious prophecy,
which still forms a part of the sacred canon, but which was
thought to favor the exploded sentiment, has very narrowly
escaped the proscription of the church.
Whilst the happiness and glory of a temporal reign were promised
to the disciples of Christ, the most dreadful calamities were
denounced against an unbelieving world. The edification of a new
Jerusalem was to advance by equal steps with the destruction of
the mystic Babylon; and as long as the emperors who reigned
before Constantine persisted in the profession of idolatry, the
epithet of babylon was applied to the city and to the empire of
Rome. A regular series was prepared of all the moral and physical
evils which can afflict a flourishing nation; intestine discord,
and the invasion of the fiercest barbarians from the unknown
regions of the North; pestilence and famine, comets and eclipses,
earthquakes and inundations. All these were only so many
preparatory and alarming signs of the great catastrophe of Rome,
when the country of the Scipios and Cæsars should be consumed by
a flame from Heaven, and the city of the seven hills, with her
palaces, her temples, and her triumphal arches, should be buried
in a vast lake of fire and brimstone. It might, however, afford
some consolation to Roman vanity, that the period of their empire
would be that of the world itself; which, as it had once perished
by the element of water, was destined to experience a second and
a speedy destruction from the element of fire. In the opinion of
a general conflagration, the faith of the Christian very happily
coincided with the tradition of the East, the philosophy of the
Stoics, and the analogy of Nature; and even the country, which,
from religious motives, had been chosen for the origin and
principal scene of the conflagration, was the best adapted for
that purpose by natural and physical causes; by its deep caverns,
beds of sulphur, and numerous volcanoes, of which those of Ætna,
of Vesuvius, and of Lipari, exhibit a very imperfect
representation. The calmest and most intrepid sceptic could not
refuse to acknowledge that the destruction of the present system
of the world by fire was in itself extremely probable. The
Christian, who founded his belief much less on the fallacious
arguments of reason than on the authority of tradition and the
interpretation of Scripture, expected it with terror and
confidence as a certain and approaching event; and as his mind
was perpetually filled with the solemn idea, he considered every
disaster that happened to the empire as an infallible symptom of
an expiring world.
The condemnation of the wisest and most virtuous of the Pagans,
on account of their ignorance or disbelief of the divine truth,
seems to offend the reason and the humanity of the present age.
But the primitive church, whose faith was of a much firmer
consistence, delivered over, without hesitation, to eternal
torture, the far greater part of the human species. A charitable
hope might perhaps be indulged in favor of Socrates, or some
other sages of antiquity, who had consulted the light of reason
before that of the gospel had arisen. But it was unanimously
affirmed, that those who, since the birth or the death of Christ,
had obstinately persisted in the worship of the dæmons, neither
deserved nor could expect a pardon from the irritated justice of
the Deity. These rigid sentiments, which had been unknown to the
ancient world, appear to have infused a spirit of bitterness into
a system of love and harmony. The ties of blood and friendship
were frequently torn asunder by the difference of religious
faith; and the Christians, who, in this world, found themselves
oppressed by the power of the Pagans, were sometimes seduced by
resentment and spiritual pride to delight in the prospect of
their future triumph. “You are fond of spectacles,” exclaims the
stern Tertullian; “expect the greatest of all spectacles, the
last and eternal judgment of the universe. How shall I admire,
how laugh, how rejoice, how exult, when I behold so many proud
monarchs, so many fancied gods, groaning in the lowest abyss of
darkness; so many magistrates, who persecuted the name of the
Lord, liquefying in fiercer fires than they ever kindled against
the Christians; so many sage philosophers blushing in red-hot
flames with their deluded scholars; so many celebrated poets
trembling before the tribunal, not of Minos, but of Christ; so
many tragedians, more tuneful in the expression of their own
sufferings; so many dancers.” * But the humanity of the reader
will permit me to draw a veil over the rest of this infernal
description, which the zealous African pursues in a long variety
of affected and unfeeling witticisms.
Doubtless there were many among the primitive Christians of a
temper more suitable to the meekness and charity of their
profession. There were many who felt a sincere compassion for the
danger of their friends and countrymen, and who exerted the most
benevolent zeal to save them from the impending destruction. The
careless Polytheist, assailed by new and unexpected terrors,
against which neither his priests nor his philosophers could
afford him any certain protection, was very frequently terrified
and subdued by the menace of eternal tortures. His fears might
assist the progress of his faith and reason; and if he could once
persuade himself to suspect that the Christian religion might
possibly be true, it became an easy task to convince him that it
was the safest and most prudent party that he could possibly
embrace.
III. The supernatural gifts, which even in this life were
ascribed to the Christians above the rest of mankind, must have
conduced to their own comfort, and very frequently to the
conviction of infidels. Besides the occasional prodigies, which
might sometimes be effected by the immediate interposition of the
Deity when he suspended the laws of Nature for the service of
religion, the Christian church, from the time of the apostles and
their first disciples, has claimed an uninterrupted succession of
miraculous powers, the gift of tongues, of vision, and of
prophecy, the power of expelling dæmons, of healing the sick, and
of raising the dead. The knowledge of foreign languages was
frequently communicated to the contemporaries of Irenæus, though
Irenæus himself was left to struggle with the difficulties of a
barbarous dialect, whilst he preached the gospel to the natives
of Gaul. The divine inspiration, whether it was conveyed in the
form of a waking or of a sleeping vision, is described as a favor
very liberally bestowed on all ranks of the faithful, on women as
on elders, on boys as well as upon bishops. When their devout
minds were sufficiently prepared by a course of prayer, of
fasting, and of vigils, to receive the extraordinary impulse,
they were transported out of their senses, and delivered in
ecstasy what was inspired, being mere organs of the Holy Spirit,
just as a pipe or flute is of him who blows into it. We may add,
that the design of these visions was, for the most part, either
to disclose the future history, or to guide the present
administration, of the church. The expulsion of the dæmons from
the bodies of those unhappy persons whom they had been permitted
to torment, was considered as a signal though ordinary triumph of
religion, and is repeatedly alleged by the ancient apologists, as
the most convincing evidence of the truth of Christianity. The
awful ceremony was usually performed in a public manner, and in
the presence of a great number of spectators; the patient was
relieved by the power or skill of the exorcist, and the
vanquished dæmon was heard to confess that he was one of the
fabled gods of antiquity, who had impiously usurped the adoration
of mankind. But the miraculous cure of diseases of the most
inveterate or even preternatural kind can no longer occasion any
surprise, when we recollect, that in the days of Irenæus, about
the end of the second century, the resurrection of the dead was
very far from being esteemed an uncommon event; that the miracle
was frequently performed on necessary occasions, by great fasting
and the joint supplication of the church of the place, and that
the persons thus restored to their prayers had lived afterwards
among them many years. At such a period, when faith could boast
of so many wonderful victories over death, it seems difficult to
account for the scepticism of those philosophers, who still
rejected and derided the doctrine of the resurrection. A noble
Grecian had rested on this important ground the whole
controversy, and promised Theophilus, Bishop of Antioch, that if
he could be gratified with the sight of a single person who had
been actually raised from the dead, he would immediately embrace
the Christian religion. It is somewhat remarkable, that the
prelate of the first eastern church, however anxious for the
conversion of his friend, thought proper to decline this fair and
reasonable challenge.
The miracles of the primitive church, after obtaining the
sanction of ages, have been lately attacked in a very free and
ingenious inquiry, which, though it has met with the most
favorable reception from the public, appears to have excited a
general scandal among the divines of our own as well as of the
other Protestant churches of Europe. Our different sentiments on
this subject will be much less influenced by any particular
arguments, than by our habits of study and reflection; and, above
all, by the degree of evidence which we have accustomed ourselves
to require for the proof of a miraculous event. The duty of an
historian does not call upon him to interpose his private
judgment in this nice and important controversy; but he ought not
to dissemble the difficulty of adopting such a theory as may
reconcile the interest of religion with that of reason, of making
a proper application of that theory, and of defining with
precision the limits of that happy period, exempt from error and
from deceit, to which we might be disposed to extend the gift of
supernatural powers. From the first of the fathers to the last of
the popes, a succession of bishops, of saints, of martyrs, and of
miracles, is continued without interruption; and the progress of
superstition was so gradual, and almost imperceptible, that we
know not in what particular link we should break the chain of
tradition. Every age bears testimony to the wonderful events by
which it was distinguished, and its testimony appears no less
weighty and respectable than that of the preceding generation,
till we are insensibly led on to accuse our own inconsistency, if
in the eighth or in the twelfth century we deny to the venerable
Bede, or to the holy Bernard, the same degree of confidence
which, in the second century, we had so liberally granted to
Justin or to Irenæus. If the truth of any of those miracles is
appreciated by their apparent use and propriety, every age had
unbelievers to convince, heretics to confute, and idolatrous
nations to convert; and sufficient motives might always be
produced to justify the interposition of Heaven. And yet, since
every friend to revelation is persuaded of the reality, and every
reasonable man is convinced of the cessation, of miraculous
powers, it is evident that there must have been _some period_ in
which they were either suddenly or gradually withdrawn from the
Christian church. Whatever æra is chosen for that purpose, the
death of the apostles, the conversion of the Roman empire, or the
extinction of the Arian heresy, the insensibility of the
Christians who lived at that time will equally afford a just
matter of surprise. They still supported their pretensions after
they had lost their power. Credulity performed the office of
faith; fanaticism was permitted to assume the language of
inspiration, and the effects of accident or contrivance were
ascribed to supernatural causes. The recent experience of genuine
miracles should have instructed the Christian world in the ways
of Providence, and habituated their eye (if we may use a very
inadequate expression) to the style of the divine artist. Should
the most skilful painter of modern Italy presume to decorate his
feeble imitations with the name of Raphael or of Correggio, the
insolent fraud would be soon discovered, and indignantly
rejected.
Whatever opinion may be entertained of the miracles of the
primitive church since the time of the apostles, this unresisting
softness of temper, so conspicuous among the believers of the
second and third centuries, proved of some accidental benefit to
the cause of truth and religion. In modern times, a latent and
even involuntary scepticism adheres to the most pious
dispositions. Their admission of supernatural truths is much less
an active consent than a cold and passive acquiescence.
Accustomed long since to observe and to respect the invariable
order of Nature, our reason, or at least our imagination, is not
sufficiently prepared to sustain the visible action of the Deity.
But, in the first ages of Christianity, the situation of mankind
was extremely different. The most curious, or the most credulous,
among the Pagans, were often persuaded to enter into a society
which asserted an actual claim of miraculous powers. The
primitive Christians perpetually trod on mystic ground, and their
minds were exercised by the habits of believing the most
extraordinary events. They felt, or they fancied, that on every
side they were incessantly assaulted by dæmons, comforted by
visions, instructed by prophecy, and surprisingly delivered from
danger, sickness, and from death itself, by the supplications of
the church. The real or imaginary prodigies, of which they so
frequently conceived themselves to be the objects, the
instruments, or the spectators, very happily disposed them to
adopt with the same ease, but with far greater justice, the
authentic wonders of the evangelic history; and thus miracles
that exceeded not the measure of their own experience, inspired
them with the most lively assurance of mysteries which were
acknowledged to surpass the limits of their understanding. It is
this deep impression of supernatural truths which has been so
much celebrated under the name of faith; a state of mind
described as the surest pledge of the divine favor and of future
felicity, and recommended as the first, or perhaps the only merit
of a Christian. According to the more rigid doctors, the moral
virtues, which may be equally practised by infidels, are
destitute of any value or efficacy in the work of our
justification.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part V.
IV. But the primitive Christian demonstrated his faith by his
virtues; and it was very justly supposed that the divine
persuasion, which enlightened or subdued the understanding, must,
at the same time, purify the heart, and direct the actions, of
the believer. The first apologists of Christianity who justify
the innocence of their brethren, and the writers of a later
period who celebrate the sanctity of their ancestors, display, in
the most lively colors, the reformation of manners which was
introduced into the world by the preaching of the gospel. As it
is my intention to remark only such human causes as were
permitted to second the influence of revelation, I shall slightly
mention two motives which might naturally render the lives of the
primitive Christians much purer and more austere than those of
their Pagan contemporaries, or their degenerate successors;
repentance for their past sins, and the laudable desire of
supporting the reputation of the society in which they were
engaged. *
It is a very ancient reproach, suggested by the ignorance or the
malice of infidelity, that the Christians allured into their
party the most atrocious criminals, who, as soon as they were
touched by a sense of remorse, were easily persuaded to wash
away, in the water of baptism, the guilt of their past conduct,
for which the temples of the gods refused to grant them any
expiation. But this reproach, when it is cleared from
misrepresentation, contributes as much to the honor as it did to
the increase of the church. The friends of Christianity may
acknowledge without a blush that many of the most eminent saints
had been before their baptism the most abandoned sinners. Those
persons, who in the world had followed, though in an imperfect
manner, the dictates of benevolence and propriety, derived such a
calm satisfaction from the opinion of their own rectitude, as
rendered them much less susceptible of the sudden emotions of
shame, of grief, and of terror, which have given birth to so many
wonderful conversions. After the example of their divine Master,
the missionaries of the gospel disdained not the society of men,
and especially of women, oppressed by the consciousness, and very
often by the effects, of their vices. As they emerged from sin
and superstition to the glorious hope of immortality, they
resolved to devote themselves to a life, not only of virtue, but
of penitence. The desire of perfection became the ruling passion
of their soul; and it is well known that, while reason embraces a
cold mediocrity, our passions hurry us, with rapid violence, over
the space which lies between the most opposite extremes.
When the new converts had been enrolled in the number of the
faithful, and were admitted to the sacraments of the church, they
found themselves restrained from relapsing into their past
disorders by another consideration of a less spiritual, but of a
very innocent and respectable nature. Any particular society that
has departed from the great body of the nation, or the religion
to which it belonged, immediately becomes the object of universal
as well as invidious observation. In proportion to the smallness
of its numbers, the character of the society may be affected by
the virtues and vices of the persons who compose it; and every
member is engaged to watch with the most vigilant attention over
his own behavior, and over that of his brethren, since, as he
must expect to incur a part of the common disgrace, he may hope
to enjoy a share of the common reputation. When the Christians of
Bithynia were brought before the tribunal of the younger Pliny,
they assured the proconsul, that, far from being engaged in any
unlawful conspiracy, they were bound by a solemn obligation to
abstain from the commission of those crimes which disturb the
private or public peace of society, from theft, robbery,
adultery, perjury, and fraud. Near a century afterwards,
Tertullian, with an honest pride, could boast, that very few
Christians had suffered by the hand of the executioner, except on
account of their religion. Their serious and sequestered life,
averse to the gay luxury of the age, inured them to chastity,
temperance, economy, and all the sober and domestic virtues. As
the greater number were of some trade or profession, it was
incumbent on them, by the strictest integrity and the fairest
dealing, to remove the suspicions which the profane are too apt
to conceive against the appearances of sanctity. The contempt of
the world exercised them in the habits of humility, meekness, and
patience. The more they were persecuted, the more closely they
adhered to each other. Their mutual charity and unsuspecting
confidence has been remarked by infidels, and was too often
abused by perfidious friends.
It is a very honorable circumstance for the morals of the
primitive Christians, that even their faults, or rather errors,
were derived from an excess of virtue. The bishops and doctors of
the church, whose evidence attests, and whose authority might
influence, the professions, the principles, and even the practice
of their contemporaries, had studied the Scriptures with less
skill than devotion; and they often received, in the most literal
sense, those rigid precepts of Christ and the apostles, to which
the prudence of succeeding commentators has applied a looser and
more figurative mode of interpretation. Ambitious to exalt the
perfection of the gospel above the wisdom of philosophy, the
zealous fathers have carried the duties of self-mortification, of
purity, and of patience, to a height which it is scarcely
possible to attain, and much less to preserve, in our present
state of weakness and corruption. A doctrine so extraordinary and
so sublime must inevitably command the veneration of the people;
but it was ill calculated to obtain the suffrage of those worldly
philosophers who, in the conduct of this transitory life, consult
only the feelings of nature and the interest of society.
There are two very natural propensities which we may distinguish
in the most virtuous and liberal dispositions, the love of
pleasure and the love of action. If the former is refined by art
and learning, improved by the charms of social intercourse, and
corrected by a just regard to economy, to health, and to
reputation, it is productive of the greatest part of the
happiness of private life. The love of action is a principle of a
much stronger and more doubtful nature. It often leads to anger,
to ambition, and to revenge; but when it is guided by the sense
of propriety and benevolence, it becomes the parent of every
virtue, and if those virtues are accompanied with equal
abilities, a family, a state, or an empire may be indebted for
their safety and prosperity to the undaunted courage of a single
man. To the love of pleasure we may therefore ascribe most of the
agreeable, to the love of action we may attribute most of the
useful and respectable, qualifications. The character in which
both the one and the other should be united and harmonized would
seem to constitute the most perfect idea of human nature. The
insensible and inactive disposition, which should be supposed
alike destitute of both, would be rejected, by the common consent
of mankind, as utterly incapable of procuring any happiness to
the individual, or any public benefit to the world. But it was
not in this world that the primitive Christians were desirous of
making themselves either agreeable or useful. *
The acquisition of knowledge, the exercise of our reason or
fancy, and the cheerful flow of unguarded conversation, may
employ the leisure of a liberal mind. Such amusements, however,
were rejected with abhorrence, or admitted with the utmost
caution, by the severity of the fathers, who despised all
knowledge that was not useful to salvation, and who considered
all levity of discours as a criminal abuse of the gift of speech.
In our present state of existence the body is so inseparably
connected with the soul, that it seems to be our interest to
taste, with innocence and moderation, the enjoyments of which
that faithful companion is susceptible. Very different was the
reasoning of our devout predecessors; vainly aspiring to imitate
the perfection of angels, they disdained, or they affected to
disdain, every earthly and corporeal delight. Some of our senses
indeed are necessary for our preservation, others for our
subsistence, and others again for our information; and thus far
it was impossible to reject the use of them. The first sensation
of pleasure was marked as the first moment of their abuse. The
unfeeling candidate for heaven was instructed, not only to resist
the grosser allurements of the taste or smell, but even to shut
his ears against the profane harmony of sounds, and to view with
indifference the most finished productions of human art. Gay
apparel, magnificent houses, and elegant furniture, were supposed
to unite the double guilt of pride and of sensuality; a simple
and mortified appearance was more suitable to the Christian who
was certain of his sins and doubtful of his salvation. In their
censures of luxury the fathers are extremely minute and
circumstantial; and among the various articles which excite their
pious indignation we may enumerate false hair, garments of any
color except white, instruments of music, vases of gold or
silver, downy pillows, (as Jacob reposed his head on a stone,)
white bread, foreign wines, public salutations, the use of warm
baths, and the practice of shaving the beard, which, according to
the expression of Tertullian, is a lie against our own faces, and
an impious attempt to improve the works of the Creator. When
Christianity was introduced among the rich and the polite, the
observation of these singular laws was left, as it would be at
present, to the few who were ambitious of superior sanctity. But
it is always easy, as well as agreeable, for the inferior ranks
of mankind to claim a merit from the contempt of that pomp and
pleasure which fortune has placed beyond their reach. The virtue
of the primitive Christians, like that of the first Romans, was
very frequently guarded by poverty and ignorance.
The chaste severity of the fathers, in whatever related to the
commerce of the two sexes, flowed from the same principle; their
abhorrence of every enjoyment which might gratify the sensual,
and degrade the spiritual nature of man. It was their favorite
opinion, that if Adam had preserved his obedience to the Creator,
he would have lived forever in a state of virgin purity, and that
some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled paradise with
a race of innocent and immortal beings. The use of marriage was
permitted only to his fallen posterity, as a necessary expedient
to continue the human species, and as a restraint, however
imperfect, on the natural licentiousness of desire. The
hesitation of the orthodox casuists on this interesting subject,
betrays the perplexity of men, unwilling to approve an
institution which they were compelled to tolerate. The
enumeration of the very whimsical laws, which they most
circumstantially imposed on the marriage-bed, would force a smile
from the young and a blush from the fair. It was their unanimous
sentiment that a first marriage was adequate to all the purposes
of nature and of society. The sensual connection was refined into
a resemblance of the mystic union of Christ with his church, and
was pronounced to be indissoluble either by divorce or by death.
The practice of second nuptials was branded with the name of a
legal adultery; and the persons who were guilty of so scandalous
an offence against Christian purity, were soon excluded from the
honors, and even from the alms, of the church. Since desire was
imputed as a crime, and marriage was tolerated as a defect, it
was consistent with the same principles to consider a state of
celibacy as the nearest approach to the divine perfection. It was
with the utmost difficulty that ancient Rome could support the
institution of six vestals; but the primitive church was filled
with a number of persons of either sex, who had devoted
themselves to the profession of perpetual chastity. A few of
these, among whom we may reckon the learned Origen, judged it the
most prudent to disarm the tempter. Some were insensible and some
were invincible against the assaults of the flesh. Disdaining an
ignominious flight, the virgins of the warm climate of Africa
encountered the enemy in the closest engagement; they permitted
priests and deacons to share their bed, and gloried amidst the
flames in their unsullied purity. But insulted Nature sometimes
vindicated her rights, and this new species of martyrdom served
only to introduce a new scandal into the church. Among the
Christian ascetics, however, (a name which they soon acquired
from their painful exercise,) many, as they were less
presumptuous, were probably more successful. The loss of sensual
pleasure was supplied and compensated by spiritual pride. Even
the multitude of Pagans were inclined to estimate the merit of
the sacrifice by its apparent difficulty; and it was in the
praise of these chaste spouses of Christ that the fathers have
poured forth the troubled stream of their eloquence. Such are the
early traces of monastic principles and institutions, which, in a
subsequent age, have counterbalanced all the temporal advantages
of Christianity.
The Christians were not less averse to the business than to the
pleasures of this world. The defence of our persons and property
they knew not how to reconcile with the patient doctrine which
enjoined an unlimited forgiveness of past injuries, and commanded
them to invite the repetition of fresh insults. Their simplicity
was offended by the use of oaths, by the pomp of magistracy, and
by the active contention of public life; nor could their humane
ignorance be convinced that it was lawful on any occasion to shed
the blood of our fellow-creatures, either by the sword of
justice, or by that of war; even though their criminal or hostile
attempts should threaten the peace and safety of the whole
community. It was acknowledged that, under a less perfect law,
the powers of the Jewish constitution had been exercised, with
the approbation of heaven, by inspired prophets and by anointed
kings. The Christians felt and confessed that such institutions
might be necessary for the present system of the world, and they
cheerfully submitted to the authority of their Pagan governors.
But while they inculcated the maxims of passive obedience, they
refused to take any active part in the civil administration or
the military defence of the empire. Some indulgence might,
perhaps, be allowed to those persons who, before their
conversion, were already engaged in such violent and sanguinary
occupations; but it was impossible that the Christians, without
renouncing a more sacred duty, could assume the character of
soldiers, of magistrates, or of princes. This indolent, or even
criminal disregard to the public welfare, exposed them to the
contempt and reproaches of the Pagans, who very frequently asked,
what must be the fate of the empire, attacked on every side by
the barbarians, if all mankind should adopt the pusillanimous
sentiments of the new sect. To this insulting question the
Christian apologists returned obscure and ambiguous answers, as
they were unwilling to reveal the secret cause of their security;
the expectation that, before the conversion of mankind was
accomplished, war, government, the Roman empire, and the world
itself, would be no more. It may be observed, that, in this
instance likewise, the situation of the first Christians
coincided very happily with their religious scruples, and that
their aversion to an active life contributed rather to excuse
them from the service, than to exclude them from the honors, of
the state and army.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part VI.
V. But the human character, however it may be exalted or
depressed by a temporary enthusiasm, will return by degrees to
its proper and natural level, and will resume those passions that
seem the most adapted to its present condition. The primitive
Christians were dead to the business and pleasures of the world;
but their love of action, which could never be entirely
extinguished, soon revived, and found a new occupation in the
government of the church. A separate society, which attacked the
established religion of the empire, was obliged to adopt some
form of internal policy, and to appoint a sufficient number of
ministers, intrusted not only with the spiritual functions, but
even with the temporal direction of the Christian commonwealth.
The safety of that society, its honor, its aggrandizement, were
productive, even in the most pious minds, of a spirit of
patriotism, such as the first of the Romans had felt for the
republic, and sometimes of a similar indifference, in the use of
whatever means might probably conduce to so desirable an end. The
ambition of raising themselves or their friends to the honors and
offices of the church, was disguised by the laudable intention of
devoting to the public benefit the power and consideration,
which, for that purpose only, it became their duty to solicit. In
the exercise of their functions, they were frequently called upon
to detect the errors of heresy or the arts of faction, to oppose
the designs of perfidious brethren, to stigmatize their
characters with deserved infamy, and to expel them from the bosom
of a society whose peace and happiness they had attempted to
disturb. The ecclesiastical governors of the Christians were
taught to unite the wisdom of the serpent with the innocence of
the dove; but as the former was refined, so the latter was
insensibly corrupted, by the habits of government. In the church
as well as in the world, the persons who were placed in any
public station rendered themselves considerable by their
eloquence and firmness, by their knowledge of mankind, and by
their dexterity in business; and while they concealed from
others, and perhaps from themselves, the secret motives of their
conduct, they too frequently relapsed into all the turbulent
passions of active life, which were tinctured with an additional
degree of bitterness and obstinacy from the infusion of spiritual
zeal.
The government of the church has often been the subject, as well
as the prize, of religious contention. The hostile disputants of
Rome, of Paris, of Oxford, and of Geneva, have alike struggled to
reduce the primitive and apostolic model to the respective
standards of their own policy. The few who have pursued this
inquiry with more candor and impartiality, are of opinion, that
the apostles declined the office of legislation, and rather chose
to endure some partial scandals and divisions, than to exclude
the Christians of a future age from the liberty of varying their
forms of ecclesiastical government according to the changes of
times and circumstances. The scheme of policy, which, under their
approbation, was adopted for the use of the first century, may be
discovered from the practice of Jerusalem, of Ephesus, or of
Corinth. The societies which were instituted in the cities of the
Roman empire were united only by the ties of faith and charity.
Independence and equality formed the basis of their internal
constitution. The want of discipline and human learning was
supplied by the occasional assistance of the _prophets_, who were
called to that function without distinction of age, of sex, * or
of natural abilities, and who, as often as they felt the divine
impulse, poured forth the effusions of the Spirit in the assembly
of the faithful. But these extraordinary gifts were frequently
abused or misapplied by the prophetic teachers. They displayed
them at an improper season, presumptuously disturbed the service
of the assembly, and, by their pride or mistaken zeal, they
introduced, particularly into the apostolic church of Corinth, a
long and melancholy train of disorders. As the institution of
prophets became useless, and even pernicious, their powers were
withdrawn, and their office abolished. The public functions of
religion were solely intrusted to the established ministers of
the church, the _bishops_ and the _presbyters_; two appellations
which, in their first origin, appear to have distinguished the
same office and the same order of persons. The name of Presbyter
was expressive of their age, or rather of their gravity and
wisdom. The title of Bishop denoted their inspection over the
faith and manners of the Christians who were committed to their
pastoral care. In proportion to the respective numbers of the
faithful, a larger or smaller number of these _episcopal_
_presbyters_ guided each infant congregation with equal authority
and with united counsels.
But the most perfect equality of freedom requires the directing
hand of a superior magistrate: and the order of public
deliberations soon introduces the office of a president, invested
at least with the authority of collecting the sentiments, and of
executing the resolutions, of the assembly. A regard for the
public tranquillity, which would so frequently have been
interrupted by annual or by occasional elections, induced the
primitive Christians to constitute an honorable and perpetual
magistracy, and to choose one of the wisest and most holy among
their presbyters to execute, during his life, the duties of their
ecclesiastical governor. It was under these circumstances that
the lofty title of Bishop began to raise itself above the humble
appellation of Presbyter; and while the latter remained the most
natural distinction for the members of every Christian senate,
the former was appropriated to the dignity of its new president.
The advantages of this episcopal form of government, which
appears to have been introduced before the end of the first
century, were so obvious, and so important for the future
greatness, as well as the present peace, of Christianity, that it
was adopted without delay by all the societies which were already
scattered over the empire, had acquired in a very early period
the sanction of antiquity, and is still revered by the most
powerful churches, both of the East and of the West, as a
primitive and even as a divine establishment. It is needless to
observe, that the pious and humble presbyters, who were first
dignified with the episcopal title, could not possess, and would
probably have rejected, the power and pomp which now encircles
the tiara of the Roman pontiff, or the mitre of a German prelate.
But we may define, in a few words, the narrow limits of their
original jurisdiction, which was chiefly of a spiritual, though
in some instances of a temporal nature. It consisted in the
administration of the sacraments and discipline of the church,
the superintendency of religious ceremonies, which imperceptibly
increased in number and variety, the consecration of
ecclesiastical ministers, to whom the bishop assigned their
respective functions, the management of the public fund, and the
determination of all such differences as the faithful were
unwilling to expose before the tribunal of an idolatrous judge.
These powers, during a short period, were exercised according to
the advice of the presbyteral college, and with the consent and
approbation of the assembly of Christians. The primitive bishops
were considered only as the first of their equals, and the
honorable servants of a free people. Whenever the episcopal chair
became vacant by death, a new president was chosen among the
presbyters by the suffrage of the whole congregation, every
member of which supposed himself invested with a sacred and
sacerdotal character.
Such was the mild and equal constitution by which the Christians
were governed more than a hundred years after the death of the
apostles. Every society formed within itself a separate and
independent republic; and although the most distant of these
little states maintained a mutual as well as friendly intercourse
of letters and deputations, the Christian world was not yet
connected by any supreme authority or legislative assembly. As
the numbers of the faithful were gradually multiplied, they
discovered the advantages that might result from a closer union
of their interest and designs. Towards the end of the second
century, the churches of Greece and Asia adopted the useful
institutions of provincial synods, * and they may justly be
supposed to have borrowed the model of a representative council
from the celebrated examples of their own country, the
Amphictyons, the Achæan league, or the assemblies of the Ionian
cities. It was soon established as a custom and as a law, that
the bishops of the independent churches should meet in the
capital of the province at the stated periods of spring and
autumn. Their deliberations were assisted by the advice of a few
distinguished presbyters, and moderated by the presence of a
listening multitude. Their decrees, which were styled Canons,
regulated every important controversy of faith and discipline;
and it was natural to believe that a liberal effusion of the Holy
Spirit would be poured on the united assembly of the delegates of
the Christian people. The institution of synods was so well
suited to private ambition, and to public interest, that in the
space of a few years it was received throughout the whole empire.
A regular correspondence was established between the provincial
councils, which mutually communicated and approved their
respective proceedings; and the catholic church soon assumed the
form, and acquired the strength, of a great fœderative republic.
As the legislative authority of the particular churches was
insensibly superseded by the use of councils, the bishops
obtained by their alliance a much larger share of executive and
arbitrary power; and as soon as they were connected by a sense of
their common interest, they were enabled to attack, with united
vigor, the original rights of their clergy and people. The
prelates of the third century imperceptibly changed the language
of exhortation into that of command, scattered the seeds of
future usurpations, and supplied, by scripture allegories and
declamatory rhetoric, their deficiency of force and of reason.
They exalted the unity and power of the church, as it was
represented in the episcopal office, of which every bishop
enjoyed an equal and undivided portion. Princes and magistrates,
it was often repeated, might boast an earthly claim to a
transitory dominion; it was the episcopal authority alone which
was derived from the Deity, and extended itself over this and
over another world. The bishops were the vicegerents of Christ,
the successors of the apostles, and the mystic substitutes of the
high priest of the Mosaic law. Their exclusive privilege of
conferring the sacerdotal character invaded the freedom both of
clerical and of popular elections; and if, in the administration
of the church, they still consulted the judgment of the
presbyters, or the inclination of the people, they most carefully
inculcated the merit of such a voluntary condescension. The
bishops acknowledged the supreme authority which resided in the
assembly of their brethren; but in the government of his peculiar
diocese, each of them exacted from his flock the same implicit
obedience as if that favorite metaphor had been literally just,
and as if the shepherd had been of a more exalted nature than
that of his sheep. This obedience, however, was not imposed
without some efforts on one side, and some resistance on the
other. The democratical part of the constitution was, in many
places, very warmly supported by the zealous or interested
opposition of the inferior clergy. But their patriotism received
the ignominious epithets of faction and schism; and the episcopal
cause was indebted for its rapid progress to the labors of many
active prelates, who, like Cyprian of Carthage, could reconcile
the arts of the most ambitious statesman with the Christian
virtues which seem adapted to the character of a saint and
martyr.
The same causes which at first had destroyed the equality of the
presbyters introduced among the bishops a preeminence of rank,
and from thence a superiority of jurisdiction. As often as in the
spring and autumn they met in provincial synod, the difference of
personal merit and reputation was very sensibly felt among the
members of the assembly, and the multitude was governed by the
wisdom and eloquence of the few. But the order of public
proceedings required a more regular and less invidious
distinction; the office of perpetual presidents in the councils
of each province was conferred on the bishops of the principal
city; and these aspiring prelates, who soon acquired the lofty
titles of Metropolitans and Primates, secretly prepared
themselves to usurp over their episcopal brethren the same
authority which the bishops had so lately assumed above the
college of presbyters. Nor was it long before an emulation of
preeminence and power prevailed among the Metropolitans
themselves, each of them affecting to display, in the most
pompous terms, the temporal honors and advantages of the city
over which he presided; the numbers and opulence of the
Christians who were subject to their pastoral care; the saints
and martyrs who had arisen among them; and the purity with which
they preserved the tradition of the faith, as it had been
transmitted through a series of orthodox bishops from the apostle
or the apostolic disciple, to whom the foundation of their church
was ascribed. From every cause, either of a civil or of an
ecclesiastical nature, it was easy to foresee that Rome must
enjoy the respect, and would soon claim the obedience, of the
provinces. The society of the faithful bore a just proportion to
the capital of the empire; and the Roman church was the greatest,
the most numerous, and, in regard to the West, the most ancient
of all the Christian establishments, many of which had received
their religion from the pious labors of her missionaries. Instead
of _one_apostolic founder, the utmost boast of Antioch, of
Ephesus, or of Corinth, the banks of the Tyber were supposed to
have been honored with the preaching and martyrdom of the _two_
most eminent among the apostles; and the bishops of Rome very
prudently claimed the inheritance of whatsoever prerogatives were
attributed either to the person or to the office of St. Peter.
The bishops of Italy and of the provinces were disposed to allow
them a primacy of order and association (such was their very
accurate expression) in the Christian aristocracy. But the power
of a monarch was rejected with abhorrence, and the aspiring
genius of Rome experienced from the nations of Asia and Africa a
more vigorous resistance to her spiritual, than she had formerly
done to her temporal, dominion. The patriotic Cyprian, who ruled
with the most absolute sway the church of Carthage and the
provincial synods, opposed with resolution and success the
ambition of the Roman pontiff, artfully connected his own cause
with that of the eastern bishops, and, like Hannibal, sought out
new allies in the heart of Asia. If this Punic war was carried on
without any effusion of blood, it was owing much less to the
moderation than to the weakness of the contending prelates.
Invectives and excommunications were _their_ only weapons; and
these, during the progress of the whole controversy, they hurled
against each other with equal fury and devotion. The hard
necessity of censuring either a pope, or a saint and martyr,
distresses the modern Catholics whenever they are obliged to
relate the particulars of a dispute in which the champions of
religion indulged such passions as seem much more adapted to the
senate or to the camp.
The progress of the ecclesiastical authority gave birth to the
memorable distinction of the laity and of the clergy, which had
been unknown to the Greeks and Romans. The former of these
appellations comprehended the body of the Christian people; the
latter, according to the signification of the word, was
appropriated to the chosen portion that had been set apart for
the service of religion; a celebrated order of men, which has
furnished the most important, though not always the most
edifying, subjects for modern history. Their mutual hostilities
sometimes disturbed the peace of the infant church, but their
zeal and activity were united in the common cause, and the love
of power, which (under the most artful disguises) could insinuate
itself into the breasts of bishops and martyrs, animated them to
increase the number of their subjects, and to enlarge the limits
of the Christian empire. They were destitute of any temporal
force, and they were for a long time discouraged and oppressed,
rather than assisted, by the civil magistrate; but they had
acquired, and they employed within their own society, the two
most efficacious instruments of government, rewards and
punishments; the former derived from the pious liberality, the
latter from the devout apprehensions, of the faithful.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part VII
I. The community of goods, which had so agreeably amused the
imagination of Plato, and which subsisted in some degree among
the austere sect of the Essenians, was adopted for a short time
in the primitive church. The fervor of the first proselytes
prompted them to sell those worldly possessions, which they
despised, to lay the price of them at the feet of the apostles,
and to content themselves with receiving an equal share out of
the general distribution. The progress of the Christian religion
relaxed, and gradually abolished, this generous institution,
which, in hands less pure than those of the apostles, would too
soon have been corrupted and abused by the returning selfishness
of human nature; and the converts who embraced the new religion
were permitted to retain the possession of their patrimony, to
receive legacies and inheritances, and to increase their separate
property by all the lawful means of trade and industry. Instead
of an absolute sacrifice, a moderate proportion was accepted by
the ministers of the gospel; and in their weekly or monthly
assemblies, every believer, according to the exigency of the
occasion, and the measure of his wealth and piety, presented his
voluntary offering for the use of the common fund. Nothing,
however inconsiderable, was refused; but it was diligently
inculcated that, in the article of Tithes, the Mosaic law was
still of divine obligation; and that since the Jews, under a less
perfect discipline, had been commanded to pay a tenth part of all
that they possessed, it would become the disciples of Christ to
distinguish themselves by a superior degree of liberality, and to
acquire some merit by resigning a superfluous treasure, which
must so soon be annihilated with the world itself. It is almost
unnecessary to observe, that the revenue of each particular
church, which was of so uncertain and fluctuating a nature, must
have varied with the poverty or the opulence of the faithful, as
they were dispersed in obscure villages, or collected in the
great cities of the empire. In the time of the emperor Decius, it
was the opinion of the magistrates, that the Christians of Rome
were possessed of very considerable wealth; that vessels of gold
and silver were used in their religious worship, and that many
among their proselytes had sold their lands and houses to
increase the public riches of the sect, at the expense, indeed,
of their unfortunate children, who found themselves beggars,
because their parents had been saints. We should listen with
distrust to the suspicions of strangers and enemies: on this
occasion, however, they receive a very specious and probable
color from the two following circumstances, the only ones that
have reached our knowledge, which define any precise sums, or
convey any distinct idea. Almost at the same period, the bishop
of Carthage, from a society less opulent than that of Rome,
collected a hundred thousand sesterces, (above eight hundred and
fifty pounds sterling,) on a sudden call of charity to redeem the
brethren of Numidia, who had been carried away captives by the
barbarians of the desert. About a hundred years before the reign
of Decius, the Roman church had received, in a single donation,
the sum of two hundred thousand sesterces from a stranger of
Pontus, who proposed to fix his residence in the capital. These
oblations, for the most part, were made in money; nor was the
society of Christians either desirous or capable of acquiring, to
any considerable degree, the encumbrance of landed property. It
had been provided by several laws, which were enacted with the
same design as our statutes of mortmain, that no real estates
should be given or bequeathed to any corporate body, without
either a special privilege or a particular dispensation from the
emperor or from the senate; who were seldom disposed to grant
them in favor of a sect, at first the object of their contempt,
and at last of their fears and jealousy. A transaction, however,
is related under the reign of Alexander Severus, which discovers
that the restraint was sometimes eluded or suspended, and that
the Christians were permitted to claim and to possess lands
within the limits of Rome itself. The progress of Christianity,
and the civil confusion of the empire, contributed to relax the
severity of the laws; and before the close of the third century
many considerable estates were bestowed on the opulent churches
of Rome, Milan, Carthage, Antioch, Alexandria, and the other
great cities of Italy and the provinces.
The bishop was the natural steward of the church; the public
stock was intrusted to his care without account or control; the
presbyters were confined to their spiritual functions, and the
more dependent order of the deacons was solely employed in the
management and distribution of the ecclesiastical revenue. If we
may give credit to the vehement declamations of Cyprian, there
were too many among his African brethren, who, in the execution
of their charge, violated every precept, not only of evangelical
perfection, but even of moral virtue. By some of these unfaithful
stewards the riches of the church were lavished in sensual
pleasures; by others they were perverted to the purposes of
private gain, of fraudulent purchases, and of rapacious usury.
But as long as the contributions of the Christian people were
free and unconstrained, the abuse of their confidence could not
be very frequent, and the general uses to which their liberality
was applied reflected honor on the religious society. A decent
portion was reserved for the maintenance of the bishop and his
clergy; a sufficient sum was allotted for the expenses of the
public worship, of which the feasts of love, the _agapæ_, as they
were called, constituted a very pleasing part. The whole
remainder was the sacred patrimony of the poor. According to the
discretion of the bishop, it was distributed to support widows
and orphans, the lame, the sick, and the aged of the community;
to comfort strangers and pilgrims, and to alleviate the
misfortunes of prisoners and captives, more especially when their
sufferings had been occasioned by their firm attachment to the
cause of religion. A generous intercourse of charity united the
most distant provinces, and the smaller congregations were
cheerfully assisted by the alms of their more opulent brethren.
Such an institution, which paid less regard to the merit than to
the distress of the object, very materially conduced to the
progress of Christianity. The Pagans, who were actuated by a
sense of humanity, while they derided the doctrines, acknowledged
the benevolence, of the new sect. The prospect of immediate
relief and of future protection allured into its hospitable bosom
many of those unhappy persons whom the neglect of the world would
have abandoned to the miseries of want, of sickness, and of old
age. There is some reason likewise to believe that great numbers
of infants, who, according to the inhuman practice of the times,
had been exposed by their parents, were frequently rescued from
death, baptized, educated, and maintained by the piety of the
Christians, and at the expense of the public treasure.
II. It is the undoubted right of every society to exclude from
its communion and benefits such among its members as reject or
violate those regulations which have been established by general
consent. In the exercise of this power, the censures of the
Christian church were chiefly directed against scandalous
sinners, and particularly those who were guilty of murder, of
fraud, or of incontinence; against the authors or the followers
of any heretical opinions which had been condemned by the
judgment of the episcopal order; and against those unhappy
persons, who, whether from choice or compulsion, had polluted
themselves after their baptism by any act of idolatrous worship.
The consequences of excommunication were of a temporal as well as
a spiritual nature. The Christian against whom it was pronounced
was deprived of any part in the oblations of the faithful. The
ties both of religious and of private friendship were dissolved:
he found himself a profane object of abhorrence to the persons
whom he the most esteemed, or by whom he had been the most
tenderly beloved; and as far as an expulsion from a respectable
society could imprint on his character a mark of disgrace, he was
shunned or suspected by the generality of mankind. The situation
of these unfortunate exiles was in itself very painful and
melancholy; but, as it usually happens, their apprehensions far
exceeded their sufferings. The benefits of the Christian
communion were those of eternal life; nor could they erase from
their minds the awful opinion, that to those ecclesiastical
governors by whom they were condemned, the Deity had committed
the keys of Hell and of Paradise. The heretics, indeed, who might
be supported by the consciousness of their intentions, and by the
flattering hope that they alone had discovered the true path of
salvation, endeavored to regain, in their separate assemblies,
those comforts, temporal as well as spiritual, which they no
longer derived from the great society of Christians. But almost
all those who had reluctantly yielded to the power of vice or
idolatry were sensible of their fallen condition, and anxiously
desirous of being restored to the benefits of the Christian
communion.
With regard to the treatment of these penitents, two opposite
opinions, the one of justice, the other of mercy, divided the
primitive church. The more rigid and inflexible casuists refused
them forever, and without exception, the meanest place in the
holy community, which they had disgraced or deserted; and leaving
them to the remorse of a guilty conscience, indulged them only
with a faint ray of hope that the contrition of their life and
death might possibly be accepted by the Supreme Being. A milder
sentiment was embraced, in practice as well as in theory, by the
purest and most respectable of the Christian churches. The gates
of reconciliation and of heaven were seldom shut against the
returning penitent; but a severe and solemn form of discipline
was instituted, which, while it served to expiate his crime,
might powerfully deter the spectators from the imitation of his
example. Humbled by a public confession, emaciated by fasting and
clothed in sackcloth, the penitent lay prostrate at the door of
the assembly, imploring with tears the pardon of his offences,
and soliciting the prayers of the faithful. If the fault was of a
very heinous nature, whole years of penance were esteemed an
inadequate satisfaction to the divine justice; and it was always
by slow and painful gradations that the sinner, the heretic, or
the apostate, was readmitted into the bosom of the church. A
sentence of perpetual excommunication was, however, reserved for
some crimes of an extraordinary magnitude, and particularly for
the inexcusable relapses of those penitents who had already
experienced and abused the clemency of their ecclesiastical
superiors. According to the circumstances or the number of the
guilty, the exercise of the Christian discipline was varied by
the discretion of the bishops. The councils of Ancyra and
Illiberis were held about the same time, the one in Galatia, the
other in Spain; but their respective canons, which are still
extant, seem to breathe a very different spirit. The Galatian,
who after his baptism had repeatedly sacrificed to idols, might
obtain his pardon by a penance of seven years; and if he had
seduced others to imitate his example, only three years more were
added to the term of his exile. But the unhappy Spaniard, who had
committed the same offence, was deprived of the hope of
reconciliation, even in the article of death; and his idolatry
was placed at the head of a list of seventeen other crimes,
against which a sentence no less terrible was pronounced. Among
these we may distinguish the inexpiable guilt of calumniating a
bishop, a presbyter, or even a deacon.
The well-tempered mixture of liberality and rigor, the judicious
dispensation of rewards and punishments, according to the maxims
of policy as well as justice, constituted the _human_ strength of
the church. The Bishops, whose paternal care extended itself to
the government of both worlds, were sensible of the importance of
these prerogatives; and covering their ambition with the fair
pretence of the love of order, they were jealous of any rival in
the exercise of a discipline so necessary to prevent the
desertion of those troops which had enlisted themselves under the
banner of the cross, and whose numbers every day became more
considerable. From the imperious declamations of Cyprian, we
should naturally conclude that the doctrines of excommunication
and penance formed the most essential part of religion; and that
it was much less dangerous for the disciples of Christ to neglect
the observance of the moral duties, than to despise the censures
and authority of their bishops. Sometimes we might imagine that
we were listening to the voice of Moses, when he commanded the
earth to open, and to swallow up, in consuming flames, the
rebellious race which refused obedience to the priesthood of
Aaron; and we should sometimes suppose that we heard a Roman
consul asserting the majesty of the republic, and declaring his
inflexible resolution to enforce the rigor of the laws. * “If
such irregularities are suffered with impunity,” (it is thus that
the bishop of Carthage chides the lenity of his colleague,) “if
such irregularities are suffered, there is an end of Episcopal
Vigor; an end of the sublime and divine power of governing the
Church, an end of Christianity itself.” Cyprian had renounced
those temporal honors which it is probable he would never have
obtained; * but the acquisition of such absolute command over the
consciences and understanding of a congregation, however obscure
or despised by the world, is more truly grateful to the pride of
the human heart than the possession of the most despotic power,
imposed by arms and conquest on a reluctant people.
In the course of this important, though perhaps tedious inquiry,
I have attempted to display the secondary causes which so
efficaciously assisted the truth of the Christian religion. If
among these causes we have discovered any artificial ornaments,
any accidental circumstances, or any mixture of error and
passion, it cannot appear surprising that mankind should be the
most sensibly affected by such motives as were suited to their
imperfect nature. It was by the aid of these causes, exclusive
zeal, the immediate expectation of another world, the claim of
miracles, the practice of rigid virtue, and the constitution of
the primitive church, that Christianity spread itself with so
much success in the Roman empire. To the first of these the
Christians were indebted for their invincible valor, which
disdained to capitulate with the enemy whom they were resolved to
vanquish. The three succeeding causes supplied their valor with
the most formidable arms. The last of these causes united their
courage, directed their arms, and gave their efforts that
irresistible weight, which even a small band of well-trained and
intrepid volunteers has so often possessed over an undisciplined
multitude, ignorant of the subject and careless of the event of
the war. In the various religions of Polytheism, some wandering
fanatics of Egypt and Syria, who addressed themselves to the
credulous superstition of the populace, were perhaps the only
order of priests that derived their whole support and credit from
their sacerdotal profession, and were very deeply affected by a
personal concern for the safety or prosperity of their tutelar
deities. The ministers of Polytheism, both in Rome and in the
provinces, were, for the most part, men of a noble birth, and of
an affluent fortune, who received, as an honorable distinction,
the care of a celebrated temple, or of a public sacrifice,
exhibited, very frequently at their own expense, the sacred
games, and with cold indifference performed the ancient rites,
according to the laws and fashion of their country. As they were
engaged in the ordinary occupations of life, their zeal and
devotion were seldom animated by a sense of interest, or by the
habits of an ecclesiastical character. Confined to their
respective temples and cities, they remained without any
connection of discipline or government; and whilst they
acknowledged the supreme jurisdiction of the senate, of the
college of pontiffs, and of the emperor, those civil magistrates
contented themselves with the easy task of maintaining in peace
and dignity the general worship of mankind. We have already seen
how various, how loose, and how uncertain were the religious
sentiments of Polytheists. They were abandoned, almost without
control, to the natural workings of a superstitious fancy. The
accidental circumstances of their life and situation determined
the object as well as the degree of their devotion; and as long
as their adoration was successively prostituted to a thousand
deities, it was scarcely possible that their hearts could be
susceptible of a very sincere or lively passion for any of them.
When Christianity appeared in the world, even these faint and
imperfect impressions had lost much of their original power.
Human reason, which by its unassisted strength is incapable of
perceiving the mysteries of faith, had already obtained an easy
triumph over the folly of Paganism; and when Tertullian or
Lactantius employ their labors in exposing its falsehood and
extravagance, they are obliged to transcribe the eloquence of
Cicero or the wit of Lucian. The contagion of these sceptical
writings had been diffused far beyond the number of their
readers. The fashion of incredulity was communicated from the
philosopher to the man of pleasure or business, from the noble to
the plebeian, and from the master to the menial slave who waited
at his table, and who eagerly listened to the freedom of his
conversation. On public occasions the philosophic part of mankind
affected to treat with respect and decency the religious
institutions of their country; but their secret contempt
penetrated through the thin and awkward disguise; and even the
people, when they discovered that their deities were rejected and
derided by those whose rank or understanding they were accustomed
to reverence, were filled with doubts and apprehensions
concerning the truth of those doctrines, to which they had
yielded the most implicit belief. The decline of ancient
prejudice exposed a very numerous portion of human kind to the
danger of a painful and comfortless situation. A state of
scepticism and suspense may amuse a few inquisitive minds. But
the practice of superstition is so congenial to the multitude,
that if they are forcibly awakened, they still regret the loss of
their pleasing vision. Their love of the marvellous and
supernatural, their curiosity with regard to future events, and
their strong propensity to extend their hopes and fears beyond
the limits of the visible world, were the principal causes which
favored the establishment of Polytheism. So urgent on the vulgar
is the necessity of believing, that the fall of any system of
mythology will most probably be succeeded by the introduction of
some other mode of superstition. Some deities of a more recent
and fashionable cast might soon have occupied the deserted
temples of Jupiter and Apollo, if, in the decisive moment, the
wisdom of Providence had not interposed a genuine revelation,
fitted to inspire the most rational esteem and conviction,
whilst, at the same time, it was adorned with all that could
attract the curiosity, the wonder, and the veneration of the
people. In their actual disposition, as many were almost
disengaged from their artificial prejudices, but equally
susceptible and desirous of a devout attachment; an object much
less deserving would have been sufficient to fill the vacant
place in their hearts, and to gratify the uncertain eagerness of
their passions. Those who are inclined to pursue this reflection,
instead of viewing with astonishment the rapid progress of
Christianity, will perhaps be surprised that its success was not
still more rapid and still more universal.
It has been observed, with truth as well as propriety, that the
conquests of Rome prepared and facilitated those of Christianity.
In the second chapter of this work we have attempted to explain
in what manner the most civilized provinces of Europe, Asia, and
Africa were united under the dominion of one sovereign, and
gradually connected by the most intimate ties of laws, of
manners, and of language. The Jews of Palestine, who had fondly
expected a temporal deliverer, gave so cold a reception to the
miracles of the divine prophet, that it was found unnecessary to
publish, or at least to preserve, any Hebrew gospel. The
authentic histories of the actions of Christ were composed in the
Greek language, at a considerable distance from Jerusalem, and
after the Gentile converts were grown extremely numerous. As soon
as those histories were translated into the Latin tongue, they
were perfectly intelligible to all the subjects of Rome,
excepting only to the peasants of Syria and Egypt, for whose
benefit particular versions were afterwards made. The public
highways, which had been constructed for the use of the legions,
opened an easy passage for the Christian missionaries from
Damascus to Corinth, and from Italy to the extremity of Spain or
Britain; nor did those spiritual conquerors encounter any of the
obstacles which usually retard or prevent the introduction of a
foreign religion into a distant country. There is the strongest
reason to believe, that before the reigns of Diocletian and
Constantine, the faith of Christ had been preached in every
province, and in all the great cities of the empire; but the
foundation of the several congregations, the numbers of the
faithful who composed them, and their proportion to the
unbelieving multitude, are now buried in obscurity, or disguised
by fiction and declamation. Such imperfect circumstances,
however, as have reached our knowledge concerning the increase of
the Christian name in Asia and Greece, in Egypt, in Italy, and in
the West, we shall now proceed to relate, without neglecting the
real or imaginary acquisitions which lay beyond the frontiers of
the Roman empire.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part VIII.
The rich provinces that extend from the Euphrates to the Ionian
Sea were the principal theatre on which the apostle of the
Gentiles displayed his zeal and piety. The seeds of the gospel,
which he had scattered in a fertile soil, were diligently
cultivated by his disciples; and it should seem that, during the
two first centuries, the most considerable body of Christians was
contained within those limits. Among the societies which were
instituted in Syria, none were more ancient or more illustrious
than those of Damascus, of Berea or Aleppo, and of Antioch. The
prophetic introduction of the Apocalypse has described and
immortalized the seven churches of Asia; Ephesus, Smyrna,
Pergamus, Thyatira, Sardes, Laodicea, and Philadelphia; and their
colonies were soon diffused over that populous country. In a very
early period, the islands of Cyprus and Crete, the provinces of
Thrace and Macedonia, gave a favorable reception to the new
religion; and Christian republics were soon founded in the cities
of Corinth, of Sparta, and of Athens. The antiquity of the Greek
and Asiatic churches allowed a sufficient space of time for their
increase and multiplication; and even the swarms of Gnostics and
other heretics serve to display the flourishing condition of the
orthodox church, since the appellation of heretics has always
been applied to the less numerous party. To these domestic
testimonies we may add the confession, the complaints, and the
apprehensions of the Gentiles themselves. From the writings of
Lucian, a philosopher who had studied mankind, and who describes
their manners in the most lively colors, we may learn that, under
the reign of Commodus, his native country of Pontus was filled
with Epicureans and _Christians_. Within fourscore years after
the death of Christ, the humane Pliny laments the magnitude of
the evil which he vainly attempted to eradicate. In his very
curious epistle to the emperor Trajan, he affirms that the
temples were almost deserted, that the sacred victims scarcely
found any purchasers, and that the superstition had not only
infected the cities, but had even spread itself into the villages
and the open country of Pontus and Bithynia.
Without descending into a minute scrutiny of the expressions or
of the motives of those writers who either celebrate or lament
the progress of Christianity in the East, it may in general be
observed that none of them have left us any grounds from whence a
just estimate might be formed of the real numbers of the faithful
in those provinces. One circumstance, however, has been
fortunately preserved, which seems to cast a more distinct light
on this obscure but interesting subject. Under the reign of
Theodosius, after Christianity had enjoyed, during more than
sixty years, the sunshine of Imperial favor, the ancient and
illustrious church of Antioch consisted of one hundred thousand
persons, three thousand of whom were supported out of the public
oblations. The splendor and dignity of the queen of the East, the
acknowledged populousness of Cæsarea, Seleucia, and Alexandria,
and the destruction of two hundred and fifty thousand souls in
the earthquake which afflicted Antioch under the elder Justin,
are so many convincing proofs that the whole number of its
inhabitants was not less than half a million, and that the
Christians, however multiplied by zeal and power, did not exceed
a fifth part of that great city. How different a proportion must
we adopt when we compare the persecuted with the triumphant
church, the West with the East, remote villages with populous
towns, and countries recently converted to the faith with the
place where the believers first received the appellation of
Christians! It must not, however, be dissembled, that, in another
passage, Chrysostom, to whom we are indebted for this useful
information, computes the multitude of the faithful as even
superior to that of the Jews and Pagans. But the solution of this
apparent difficulty is easy and obvious. The eloquent preacher
draws a parallel between the civil and the ecclesiastical
constitution of Antioch; between the list of Christians who had
acquired heaven by baptism, and the list of citizens who had a
right to share the public liberality. Slaves, strangers, and
infants were comprised in the former; they were excluded from the
latter.
The extensive commerce of Alexandria, and its proximity to
Palestine, gave an easy entrance to the new religion. It was at
first embraced by great numbers of the Theraputæ, or Essenians,
of the Lake Mareotis, a Jewish sect which had abated much of its
reverence for the Mosaic ceremonies. The austere life of the
Essenians, their fasts and excommunications, the community of
goods, the love of celibacy, their zeal for martyrdom, and the
warmth though not the purity of their faith, already offered a
very lively image of the primitive discipline. It was in the
school of Alexandria that the Christian theology appears to have
assumed a regular and scientific form; and when Hadrian visited
Egypt, he found a church composed of Jews and of Greeks,
sufficiently important to attract the notice of that inquisitive
prince. But the progress of Christianity was for a long time
confined within the limits of a single city, which was itself a
foreign colony, and till the close of the second century the
predecessors of Demetrius were the only prelates of the Egyptian
church. Three bishops were consecrated by the hands of Demetrius,
and the number was increased to twenty by his successor Heraclas.
The body of the natives, a people distinguished by a sullen
inflexibility of temper, entertained the new doctrine with
coldness and reluctance; and even in the time of Origen, it was
rare to meet with an Egyptian who had surmounted his early
prejudices in favor of the sacred animals of his country. As
soon, indeed, as Christianity ascended the throne, the zeal of
those barbarians obeyed the prevailing impulsion; the cities of
Egypt were filled with bishops, and the deserts of Thebais
swarmed with hermits.
A perpetual stream of strangers and provincials flowed into the
capacious bosom of Rome. Whatever was strange or odious, whoever
was guilty or suspected, might hope, in the obscurity of that
immense capital, to elude the vigilance of the law. In such a
various conflux of nations, every teacher, either of truth or
falsehood, every founder, whether of a virtuous or a criminal
association, might easily multiply his disciples or accomplices.
The Christians of Rome, at the time of the accidental persecution
of Nero, are represented by Tacitus as already amounting to a
very great multitude, and the language of that great historian is
almost similar to the style employed by Livy, when he relates the
introduction and the suppression of the rites of Bacchus. After
the Bacchanals had awakened the severity of the senate, it was
likewise apprehended that a very great multitude, as it were
_another people_, had been initiated into those abhorred
mysteries. A more careful inquiry soon demonstrated that the
offenders did not exceed seven thousand; a number indeed
sufficiently alarming, when considered as the object of public
justice. It is with the same candid allowance that we should
interpret the vague expressions of Tacitus, and in a former
instance of Pliny, when they exaggerate the crowds of deluded
fanatics who had forsaken the established worship of the gods.
The church of Rome was undoubtedly the first and most populous of
the empire; and we are possessed of an authentic record which
attests the state of religion in that city about the middle of
the third century, and after a peace of thirty-eight years. The
clergy, at that time, consisted of a bishop, forty-six
presbyters, seven deacons, as many sub-deacons, forty-two
acolythes, and fifty readers, exorcists, and porters. The number
of widows, of the infirm, and of the poor, who were maintained by
the oblations of the faithful, amounted to fifteen hundred. From
reason, as well as from the analogy of Antioch, we may venture to
estimate the Christians of Rome at about fifty thousand. The
populousness of that great capital cannot perhaps be exactly
ascertained; but the most modest calculation will not surely
reduce it lower than a million of inhabitants, of whom the
Christians might constitute at the most a twentieth part.
The western provincials appeared to have derived the knowledge of
Christianity from the same source which had diffused among them
the language, the sentiments, and the manners of Rome. In this
more important circumstance, Africa, as well as Gaul, was
gradually fashioned to the imitation of the capital. Yet
notwithstanding the many favorable occasions which might invite
the Roman missionaries to visit their Latin provinces, it was
late before they passed either the sea or the Alps; nor can we
discover in those great countries any assured traces either of
faith or of persecution that ascend higher than the reign of the
Antonines. The slow progress of the gospel in the cold climate of
Gaul was extremely different from the eagerness with which it
seems to have been received on the burning sands of Africa. The
African Christians soon formed one of the principal members of
the primitive church. The practice introduced into that province
of appointing bishops to the most inconsiderable towns, and very
frequently to the most obscure villages, contributed to multiply
the splendor and importance of their religious societies, which
during the course of the third century were animated by the zeal
of Tertullian, directed by the abilities of Cyprian, and adorned
by the eloquence of Lactantius. But if, on the contrary, we turn
our eyes towards Gaul, we must content ourselves with
discovering, in the time of Marcus Antoninus, the feeble and
united congregations of Lyons and Vienna; and even as late as the
reign of Decius we are assured, that in a few cities only, Arles,
Narbonne, Thoulouse, Limoges, Clermont, Tours, and Paris, some
scattered churches were supported by the devotion of a small
number of Christians. Silence is indeed very consistent with
devotion; but as it is seldom compatible with zeal, we may
perceive and lament the languid state of Christianity in those
provinces which had exchanged the Celtic for the Latin tongue,
since they did not, during the three first centuries, give birth
to a single ecclesiastical writer. From Gaul, which claimed a
just preeminence of learning and authority over all the countries
on this side of the Alps, the light of the gospel was more
faintly reflected on the remote provinces of Spain and Britain;
and if we may credit the vehement assertions of Tertullian, they
had already received the first rays of the faith, when he
addressed his apology to the magistrates of the emperor Severus.
But the obscure and imperfect origin of the western churches of
Europe has been so negligently recorded, that if we would relate
the time and manner of their foundation, we must supply the
silence of antiquity by those legends which avarice or
superstition long afterwards dictated to the monks in the lazy
gloom of their convents. Of these holy romances, that of the
apostle St. James can alone, by its singular extravagance,
deserve to be mentioned. From a peaceful fisherman of the Lake of
Gennesareth, he was transformed into a valorous knight, who
charged at the head of the Spanish chivalry in their battles
against the Moors. The gravest historians have celebrated his
exploits; the miraculous shrine of Compostella displayed his
power; and the sword of a military order, assisted by the terrors
of the Inquisition, was sufficient to remove every objection of
profane criticism.
The progress of Christianity was not confined to the Roman
empire; and according to the primitive fathers, who interpret
facts by prophecy, the new religion, within a century after the
death of its divine Author, had already visited every part of the
globe. “There exists not,” says Justin Martyr, “a people, whether
Greek or Barbarian, or any other race of men, by whatsoever
appellation or manners they may be distinguished, however
ignorant of arts or agriculture, whether they dwell under tents,
or wander about in covered wagons, among whom prayers are not
offered up in the name of a crucified Jesus to the Father and
Creator of all things.” But this splendid exaggeration, which
even at present it would be extremely difficult to reconcile with
the real state of mankind, can be considered only as the rash
sally of a devout but careless writer, the measure of whose
belief was regulated by that of his wishes. But neither the
belief nor the wishes of the fathers can alter the truth of
history. It will still remain an undoubted fact, that the
barbarians of Scythia and Germany, who afterwards subverted the
Roman monarchy, were involved in the darkness of paganism; and
that even the conversion of Iberia, of Armenia, or of Æthiopia,
was not attempted with any degree of success till the sceptre was
in the hands of an orthodox emperor. Before that time, the
various accidents of war and commerce might indeed diffuse an
imperfect knowledge of the gospel among the tribes of Caledonia,
and among the borderers of the Rhine, the Danube, and the
Euphrates. Beyond the last-mentioned river, Edessa was
distinguished by a firm and early adherence to the faith. From
Edessa the principles of Christianity were easily introduced into
the Greek and Syrian cities which obeyed the successors of
Artaxerxes; but they do not appear to have made any deep
impression on the minds of the Persians, whose religious system,
by the labors of a well-disciplined order of priests, had been
constructed with much more art and solidity than the uncertain
mythology of Greece and Rome.
Chapter XV: Progress Of The Christian Religion.—Part IX.
From this impartial though imperfect survey of the progress of
Christianity, it may perhaps seem probable, that the number of
its proselytes has been excessively magnified by fear on the one
side, and by devotion on the other. According to the
irreproachable testimony of Origen, the proportion of the
faithful was very inconsiderable, when compared with the
multitude of an unbelieving world; but, as we are left without
any distinct information, it is impossible to determine, and it
is difficult even to conjecture, the real numbers of the
primitive Christians. The most favorable calculation, however,
that can be deduced from the examples of Antioch and of Rome,
will not permit us to imagine that more than a fraction of the
population placed themselves under the banner of the cross before
the important conversion of Constantine. But their habits of
faith, of zeal, and of union, seemed to multiply their numbers;
and the same causes which contributed to their future increase,
served to render their actual strength more apparent and more
formidable.
Such is the constitution of civil society, that, whilst a few
persons are distinguished by riches, by honors, and by knowledge,
the body of the people is condemned to obscurity, ignorance and
poverty. The Christian religion, which addressed itself to the
whole human race, must consequently collect a far greater number
of proselytes from the lower than from the superior ranks of
life. This innocent and natural circumstance has been improved
into a very odious imputation, which seems to be less strenuously
denied by the apologists, than it is urged by the adversaries, of
the faith; that the new sect of Christians was almost entirely
composed of the dregs of the populace, of peasants and mechanics,
of boys and women, of beggars and slaves, the last of whom might
sometimes introduce the missionaries into the rich and noble
families to which they belonged. These obscure teachers (such was
the charge of malice and infidelity) are as mute in public as
they are loquacious and dogmatical in private. Whilst they
cautiously avoid the dangerous encounter of philosophers, they
mingle with the rude and illiterate crowd, and insinuate
themselves into those minds whom their age, their sex, or their
education, has the best disposed to receive the impression of
superstitious terrors.
This unfavorable picture, though not devoid of a faint
resemblance, betrays, by its dark coloring and distorted
features, the pencil of an enemy. As the humble faith of Christ
diffused itself through the world, it was embraced by several
persons who derived some consequence from the advantages of
nature or fortune. Aristides, who presented an eloquent apology
to the emperor Hadrian, was an Athenian philosopher. Justin
Martyr had sought divine knowledge in the schools of Zeno, of
Aristotle, of Pythagoras, and of Plato, before he fortunately was
accosted by the old man, or rather the angel, who turned his
attention to the study of the Jewish prophets. Clemens of
Alexandria had acquired much various reading in the Greek, and
Tertullian in the Latin, language. Julius Africanus and Origen
possessed a very considerable share of the learning of their
times; and although the style of Cyprian is very different from
that of Lactantius, we might almost discover that both those
writers had been public teachers of rhetoric. Even the study of
philosophy was at length introduced among the Christians, but it
was not always productive of the most salutary effects; knowledge
was as often the parent of heresy as of devotion, and the
description which was designed for the followers of Artemon, may,
with equal propriety, be applied to the various sects that
resisted the successors of the apostles. “They presume to alter
the Holy Scriptures, to abandon the ancient rule of faith, and to
form their opinions according to the subtile precepts of logic.
The science of the church is neglected for the study of geometry,
and they lose sight of heaven while they are employed in
measuring the earth. Euclid is perpetually in their hands.
Aristotle and Theophrastus are the objects of their admiration;
and they express an uncommon reverence for the works of Galen.
Their errors are derived from the abuse of the arts and sciences
of the infidels, and they corrupt the simplicity of the gospel by
the refinements of human reason.”
Nor can it be affirmed with truth, that the advantages of birth
and fortune were always separated from the profession of
Christianity. Several Roman citizens were brought before the
tribunal of Pliny, and he soon discovered, that a great number of
persons of _every order_of men in Bithynia had deserted the
religion of their ancestors. His unsuspected testimony may, in
this instance, obtain more credit than the bold challenge of
Tertullian, when he addresses himself to the fears as well as the
humanity of the proconsul of Africa, by assuring him, that if he
persists in his cruel intentions, he must decimate Carthage, and
that he will find among the guilty many persons of his own rank,
senators and matrons of noblest extraction, and the friends or
relations of his most intimate friends. It appears, however, that
about forty years afterwards the emperor Valerian was persuaded
of the truth of this assertion, since in one of his rescripts he
evidently supposes that senators, Roman knights, and ladies of
quality, were engaged in the Christian sect. The church still
continued to increase its outward splendor as it lost its
internal purity; and, in the reign of Diocletian, the palace, the
courts of justice, and even the army, concealed a multitude of
Christians, who endeavored to reconcile the interests of the
present with those of a future life.
And yet these exceptions are either too few in number, or too
recent in time, entirely to remove the imputation of ignorance
and obscurity which has been so arrogantly cast on the first
proselytes of Christianity. * Instead of employing in our defence
the fictions of later ages, it will be more prudent to convert
the occasion of scandal into a subject of edification. Our
serious thoughts will suggest to us, that the apostles themselves
were chosen by Providence among the fishermen of Galilee, and
that the lower we depress the temporal condition of the first
Christians, the more reason we shall find to admire their merit
and success. It is incumbent on us diligently to remember, that
the kingdom of heaven was promised to the poor in spirit, and
that minds afflicted by calamity and the contempt of mankind,
cheerfully listen to the divine promise of future happiness;
while, on the contrary, the fortunate are satisfied with the
possession of this world; and the wise abuse in doubt and dispute
their vain superiority of reason and knowledge.
We stand in need of such reflections to comfort us for the loss
of some illustrious characters, which in our eyes might have
seemed the most worthy of the heavenly present. The names of
Seneca, of the elder and the younger Pliny, of Tacitus, of
Plutarch, of Galen, of the slave Epictetus, and of the emperor
Marcus Antoninus, adorn the age in which they flourished, and
exalt the dignity of human nature. They filled with glory their
respective stations, either in active or contemplative life;
their excellent understandings were improved by study; Philosophy
had purified their minds from the prejudices of the popular
superstitions; and their days were spent in the pursuit of truth
and the practice of virtue. Yet all these sages (it is no less an
object of surprise than of concern) overlooked or rejected the
perfection of the Christian system. Their language or their
silence equally discover their contempt for the growing sect,
which in their time had diffused itself over the Roman empire.
Those among them who condescended to mention the Christians,
consider them only as obstinate and perverse enthusiasts, who
exacted an implicit submission to their mysterious doctrines,
without being able to produce a single argument that could engage
the attention of men of sense and learning.
It is at least doubtful whether any of these philosophers perused
the apologies * which the primitive Christians repeatedly
published in behalf of themselves and of their religion; but it
is much to be lamented that such a cause was not defended by
abler advocates. They expose with superfluous wit and eloquence
the extravagance of Polytheism. They interest our compassion by
displaying the innocence and sufferings of their injured
brethren. But when they would demonstrate the divine origin of
Christianity, they insist much more strongly on the predictions
which announced, than on the miracles which accompanied, the
appearance of the Messiah. Their favorite argument might serve to
edify a Christian or to convert a Jew, since both the one and the
other acknowledge the authority of those prophecies, and both are
obliged, with devout reverence, to search for their sense and
their accomplishment. But this mode of persuasion loses much of
its weight and influence, when it is addressed to those who
neither understand nor respect the Mosaic dispensation and the
prophetic style. In the unskilful hands of Justin and of the
succeeding apologists, the sublime meaning of the Hebrew oracles
evaporates in distant types, affected conceits, and cold
allegories; and even their authenticity was rendered suspicious
to an unenlightened Gentile, by the mixture of pious forgeries,
which, under the names of Orpheus, Hermes, and the Sibyls, were
obtruded on him as of equal value with the genuine inspirations
of Heaven. The adoption of fraud and sophistry in the defence of
revelation too often reminds us of the injudicious conduct of
those poets who load their _invulnerable_ heroes with a useless
weight of cumbersome and brittle armor.
But how shall we excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan and
philosophic world, to those evidences which were represented by
the hand of Omnipotence, not to their reason, but to their
senses? During the age of Christ, of his apostles, and of their
first disciples, the doctrine which they preached was confirmed
by innumerable prodigies. The lame walked, the blind saw, the
sick were healed, the dead were raised, dæmons were expelled, and
the laws of Nature were frequently suspended for the benefit of
the church. But the sages of Greece and Rome turned aside from
the awful spectacle, and, pursuing the ordinary occupations of
life and study, appeared unconscious of any alterations in the
moral or physical government of the world. Under the reign of
Tiberius, the whole earth, or at least a celebrated province of
the Roman empire, was involved in a preternatural darkness of
three hours. Even this miraculous event, which ought to have
excited the wonder, the curiosity, and the devotion of mankind,
passed without notice in an age of science and history. It
happened during the lifetime of Seneca and the elder Pliny, who
must have experienced the immediate effects, or received the
earliest intelligence, of the prodigy. Each of these
philosophers, in a laborious work, has recorded all the great
phenomena of Nature, earthquakes, meteors, comets, and eclipses,
which his indefatigable curiosity could collect. Both the one and
the other have omitted to mention the greatest phenomenon to
which the mortal eye has been witness since the creation of the
globe. A distinct chapter of Pliny is designed for eclipses of an
extraordinary nature and unusual duration; but he contents
himself with describing the singular defect of light which
followed the murder of Cæsar, when, during the greatest part of a
year, the orb of the sun appeared pale and without splendor. The
season of obscurity, which cannot surely be compared with the
preternatural darkness of the Passion, had been already
celebrated by most of the poets and historians of that memorable
age.
END OF VOL. I.
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